Chapter 85: The Enchanted Box
This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation
“Why is it always me with the bad luck?” Miles bemoaned with deep distress.
If cursing was in his nature, the air would be filled with his enraged expletives. Despite his innocence and the multitude of people residing in the village, it seemed fate had cruelly chosen him as its prime target, consistently putting him in the crosshairs of unforeseen troubles. And, to compound his miseries, these challenges always seemed to arrive during his weakest moments.
Ever since Miles came into possession of the mysterious ghost eye, he was rendered immobile for a span of one to two hours each night. The more he utilized the ghost eye’s power, the longer these paralytic episodes grew. He often tried to console himself by reasoning that normal people slept for approximately eight hours, so what was a little immobility in comparison?
But what was profoundly distressing for Miles was the sinister twist of events that happened during these immobilizing episodes. A ghost seemed to have taken a keen interest in him.
Even amidst the obscurity of the night, when visibility was limited, the piercing noise of the door being slowly pushed open reverberated in his ears. Straining his vision, he could vaguely discern the silhouette of a tall, looming figure stationed at his bedroom door. This figure was unmistakably not Mr. Genrong, a familiar face Miles recognized from the village. Instead, this shadowed presence bore no resemblance to any village dweller. It was as though a complete stranger had materialized from the void.
The door continued to inch open, revealing the figure more clearly. Without a moment’s hesitation, the shadowy entity commenced its ominous march into the room. Its footsteps were eerily heavy, more akin to the leaden thud of a cold, rigid cadaver than a living being.
Frozen and powerless, beads of sweat formed on Miles’s forehead. Every fiber of his being yearned to spring into action, but the ghost eye’s hold on him was relentless.
“Keep your wits about you,” he mentally advised himself. “Even if this entity is a ghost, it might not possess any malicious intent towards me unless I fit its specific criteria for harm. Perhaps this spirit is merely wandering.”
His efforts to remain composed were momentarily effective. After all, he had previously encountered formidable ghosts, and luck was on his side then.
But suddenly, everything went silent. The footsteps ceased, stationed alarmingly close to his bed. The hair on the back of Miles’s neck stood erect as he felt the proximity of the entity, its bone-chilling aura encircling him. Each inhalation brought with it a damp, decayed stench.
There was no mistaking it; he was in the presence of a ghost.
Panic surged within Miles. “Why has it halted?” he questioned internally, his body quaking in fear. “Is it contemplating its next move, or have I not matched its criteria for an attack?” Memories of his past confrontations with malevolent spirits were the only things preventing him from succumbing to sheer terror.
To be rendered helpless, a mere whisper away from an unidentified, possibly potent ghost, was a predicament of the gravest nature. Even the most feeble of phantoms could claim his life with ease in his present state.
In the room, where darkness was as thick as ink, an unspoken tension hung in the air. It felt like an intense standoff between the mysterious ghost and Miles, who was immobilized in his bed, caught in the icy grip of his ghost eye.
The rhythmic cadence of Miles’s own labored breathing punctuated the stillness. Beyond that, there was a deafening silence.
Yet, the quietude was deceptive; it did not signify safety. While this ghost lurked ominously in his vicinity, Miles’s life teetered on the edge of a precipice.
Even his expertise as a ghost tamer offered no shield against this imminent threat.
“What could its motive be?” Miles contemplated, fear twisting his insides. “Is its intention to end my life? No, if it sought my death, I would already be in its icy grasp. I must not be its primary prey. Could it be simply observing me?” As he ruminated, cold sweat trickled into his eyes, blurring his vision. “But why would a genuine ghost engage in such idle behavior, merely watching, unless it’s a subordinate spirit under a ghost tamer?”
He continued to reason, “A ghost with subordinates would undoubtedly command a ghost domain, a realm so potent it would rival that notorious knocking ghost.”
“If I am dealing with a ghost of such magnitude, then my investigation in Yellow Hill Village needs to be terminated. It’s a challenge too formidable for my capabilities.”
In the midst of his introspection, a sudden noise snapped Miles back to his stark reality.
