Chapter 70: The Summons of Death

A few minutes after Yang Han walked out, Qi Yan took up a broom and began sweeping up the shards of the glass he had just smashed. The abrupt commotion had left his heart even more unsettled. Just when one wave had barely subsided, another rose—what should have been concluded had only grown more complicated.

Under Qi Yan’s relentless questioning, Yang Han had nearly spilled everything. Judging by the last thing he said before leaving, it was clear this matter was far from simple. But what exactly was it…? That young man was definitely hiding something unspeakable. No, this couldn’t be left unresolved. It wasn’t just Yang Han’s personal crisis; perhaps it was somehow connected to himself as well. He had to catch up and demand an explanation.

With this in mind, Qi Yan wasted no more time in hesitation. Even if he had to beat the secrets out of that spoiled rich kid tonight, he would get to the bottom of it. This wasn’t making trouble for the sake of it—Yang Han had come to him tonight, bringing his own storm.

Meanwhile, after leaving the apartment building, Yang Han made his way to the garden in the complex. He moved like a walking corpse, his mind swirling with chaotic thoughts. He dragged his weary body to a flower bed, sat down, and tried to steady his nerves with a cigarette. But the only hand he could move trembled uncontrollably, and he could barely hold his lighter, failing again and again to ignite the cigarette.

Around him, a few people wandered the complex—middle-aged women, dog-walkers, patrolling security guards. Yet Yang Han seemed not to see them, as if he were utterly alone in the world.

Tonight’s visit to Keke’s studio had made it clear: these days, he had been tormented to the brink. Even if it was only the mind that suffered, often that pain was worse than a knife to the heart.

After several attempts, he finally managed to spark his Zippo, but before the flame could reach his cigarette, it abruptly went out. In the same moment, a nauseating, overpowering scent of blood filled his nostrils.

Clang—the lighter slipped from his grasp, landing with a metallic chime. Though the night was stiflingly hot, a chill ran through him, leaving his entire body cold. He dared not move, eyes wide with terror.

The stench of blood grew heavier, laced with a faint whiff of decay.

On either side of his ears, he felt two icy, sinister presences. The cigarette still hung from his slightly parted lips.

He began to cry. At first, silent tears streamed down his face, but soon he buried his head, sobbing in a trembling voice like a child about to be punished for some grave misdeed.

The passersby—none of whom recognized him—wondered why a young man was sitting by the roadside, weeping alone in the dead of night.

Then they heard him clutching his disheveled hair, gasping and muttering under his breath.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Yudong… Xiaoxue… I’m sorry.”

“I never meant to hurt you, I really didn’t… I was used… I never imagined it would bring such disaster… I shouldn’t have brought you both to my house that night, I’m sorry… I didn’t know… I didn’t know.”

“I owed gambling debts and didn’t dare tell my family… didn’t dare tell you. I took their money… and all they asked was that I leave a little paper doll in my house, that was all! I never thought it would turn out like this… If I’d known, I’d rather die than help them… I truly didn’t know you’d be dragged into this…”

At that moment, two “people” appeared beside Yang Han—figures without skin, bodies slick with black-red blood, which dripped unceasingly. One stood to his left, one to his right, arms hanging limp, round heads drooping. Without skin, their eyeballs and teeth were exposed.

Most horrifying of all, Yang Han could hear their faint breathing right at his ears.

Of course, only he could see them. He didn’t turn his head, but their presence was unmistakable.

His breaths grew quicker, soon so rapid he could barely breathe at all. It was as if an asthma attack had overtaken him—he could only gasp in short, desperate bursts, his chest tight as if something blocked his lungs, making every breath a struggle.

When his body finally convulsed and collapsed, foam bubbling at his lips, two security guards hurried over.

“Hey, young man, what’s wrong?”

“Who is he? Is he a resident here? Look at him… Could it be a heart attack?”

“Quick, call an ambulance!”

“Hang on, son!”

Yang Han’s eyes bulged wide as he writhed on the ground.

Passersby gathered, shocked by the sight—some whispered it looked like epilepsy, others suspected a heart attack, all equally astonished.

No one else could see, but the two blood-drenched figures reached their dripping hands into Yang Han’s back—yet there was no sign of external injury.

Yang Han could no longer speak. He felt those cold, wet hands churning inside his chest, twisting his organs—the pressure on his heart was excruciating.

Qi Yan ran downstairs, glanced around, and quickly spotted the gathering crowd in the distance. He hurried over.

By the time he arrived, Yang Han was no longer just foaming at the mouth—he was vomiting up great clots of black-red blood, the whites of his eyes crimson with blood, only the pupils untouched.

This only heightened the onlookers’ terror.

Qi Yan pushed through the crowd and, seeing Yang Han’s condition, sucked in a cold breath. As he crouched down, Yang Han, in his last flicker of consciousness, caught sight of him and suddenly seized his sleeve, smearing blood across it.

Qi Yan stared down, sensing Yang Han wanted to tell him something. This time, he didn’t resist, letting the dying man cling to him.

“Ah… ah…” Yang Han’s face was flushed, and he could only choke out broken syllables.

Qi Yan pressed him no further—by now, it was too late. Even if the ambulance arrived, the hospital could do nothing.

Yang Han twitched weakly a few more times, then finally let go, veins standing out on his forehead, blood-filled eyes bulging wide.

Qi Yan closed his eyes, his cheek twitching, and could only sigh in helpless regret.

By the time the ambulance arrived at the complex, Yang Han’s life had already ended.

Qi Yan’s sleeve was still stained with the blood Yang Han had left behind. Perhaps, just a moment ago, as he arrived, Yang Han truly had tried to share his secret.

But it was too late. Whether he fell victim to the vengeful spirits of his friends or something else, there was nothing more to be done.

As he watched the medics lift Yang Han onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, Qi Yan was overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. He could not help but wonder—had he always seen the world too simply?

Each strange experience had shattered his old beliefs, and all had happened before his very eyes.

Did karma truly exist in this world? Even if things seemed to have passed, nothing ever truly disappeared—only paused for a time.

And after a while, those buried doubts and shadows would return, unavoidable and inescapable.