Chapter 015 - Moonlit Mirage 02

  The pavilion floated upon an endless sea, a solitary wooden structure adrift in the night.

  It was nine stories tall, each tier layered upon the next like an intricate puzzle. Redwood beams, carved with elaborate patterns, twisted upward in sweeping arcs, and delicate copper bells swayed gently from its curved eaves, their chimes swallowed by the vast silence. The roof shimmered beneath the moonlight, its translucent glazed tiles catching the glow like liquid silver.

  When I pushed open a wooden lattice window, the world outside stretched infinitely—an expanse where water and sky melted into a seamless horizon. A full moon hung low, its reflection trembling on the water’s rippling surface. The sight was breathtakingly beautiful, yet tinged with something eerie, something profoundly unsettling.

  No land. No shore. Nothing but this lone, fragile pavilion drifting in an ocean without end.

  I stood on the third floor, frowning as I scanned the structure, trying to make sense of its layout. From above, from below, from unseen places, the others began to arrive. They stumbled in one by one—some landing with a thud, others rolling across the wooden planks, a few sprawled face-down in unceremonious heaps.

  A string of curses erupted.

  “What the hell?! No warning at all—what if someone broke a damn bone?!”

  I watched quietly, keenly noting a crucial difference between this round and the last.

  Back in the previous instance—the very first one—most participants had seemed almost… absent. Many couldn’t recall their names, nor did they appear to realize they were inside a game. They moved mechanically, as if bound to an unseen script.

  But this time? This time, everyone was fully aware.

  Lost in thought, I nearly missed the sound of my name being called.

  “Sylas!”

  I turned.

  Standing a short distance away, waving at me, were Elliot and No. 137.

  Elliot looked just as polished as before—his fair complexion, refined features, and neatly combed hair giving him the air of a top student. He wore plain-framed glasses, a checkered shirt, and crisp white trousers, looking every bit the kind of guy high school girls would swoon over. Handsome enough to belong on a movie poster.

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  No. 137, however, had changed. Her waist-length hair was now tied into two low ponytails, giving her a playful charm—like the lively girl next door.

  I was mildly surprised but didn’t ask questions. Instead, I simply greeted them.

  “Elliot, Lil’ 137.”

  As I approached, I lowered my voice.

  “When we arrived, that voice called me Number 32. What about you?”

  Elliot adjusted his glasses. “Number 33.”

  No. 137 scratched her head. “I got one too—Number 34. So should I be 137 or 34?”

  I: “…”

  Elliot: “…”

  After a beat, I shrugged.

  “We’ll keep calling you No. 137 in private, but officially, you’re Number 34. There could be another No. 137 out there—we don’t want to mix things up.”

  Then, with a more serious tone, I murmured to Elliot, “I think the numbers are assigned based on who survived the last round. The question is… how many made it?”

  Elliot’s expression darkened. He turned toward the window, scanning the floating pavilion.

  “This still feels like an isolated island,” he said. “Like the last game. Too many mirrors. It’s getting interesting.”

  I opened my mouth to respond—but then, from above, a sound drifted down.

  It was distant, yet hauntingly close.

  A voice.

  Soft. Eerie. Almost a whisper.

  It came from the very top of the pavilion. A woman’s voice—gentle, sorrowful, lingering like the breath of a ghost.

  She was singing.

  The melody curled through the night air, both chilling and hypnotic.

  “My distant lover has died; I have preserved his skin as a keepsake…

  The moon is like white frost, while floral drums resound in bursts…

  Oh, restless ghost of a troubled soul, when will you finally be laid to rest?

  I whisper softly, fearing it might take forever…

  Perhaps we are waiting for an illusion as fleeting as moonlight on water…

  Oh, my restless, burning anger—when will it finally dissipate?

  I speak slowly, afraid it will end with everyone scattered, leaving nothing behind…

  Scattered and empty…”

  A hush fell over the pavilion.

  I didn’t need to look at Elliot or No. 137 to know they felt it too.

  Something wasn’t right.

  And the game had only just begun.