7Day Chapter 1
Classroom (1)
Translator: Abo Dammen
Where am I?
In a daze, Yang Zhicheng saw a vast cliff.
The sky was overcast, a dull gray with wispy clouds drifting aimlessly. Song Guannan stood by the edge of the cliff, the wind swirling around him, carrying withered yellow leaves that brushed against his dusty clothes before spiraling down to his feet.
The wind, sharp as a knife, cut through Yang Zhicheng's hazy consciousness.
Below the cliff lay a dense forest, a sea of ink-black trees stretching as far as the eye could see, shrouded in an ominous aura under the cold, gloomy sky.
Song Guannan's robe should have been pure white, but for some reason, it was now stained with dust and faint traces of blood. The bell hanging at his waist jingled weakly, its red tassels mostly torn off.
Ding ling, ding ling—the sound was barely audible over the howling wind.
In his hand, he held a rusted iron sword, its blade covered in dark red stains. Thick blood dripped from the tip, obscuring the intricate patterns on the sword into an unrecognizable dark mess.
What is he doing? Is that blood?
The wind suddenly grew stronger, howling as it whipped up fallen leaves into a chaotic dance. Yang Zhicheng's ears were filled with a piercing screech. Struggling, he lifted his head to look at Song Guannan, who stood at the center of the cliff.
Then, Song Guannan raised his hand.
Countless yellow papers flew out from his sleeves, swirling in the air like birds taking flight, their faint cries mingling with the wind.
The gray sky was now tainted with a thick, viscous black.
Yang Zhicheng's vision blurred into chaos. He could no longer see clearly, overwhelmed by the frenzied wind and the dizzying swirl of yellow papers.
All that remained was darkness and the glaring red on the yellow papers.
How long has it been? Suddenly, Song Guannan's bloodshot eyes and lifeless black pupils pierced through the fluttering yellow papers, striking Yang Zhicheng like a knife.
In that moment of confusion, the countless yellow papers, carried by the wind, landed before his eyes.
And in that instant, he saw it—each piece of paper bore the same three words:
Yang Zhicheng.
That was his name.
Yang Zhicheng thought before he woke up, bewildered.
"Yang Zhicheng! Yang Zhicheng!"
Someone was urgently calling his name.
Yang Zhicheng's head throbbed with a dull pain. He struggled to open his eyes and saw Xu Jing's anxious face, the classroom around them shrouded in darkness.
He seemed to be lying on the floor, a faint stench in the air. Around him were overturned desks and chairs, the cold moonlight streaming through the window, illuminating the blood-stained tiles.
Not far away, a slightly faded blackboard came into view. On it, a large, crooked "20" was scrawled in chalk, like a student's careless doodle.
Yang Zhicheng's mind buzzed, his limbs stiff and cold. He couldn't quite grasp his situation.
What happened to me?
Why did I suddenly dream about my ex-boyfriend? I haven't seen him since we broke up two years ago.
Was it because I've been thinking about him all day?
As his thoughts spiraled, a sharp scraping sound echoed through the room.
The "20" on the blackboard suddenly changed, twisting into a distorted "19."
"Let's go!" Xu Jiaran urged anxiously. "If we don't leave now, 'it' will come out!"
Without thinking, he grabbed Yang Zhicheng and yanked him to his feet.
Yang Zhicheng's body moved faster than his mind. Stumbling, he followed Xu Jiaran as they ran out of the classroom. The wind outside brushed against his muddled brain, clearing his thoughts slightly.
This is the third day.
17.
16.
15.
...
1.
0.
Yang Zhicheng silently counted down.
As the countdown reached zero, a bubbling sound, like boiling water, filled the air.
He glanced back. In the classroom, several twisted, pale figures flickered in the cold night, their bodies covered in blue patches. Cards hung between them, swaying slightly.
Was it just my imagination, or did I see the character "Zhao" on one of them?
"When will this end?" Xu Jiaran's voice finally cracked. "Someone died tonight... will more die?"
Yang Zhicheng's legs were still numb.
"I don't know," he said, his head splitting with pain as he ran. "I don't know."
Not far away, heavy footsteps echoed, dragging something wet and sticky, slowly but steadily approaching.
In the silent school building, the sound was unnervingly clear.
Despite the slow, dragging pace, the footsteps seemed to close in rapidly, like a death warrant.
Xu Jiaran's face paled. "Go, hurry!"
The sticky footsteps grew closer. Yang Zhicheng pressed his temples, forcing himself to focus as he and Xu Jiaran sprinted down the stairs.
Three days ago, when they first entered that classroom, none of them could have imagined what would happen.
It all started when Xu Jiaran, Yang Zhicheng's college classmate, formed a music club. With many similar clubs at the university, finding a room was difficult. After reaching out to several people, Xu Jiaran finally secured a classroom in a remote building.
"This building used to belong to the affiliated high school," the person in charge said. "It hasn't been used in a while, so it's a bit dirty. You'll need to clean it up."
Xu Jiaran agreed immediately and the next day gathered everyone in the club, brooms and mops in hand, to clean the place.
Yang Zhicheng wasn't particularly interested in the club. Originally, there were five members. He was only close to Xu Jing, which was how he had been roped in to make up the numbers when the club was formed.
He didn't skip the cleaning, though. With summer break approaching, he had been arguing with his adoptive parents about returning to his hometown, leaving him in a foul mood. He lagged behind the others, who were more enthusiastic.
They climbed the old stairs and stood before the tightly locked classroom door.
The door was an old wooden one, its paint peeling. Through the cracks, Yang Zhicheng caught glimpses of strange, garish colors.
