61. Night Raid

Dean glanced at his watch. It was one in the morning.

Behind him, eight sleeping bags were squeezed together on the floor. Everyone slept in almost identical positions, wearing eye masks and earplugs, with only their noses and mouths exposed—most of their faces buried inside their sleeping bags.

Subtle snores, breathing, and the sound of teeth grinding wove together in the quiet room.

Outside the window, mole crickets gurgled, crickets chirped. A few withered yellow leaves drifted down into the courtyard; the shrubs and branches rustled in the wind. The nighttime mountain forest was brimming with a strange vitality.

Dean withdrew from his “god’s-eye view.” With a thought, he sent out a simple command: “Scout for people.”

“Shade” immediately leapt from the spirit board and began patrolling outside the window.

A ghost’s vision differed from a human’s; darkness was no hindrance, but rather sharpened its sight.

Shade circled twice within a seventeen-meter radius of the cabin, found no danger, and returned to the spirit board to rest and recover.

Dean lounged comfortably in the cabin, sending out Shade to scout and then reeling it back every fifteen minutes, keeping watch and training simultaneously.

Time slipped to half past two in the morning.

Suddenly, his expression darkened.

Shade sent a telepathic message—

At the foot of the distant slope, in the brush at twelve o’clock, a nimble figure crawled within, the brim of a khaki cap just visible.

“So, someone really came? Since you’ve come knocking, don’t blame me for being rude.”

Dean’s gaze flickered, and a vivid red prompt flashed before his eyes:

Emergency Event Triggered—Night Raid

A blissful camping trip always faces unexpected incidents. Someone is lurking outside your cabin in the dead of night with ill intentions.

You’ve learned from past lessons: strike first.

Now, leave the cabin and kill all those spying on you, making them pay in blood.

Or, if you crave excitement, take the opportunity to kill your companions and frame the voyeurs.

Event Difficulty: Easy

Progress: 0/100

Time Limit: 30 minutes

Reward: 40 experience points

Penalty: None

…

Shit!

Is the system malfunctioning, suggesting killing companions again?

Dean automatically ignored the bizarre second option, pulled a Colt from his bag, checked it, loaded it, released the safety, and racked the slide.

“Easy difficulty, forty experience points, one person should handle this with ease. Forcing me to leave the cabin—just to make it harder?”

He quietly woke his companions, who emerged red-cheeked, hair tousled, eyes bleary.

Gretchen, still half-asleep, tied her braid and pulled on an extra cold-weather jacket. “What’s going on?”

“Someone’s watching us outside. Most likely the hunters from last night,” Dean’s gaze swept over the group.

“You can’t be serious, man. You woke us all up in the middle of the night for a prank?” Baker groused, grabbing his water bottle and gulping it down.

“You think I’m joking?” Dean’s cold tone and glare made everyone’s hearts skip a beat; the atmosphere turned instantly tense.

“What do they want?” Lang, who’d initially had a good impression of the hunters, swallowed and peered out the window.

“Use your head. It’s obviously not good,” Rust said grimly, gripping his hiking stick. “In movies, harmless, clueless, unarmed students always end up as the psycho killer’s preferred targets.”

“Don’t scare me. We’re just camping; how can we be so unlucky?” Ashley’s face was ashen with fear as she pressed close to her boyfriend. “Call the police?”

“In the middle of nowhere, where would you call?”

Dean shook his head, lowering his voice.

“I’ll go check it out.”

“That’s too dangerous, Dean. Don’t go,” Britney said timidly, grabbing his arm.

“We don’t know enough yet. Everyone should stay inside. By morning, they’ll probably leave on their own,” Gretchen suggested, face serious.

“We can’t just sit here and wait… Trust me, everyone. I handled the Lake Mead shooting, and this won’t be any different,” Dean’s calm resolve eased the tension a bit.

Dean handed his Colt to Gretchen, ignoring the group’s shocked expressions.

“Future police officer—you know how to use this, right? Keep it for protection. Give me the night vision goggles.”

“I’m coming with you,” Gretchen said through gritted teeth.

“You stay and look after everyone.” Dean donned his ghost armor and stepped outside.

…

It was summer, but the mountain forest at night was chilly, the wind biting. Dean’s breath hung in the air, white and visible.

He resolved to finish quickly; as soon as he opened the door, he dashed straight toward the brush where the intruder hid.

With his spirit boosted to 14.2, the ghost armor could withstand thirty or forty rifle shots. His agility, at 12.1—well above human—kicked in, and he became a bolt of lightning, slicing through the darkness, bounding off the platform and down the sloping hillside.

