Bloodstained Bus

Just as Shi Mo changed into a set of black casual clothes carefully selected by the system, and was fiddling with a thin banknote, experiencing the realism of the fragile human concept of "currency"—

hum! ! !

A cold and vast fluctuation of rules, originating from his own very being, descended without warning and completely enveloped him.

The surrounding scenery was like shattered colored glass, instantly frozen, cracked, and then silently collapsed.

The bustling commercial streets, the surging crowds, the flashing neon lights, and even the aroma of food in the air... all the vibrant colors and sounds of the human world were stripped away and swallowed up in an instant.

Instead, there was an endless, viscous gray fog that seemed capable of drowning the soul.

The gray fog surged silently, within which countless tiny shadows seemed to wriggle and whisper.

[WARNING! Forced recruitment detected in the Rules of the Strange Dungeon!]

[Instance Name: Crimson Bus]

Number of participants: 8.

[Mission Objective: To fulfill the passengers' needs as much as possible.]

[Mission Time Limit: Until the final destination or death.]

[Teleportation initiated!]

The system's electronic voice carried a rare hint of tension, but deep down, there was a sense of "just as I expected" that everything had settled down.

Shi Mo stood motionless. His pure white hair cast a cold, desolate halo against the absolute grayness. His heterochromatic eyes—blood red and molten gold—calmly gazed upon this "playground," which was essentially derived from the rules emanating from his own being.

His vast connection with his physical power remained firmly severed by the higher-level "rules of the game." Deep within his soul, only "Skill Stealing" and that insignificant C-rank "Telepathic Communication" flickered faintly like candles in the wind.

"Creak—Clang!"

A twisted and deformed bus door, pieced together from rusted iron sheets, grimy shattered glass, and some substance resembling dried flesh, suddenly tore through the gray fog and stood before Shi Mo. Inside, the bus was dimly lit, swaying, and exuded an ominous aura.

The intense odors hit me like a punch—the sour smell of cheap artificial leather, the rancid stench of old sweat, the rusty sweetness of dried blood, and a deeper, cloying, stench that seemed to emanate from slowly rotting internal organs.

Shi Mo's face remained expressionless as he lifted his foot and stepped over the twisted threshold.

The car door behind him slammed shut with a loud bang, like the howl of a dying beast, severing all connection with the gray fog.

The interior of the car looked even more dilapidated and dirty than the exterior.

There weren't many passengers, but the very existence of each one was a desecration of "normality."

In the front row, an old lady wearing an old-fashioned floral shirt had her neck twisted almost 180 degrees, with the back of her head facing forward. Her face, covered with age spots and deep wrinkles, was facing the car door, and her cloudy, yellowish eyes stared intently at Shi Mo, who had just boarded the car.

In the middle seat by the window sat a man dressed in a rumpled Brazilian suit. His face was a drowning bluish-purple, and his eyeballs seemed about to bulge out from under his swollen eyelids. The corners of his mouth were torn upwards in an arc no human could manage, stretching all the way to his ears, revealing his gums and black and yellow teeth, frozen in a perpetually grotesque grin.

Further on, a man with a swollen body and dark, bluish-black eye bags slumped in his seat like a lump of mud. His skin was an unnatural, deathly pale white, almost transparent, and it seemed as if countless tiny, elongated creatures were slowly wriggling and burrowing beneath it, causing his skin to bulge and flatten intermittently.

In the deepest shadow of the last row, a figure huddled. It was soaking wet, dripping murky, fishy-smelling liquid that pooled at its feet. Within the water, a few wisps of dark green, what appeared to be seaweed, could be seen drifting slowly.

Shi Mo stood beside the coin box, his white hair gleaming coldly in the flickering, pale light. His heterochromatic eyes calmly swept over the "passengers," as if examining a collection of oddly shaped...objects.

"Flight attendant..." the swollen man spoke first, his voice hoarse and cold, like sandpaper rubbing against a rusty iron pipe, each word carrying a sticky malice, "I've had insomnia for a long time... a very, very long time... I've heard that the screams of virgins in extreme fear have the magic to soothe the soul..."

His swollen eyelids lifted slightly, and the throbbing under his skin intensified suddenly, almost bursting out of his body. Dark blue veins throbbed menacingly beneath his pale skin.

"You, go and find me one." His tone shifted from statement to command, carrying an undeniable cruelty. "Now, immediately. I want to hear the purest, most desperate scream... to soothe my nerves."

Shi Mo didn't respond immediately. He didn't even look at the swollen man, but merely tilted his head slightly, seemingly more interested in the endless gray fog that swept past the car window. His posture was like someone strolling in their own backyard and hearing the buzzing of a mosquito.

Receiving no response, the swollen man's face suddenly turned even more ashen, a twisted expression a mixture of rage and disdain. The "thing" beneath his skin writhed even more frantically, even emitting faint "gurgling" sounds.

"Are you—deaf—?!" He enunciated each word clearly, his voice suddenly rising in pitch, becoming shrill and piercing, causing the lights in the carriage to flicker violently a few times. "I said! I want a virgin's scream! Freshly baked! A scream filled with burning fear!"

Shi Mo finally, slowly, turned her gaze to him.

In that instant, the swollen man felt as if he were being pierced by two gazes from different, frigid abysses.

"Your needs," Shi Mo spoke, his voice not loud, yet strangely overwhelming all the noise in the carriage, reaching the ears of everyone present with crystal clarity, so calm it sent chills down one's spine, "It's very noisy."

The moment his words fell, his figure seemed to be erased from its original spot as if by an eraser, and then instantly appeared again with bold and colorful strokes next to the swollen man's seat.

There was no sound of wind, no afterimage, as if he could fold and traverse the rules of space at will.

The swollen man's pupils suddenly shrank to the size of pinpoints, and an extreme sense of danger pierced the depths of his chaotic consciousness like an ice pick.

He wanted to scream, to erupt, to release those "things" beneath his skin—

But it's too slow.