The ghosts went into a frenzy.
Flesh, blood, severed limbs.
A headless knight on a phantom horse rode over the corpses and filth.
A clown wearing a court dress revealed a grotesque ghost face.
The drowned ghosts surrounded the corpses, greedily devouring blood.
Countless overlapping male and female voices sang in unison, as if from hell:
[Praise Satan!]
[Praise the Lord of Hell!]
[Praise the filth!]
[Praise You!]
The ghosts sang in unison.
Corpses littered the ground.
Outside the Instance, Song Mo was so angry she almost threw her phone.
She hadn't planned to set too difficult of a level for this Instance, so she only deployed seven supernatural creatures in total.
Even if dead players turned into ghosts, the number shouldn't be this high!
She flipped through the script line by line, trying to find the cause of the anomaly.
Thirteen carriages, with a total of 150 players deployed.
The veteran players were still alive, plus the 52 new players who died, there should only be at most 59 anomalies in the entire Instance.
Where on earth did the extra three hundred-plus ghosts come from?!
Is there something wrong with you, Old London?
...
“If an uncompiled script can drop into reality, then by the same logic, is it possible for real-world ghosts to be attracted by the Instance?”
Song Mo paced back and forth on the floor, the information in her mind quickly piecing together.
Reality.
Instance.
An Instance that is not completely managed and edited will anchor itself to reality, and even descend upon it.
Conversely, would the vengeful spirits and ghosts that actually exist in reality be attracted by an out-of-control Instance and actively squeeze their way in?
Great Britain's underground railways had been built for over a century. She probably didn't even know how many accidents had occurred and how many supernatural Materials were hidden beneath.
So, dragging the train into the Instance was like putting out a giant bait, continuously attracting the surrounding low-grade Materials.
Manipulating an Instance to descend upon reality—such an existence in novels was usually called an “Evil God.”
Song Mo had an extreme headache.
Setting aside the consequences of the Hell Train descending upon reality, just looking at the several veteran Class Users she had painstakingly nurtured, plus that Gold-quality 【Druid】—
The death list was a sea of crimson.
【Player Zhao Weilai: Deceased】
【Player Weng Yang: Deceased】
【Player Ding Feifan: Deceased】
【Player Deng Ziwen: Deceased】
...
【Current Surviving Players: 0】
A total wipeout of 150 people.
To save them or not?
Her newly minted Gold player hadn't even drawn their skills yet!
Her golden legend!
Since the number of Materials exceeded the limit, if she captured the Materials back, everything should be fine, right?
Song Mo reached out and drew countless ink lines in the air. Text appeared line by line along with her inspiration.
Rewriting the ending of an Instance required a massive amount of Screenwriter Points.
For an Instance that was already out of control, the consumption would only be higher.
Song Mo chose 【Modify】.
She wouldn't enter the Instance herself to catch the Materials.
The risk was too high.
Song Mo's gaze swept over the corpses in the Instance, finally landing on a mutilated blonde female corpse in the corner of the carriage:
【Modify.】
...
The text flowed rapidly, heading toward the death train Instance that had already turned into a ghost domain—
【Setting: The headless female corpse in the gap between the first and second carriages picks up a matching head, completes the body assembly, and becomes a temporary Executor.】
【Screenwriter Points required: 100 points.】
【Setting: The “Executor” possesses the highest authority in the Instance and can contain all anomalous souls into the Material database.】
【Screenwriter Points required: 1000 points.】
【Setting: After the incident is resolved, time will rewind to before the anomaly occurred, resetting the status of the players inside the Instance.】
【Screenwriter Points required: 2200 points.】
The black text, like silk threads, bored into the Instance.
In the next second, a change occurred inside the hellish death train.
In the gap between the first and second carriages, a female corpse wearing an old coat slowly wiggled her fingers.
...
“Crack.”
“Crack.”
The woman had no head, and the flesh at the severed neck stump had already turned black.
“It” pushed itself off the floor, groping around, and finally picked up Nina's head.
Nina's face had very obvious French Caucasian features, with fair skin and curly chestnut hair.
Her eyes were tightly shut, and the terror from before her death still lingered on her face.
“Click.”
“Click.”
The nameless female corpse held the human head with both hands, aligned it with her severed neck stump, and put it on.
Dense black text, like the finest surgical thread, wrapped around the neck wound loop after loop.
The black threads bored into the flesh, weaving and stitching like living things.
The flesh of the severed stump healed at a speed visible to the naked eye, leaving only a ring of pale black, tattoo-like fine patterns.
The difference in skin tone was very obvious.
The female corpse's body was a light wheat color, while the skin of the head was a cold white.
The two pieces of corpse stitched together was indescribably bizarre.
“?”
“Nina” tilted her head, propped her hands on the floor, and slowly stood firm.
Her rusty joints let out crisp clicking sounds, her movements stiff.
As if not quite accustomed to the new body, her eyes slowly opened.
Her pupils were a cloudy, grayish-white, hollow and devoid of any vitality.
【Go forward.】
The black text flashed through her pupils.
The corpse raised her head, looking at the carriage packed with ghosts, her hollow eyes empty of any emotion.
The text was like puppet strings, hanging high from the void, controlling the female corpse's movements.
Then, she opened her mouth.
A raspy yet perfectly pronounced Chinese came out of her unfamiliar throat:
“Do you have any idea that the resentment of a screenwriter working overtime is greater than that of a ghost?”
“So you guys are the ones who made me work overtime, huh?”
“All of you, get into the inventory. I'm taking you back to give A'yan an extra meal.”
...
The moment “Nina” opened her eyes, the ghosts in the carriage who were holding a “death party” and crazily devouring the flesh of the living stopped in unison.
Like prey seeing a predator, they huddled on the floor, trembling violently.
The ghosts that had been rampaging in the carriage just now were now like the most obedient flock of sheep.
In the flower cluster twisted from dozens of vengeful spirits, countless distorted faces opened their mouths, and a dozen grayish-white claws pleasingly held up a heart—
The female corpse didn't even look. She reached out and scooped, her movements as practiced as catching fish, squeezing the ghost in her hand.
[Aaaaaah!]
[Aaaaaah—!]
The ghosts let out shrill screams, struggling and writhing, but not a single one tried to run.
【Collect Material.】
The text command from outside the Instance controlled the female corpse to move forward. Every ghost she touched turned into lines of text.
【Ghost of the Bloody Witch.】
【Ghost of the Red Scarf.】
【Ghost of the Ripper.】
【Ghost of the Male Escort.】
【Ghost of the Castle's Headless Knight.】
One by one, the ghosts kept turning into text. The female corpse's movements were slow, yet carried a highly oppressive majesty.
The entire carriage was filled with distorted ghost faces.
Grayish-white limbs tangled together, covering heaven and earth.
The female corpse remained expressionless.
She raised her hand, and countless dense black threads flew out from her fingertips.
The ghosts bound by the black threads were like grasshoppers strung together.
Huge bunches of them, an extremely spectacular sight.
Just like picking ripe fruit in an orchard, “Nina” didn't even pause.
She continuously reached out, like picking grapes, plucking the ghosts off the black threads one by one.
Not a single ghost ran.
All the spirit bodies submissively awaited “death.”
...
Song Mo typed text outside the Instance, as if playing some kind of text game.
The fierce ghost A'yan had clearly heard what Song Mo just said. Holding a plate, she squatted nearby with an expectant look.
—She had never eaten a foreign ghost before, and she wondered what they tasted like.
Rate on N.U.