Dead branches snapped under his hiking boots as he rapidly closed on the brush beside a fir tree.

Forty meters!

Thirty meters!

Bang!

A sudden gunshot shattered the silence. Dean stumbled as if jolted by electricity.

His right foot felt as though a sledgehammer had struck it through a thick comforter.

But the misty ghost armor writhed, perfectly dispersing the impact. The bullet dropped to the ground.

Dean didn’t slow; he kept charging.

Bang!

Dirt sprayed; a small crater appeared on the slope.

Bang! Bang!

The third and fourth shots. Dean wavered slightly, as if letting out a relaxed burp after lunch.

“Fuck! What the hell?” the gunman cursed under his breath from the brush, his playful mood turning to terror. He leapt up and ran without a word.

It was the dead of night.

Moonlight shone through forest gaps, illuminating two figures in chase.

The hunter was agile and knew the terrain well, feet gliding over thick humus, darting like a fox.

But the pursuer moved with inhuman agility, vaulting roots and fallen logs as if on flat ground.

They tore down the mountain, the distance shrinking rapidly.

Hearing footsteps closing in, the man in the cap spun and fired blindly.

The bullet hit, but only seemed to tickle a giant—Dean’s pace barely faltered, his breathing growing more excited.

The hunter panicked, not seeing a deep fissure beneath the leaves ahead. His left foot slipped in.

The sharp crack of bone—his body flew three meters down, his cap spinning away.

He landed face-first with a thud, mouth full of dirt, his ankle bent at a horrifying angle.

Before he could recover from the agony, his body froze.

A cold, razor-sharp blade silently pressed against the back of his neck, piercing the skin just enough for pain and the metallic scent of blood to flare like fire.

Terror and the will to live eclipsed everything. The gunman, head down and feet up, raised his hands in surrender.

Yet his pursuer seemed to toy with him, turning him over to reveal a sweat-drenched, pale face with a scruffy goatee. The blade moved from the back of his neck to the front, pressing precisely over the artery like a surgeon’s scalpel.

“Name.”

The command was icy.

“Armand…” The man stared in shock at the young Asian before him, wearing a bulky night vision goggle. “Are you… are you even human?”

Why didn’t the bullets work?

“That doesn’t matter. But if you don’t answer my questions, I guarantee you’ll become a ‘monster.’”

The man’s face tightened; he nodded.

“Besides you, Owen, Tom—who else is with you tonight?” Dean gripped the spirit board with one hand and quietly picked up the man’s loaded AR-15 with the other.

“Anthony. There’s Anthony, too. Just four of us, man—relax, don’t do anything crazy!” the man pleaded, forcing a shaky smile. “We’re just regular hunters, wanted to play a prank on some kids—a harmless little joke. We didn’t mean anyone any harm.”

“Really? Well, I’m joking with you now,” Dean’s mouth curled with mockery. “Where did you come from?”

“Sacramento.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. He distinctly remembered Owen saying San Francisco last night—trying to fool a bunch of high schoolers?

“How many cars did you drive? Where are they parked? License plate? Who has the keys?”

Armand hesitated, face flushed, until the blade pressed harder against his artery. He finally spoke:

“One car… parked at the gas station… Plate number is Ca… That’s it, can you let me go now? You’re young—don’t throw away your future on an impulsive crime.”

Dean’s face was blank.

Armand clenched his teeth.

“Listen, my three buddies have guns. They’ve probably already caught your friends. You need a bargaining chip—take me as your hostage, okay?”

“A hostage? Not a bad idea.” Dean’s sharp look softened as he slowly withdrew the spirit board from the man’s artery.

The man’s dirt-smeared face relaxed, a smile of relief appearing.

“I—”

Bang!

A line of blood sprayed across the night sky. The man’s left eye exploded, and he fell backward, lifeless.

You used the AR-15 to kill Armand.

Proficiency +9, Shooting Lv1 (30/200)

Event Progress: 25/100

“You shot me several times; I return the favor—fair and just.”

Dean shook his head at the corpse, pocketed the AR-15, and drew out the spirit board. For a brief second, it burned hot—a strange artifact seemingly set ablaze.

With it came a strong intuition—a new “tenant” now haunted the spirit board: Armand, the freshly dead hunter.

“So this thing can absorb the souls of those who die nearby? That opens up new possibilities.”

But Dean, concerned for his companions, had no time to experiment further. He quickly dragged Armand’s body and belongings to the fissure where he’d tripped. He peered into the darkness—bottomless and terrifying.

He pushed the body in. It vanished into the gloom as if falling into hell, with no echo returning.

Dean turned and sprinted back up the slope.

…