“Thud, thud-thud!”
The ghost didn’t gravitate towards him. Instead, it veered towards the foot of the bed and proceeded to rummage through a wardrobe.
Miles’s pupils dilated in recognition, “Could it be…”
Inside the wardrobe lay a few belongings Miles had packed for his stay at Yellow Hill Village. To a ghost, these mundane items should hold no allure.
A suspicion germinated in his mind, “Could this be the work of another ghost tamer from the nefarious Cockroach Club, aiming to plunder my belongings?”
If that theory held water, it was a slightly more comforting thought.
Facing a fellow ghost tamer would be far less perilous than confronting an actual ghost.
“Clang!”
The sharp resonance of something solid colliding with metal ricocheted in the room.
“Clang! Clang!”
Each subsequent strike was forceful, rhythmic, and deliberate.
A recollection flashed in Miles’s mind; the sole object in his possession capable of producing such a sound was the ornate golden box, a prison for the headless ghost.
A wave of dread washed over him, “The entity is attempting to breach the golden box, possibly to free the headless ghost.”
The ramifications of releasing such a malevolent entity were dire. “I must thwart its intentions. If that ghost escapes, it’ll be the end of everything,” a sense of urgency surged through Miles, propelling him to fight against the paralysis.
Having been the one to ensnare the headless ghost, Miles was acutely aware of its sinister prowess. If set free, it would not hesitate to possess him.
Armed with Miles’s ghost eye, the headless ghost would commandeer a ghost domain, unrestrained and immensely potent.
The fate of the entire Yellow Hill Village seemed bleak. Not a single villager, let alone those few rogue members of the infamous “Cockroach Club”, appeared to have a chance against the impending doom. They were all slated to be fodder for the malevolent headless ghost.
The most terrifying conjecture that haunted Miles was the possibility of the headless ghost amassing a corporeal form built entirely from the aggrieved souls of countless vengeful spirits. The power and capabilities of such an entity would be unfathomable.
Miles shuddered at the thought, unable to fathom how humanity would contend with such an unprecedented ghost.
“We must intervene and halt its progression. It’s imperative,” he resolved, his thoughts brimming with determination.
Gritting his teeth, Miles valiantly wrestled against the ghostly force ensnaring him, vying to reclaim command over his own body. If he could regain mobility, even for a split second, his priority would be to seize the ornate golden box. Then, harnessing the power of the ghost domain, he would teleport out of this haunted vicinity, placing a vast distance between himself and the menacing ghost. There was a glimmer of hope as long as the headless ghost remained imprisoned within the box.
“Clang! Clang!”
The relentless pounding continued unabated.
Each clang resonated with a chilling echo, evoking in Miles a terror even more profound than the eerie knocking of a ghost at the door. The durability of the golden box was in question. How many more hits could it withstand? While it could possibly endure dozens more, there was also the haunting chance that a single, powerful strike could breach it. If even the minutest fissure appeared on the box’s surface, the headless ghost would seize the opportunity to liberate itself, bringing to fruition Miles’s gravest apprehensions.
In a state of desperation, Miles thrashed about on the bed, willing himself to rise. But reality proved to be an insurmountable adversary. Despite his fierce internal resistance, the crimson eye’s hold over his physical form remained steadfast. The indomitable spirit of a human seemed woefully inadequate against the might of a ghost. With every passing second, his chances dwindled as the ghost eye showed no inclination to relinquish its grip.
Yet, this room was not solely occupied by three ghostly entities.
From the slightly ajar wardrobe, a peculiar piece of paper crafted from human skin began to levitate. Its trajectory, be it coincidental or intentional, led it directly over the besieged golden box.
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the pounding ceased.
A weighty, almost suffocating silence blanketed the room.
“Why has it stopped?” Miles pondered in confusion and dread. While he remained oblivious to the parchment’s intervention, he was acutely aware of the sudden cessation in the pounding. Had the box been compromised? This quietude, far from being reassuring, amplified his anxiety. For if the golden prison had been breached, it signified the presence of the headless ghost looming menacingly beside him.