"It's so old," Xu Jing couldn't help but comment.
"It's fine, don't be so picky," Zhu Yang, another member, said dismissively. "It's just a bit dirty."
"Yeah, it's also just a little far out," Xu Jing nodded. "We'll clean it up and it'll be fine."
"I wonder why the school gave us such a remote room," Zheng Yuhang, another member, frowned.
"At least we have one," Xu Jiaran said optimistically. "Some clubs got rooms even further away... We're lucky."
As he spoke, he struggled to insert the key into the lock.
The door creaked ominously before Xu Jiaran finally forced it open.
But as he did, he froze, as if seeing something strange.
Zheng Yuhang, standing behind him, peeked inside and his expression changed too. "Damn, Xu Jiaran, what kind of place did you find?"
Everyone's expressions shifted. Yang Zhicheng, snapping out of his daze, also looked inside.
The classroom was a mess. Iron desks and chairs were scattered everywhere, some intact, others missing legs, their paint mostly chipped away, revealing the black metal beneath. Books were crumpled under the furniture, covered in dust.
But what was strange wasn't the tornado-like chaos.
Directly across from the door stood a medium-sized metal cabinet, as old as the desks and chairs. On its surface were two rough yellow papers, marked with dark red patterns. Despite it being daytime, the room was dim, making the yellow papers look eerily out of place.
Yang Zhicheng's right eyelid twitched.
He felt an instinctive discomfort. The yellow papers, the red symbols—they looked like something out of a horror movie, as if sealing something terrifying inside the cabinet.
"...I don't know why it's like this," Xu Jiaran said, his face pale. "I'll go ask them if we can switch rooms."
"Forget it," Zhu Yang suddenly spoke up. He stepped past Xu Jiaran and walked straight to the cabinet. "Why bother switching? It's too much trouble."
He stepped over the dusty floor and, without hesitation, tore off the yellow papers.
Rip.
Yang Zhicheng's heart skipped a beat.
"It's just bad luck. Once you tear it off, it's gone," Zhu Yang said nonchalantly, crumpling the papers in his hand. "What's with all the superstitions these days?"
"Hey, you..." Xu Jiaran frowned, but after a moment, he relented. "Fine, since you've already torn them off, let's just clean up."
The group filed in with brooms and mops. Yang Zhicheng lingered at the back, scanning the yellowed walls.
The classroom had been abandoned for a long time, dust covering every corner, but thankfully, there were no signs of spiders or insects. The walls still bore the remnants of a blackboard from high school days, with the words "Class 4, Grade 2" neatly written at the end.
No one dared to touch the metal cabinet, except for Zhu Yang, who casually opened it and started wiping it down.
Xu Jiaran opened the windows while the others straightened the fallen desks and chairs. Yang Zhicheng leaned on his broom, looking around, when he suddenly noticed that the four corners of the room also had yellow papers stuck to them.
The papers fluttered slightly in the breeze from the windows, the red symbols faintly visible, like half-open eyes.
"There's more here," Yang Zhicheng couldn't help but say.
"Wait," Xu Jing, who was holding a desk, stood up in alarm. "Here... they're everywhere."
At her feet lay two more yellow papers. They weren't just in the corners—they were scattered throughout the room, under desks, on the edges of the trash can, almost surrounding the entire classroom.
"What is this?" Zheng Yuhang stomped his foot nervously. "It's like something out of a horror movie!"
"Stop with the horror movie talk," Zhu Yang snapped. "It's probably just some old superstition. A few yellow papers, what's there to be afraid of—"
Bang!
A crisp sound cut him off mid-sentence.
A porcelain vase shattered at his feet.
Everyone turned to look.
"Don't blame me! Who knows where this vase came from!" Zhu Yang raised his hands defensively. "It's been here so long, no one's claimed it."
Yang Zhicheng looked down. The vase was pale blue on the outside, but the glaze inside was a vivid, almost blinding red.
The red was so bright... it almost looked like real blood.
He couldn't help but feel a chill.
"Maybe we should leave," he said. "This place feels... wrong."
"Yeah," Xu Jing agreed. "Let's go."
"Let's find another room. Who wants to sing in such a creepy place?" Wang Xinyu, another member, said, her hair tied up in a neat bun. "It's like a haunted house adventure..."
Seeing that most of the group wanted to leave, Xu Jiaran nodded. "Alright, let's go. I'll ask about switching rooms."
Zhu Yang muttered a few complaints but was eventually dragged away by the others.
As they left, Yang Zhicheng glanced back at the closed classroom door.
Even though it was afternoon and the sun was shining brightly outside, the shadows in the hallway plunged the classroom into complete darkness.
"Let's go," Wang Xinyu urged.
"Okay," Yang Zhicheng replied, quickly catching up with the group.
That night, Yang Zhicheng went to bed as usual.
He usually had trouble sleeping, but that night, as soon as his head hit the pillow, sleep overtook him like a vine, pulling him into a deep slumber.
His dreams were fragmented, chaotic, and disjointed. There were a few bloody scenes—someone lying on a gray floor, covered in blood, writhing and screaming in despair.
Yang Zhicheng jolted awake, terrified.
But the ceiling above him wasn't the familiar one from his dorm.
An old fan creaked above him, surrounded by rows of desks and chairs. He was lying on the cold floor.
"Ahhh!"
Someone screamed in terror.
Yang Zhicheng sat up abruptly.
The scene before him sent a shiver down his spine.
Him, Xu Jiaran, Xu Jing, Zheng Yuhang, Zhu Yang, and Wang Xinyu.
All six of them, who had been in the classroom earlier that day, were now lying in the same room, in the dead of night.
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