Bloodstained Bus, Level Completed

(Wearing a birthday hat and squatting in the corner drawing circles) Today is my birthday... Can I use my birthday halo to exchange for a small milk tea?

If there's no milk tea... (voice fades) A ​​free little heart is fine too... (clutches clothes and peeks at the comments section)

P.S.: Actually, seeing this far is already a gift!

—Your MoMo (smears cake frosting onto the notice)

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Shi Mo slowly straightened up and stood in the middle of the messy, blood-soaked carriage.

At this moment, he had completely changed.

Her pure white hair was stained with dark red, dark green, and various mixed viscous liquids, clinging to her blood-stained cheeks and neck, with blood still dripping down.

The original black casual wear was no longer recognizable; it had turned into a dark brown, almost black, tattered piece of cloth soaked in blood, clinging wetly to his body and outlining his lean yet terrifyingly powerful figure.

Blood dripped slowly from his drooping fingertips, creating faint ripples in the ever-expanding, sticky, scarlet pool of blood at his feet.

His face was covered with specks of blood, some dried and blackened, others still fresh and moist.

What was most chilling was the expression on his face—that faint, cruelly gleeful smile, which not only did not fade with the series of killings, but seemed to have become clearer and more real, as if what he had just completed was not a horrific bloody massacre, but a thoroughly enjoyable "game" or "work" that brought him physical and mental pleasure.

He slowly, extremely slowly, turned his head, his heterochromatic eyes scanning each and every remaining "passenger" in the carriage like the most precise scanner.

The man in the suit with the purplish-blue face was now curled up tightly in the corner by the car window, his hands covering his head, his body trembling violently and uncontrollably. His ever-present sinister grin had long since twisted into extreme fear, and his purplish-blue face was even beginning to turn pale. He wished he could melt into the rusty car body.

The few blurry figures in the shadows at the back had shrunk into a ball, their outlines becoming indistinct. All that could be seen was a violently undulating shadow, yet they dared not utter a sound, as if even their very existence had become a sin.

The entire carriage was eerily silent. The only sounds were the dripping of blood from the corpses and Shi Mo, and the almost silent buzzing caused by the uncontrollable trembling of fear from the depths of the surviving "passengers'" souls.

Shi Mo tilted his head, a gesture that would be somewhat cute on an ordinary person, but when he did it, it carried a naive yet cruel sense of inquiry.

His smile deepened.

"You..." he began, his voice even softer than before, like a lover's whisper, yet carrying a chilling coldness that clearly penetrated the depths of each survivor's consciousness, "What are you trembling about?"

He took a step and stepped into the thick pool of blood again, making a "splat, splat" sound, like the footsteps of death, slowly and deliberately walking towards the trembling, bluish-purple-faced man in the suit.

"Are you cold?" he asked as he walked, his tone gentle, as if he genuinely cared. "This car... is indeed a bit drafty."

The man in the suit shook his head frantically, so violently that he almost broke his neck.

He opened his mouth wide, stretching to his ears, as if he wanted to beg for mercy or explain himself, but all he could make were hissing sounds, "hoarse... gurgle..." choked with fear. Black, foul-smelling liquid kept gushing from his eyes and the corners of his mouth, dripping onto his suit.

Shi Mo stopped in front of him, leaning slightly forward. His blood-stained white hair fell down, almost touching the pale forehead of the man in the suit. His heterochromatic pupils stared intently at the reflection of himself, like a demon, in the other man's eyes.

"Or..." Shi Mo's voice lowered further, carrying a cruel, almost coaxing tone, "Did you remember some... 'bad' need?"

The man in the suit was jolted, then shook his head even more frantically, raising his hands to make meaningless waving and pushing gestures, but he dared not touch Shi Mo in the slightest.

Shi Mo watched him silently for a few seconds, as if enjoying his terrified state on the verge of collapse. Then, he seemed to finally lose interest, clicked his tongue slightly with regret, and straightened up.

He ignored the man in the suit who was huddled in the corner, nearly fainting, turned around, and stepped over the pool of blood towards the front of the carriage. His gaze swept across the area, and finally found a relatively "clean" seat behind the driver's seat—except for some red and white splattered on the armrest, which looked like an old woman's brain matter.

He sat down nonchalantly, leaning back slightly, as if he had finally finished a task and could take a short rest.

Then, amidst the deathly silence and bloodshed in the car, he slowly and deliberately pulled out the clean white handkerchief provided by the system from the pocket of his casual clothes, which were almost completely soaked in blood.

He began wiping the blood from his face and hands with unhurried, elegant, and meticulous movements, like a pianist who had just finished a concert wiping the keys of his beloved piano.

First the fingertips, then the back of the hand, wrist, then the cheek, jaw... Each wipe stained the white cloth with a glaring scarlet and filth.

After wiping, he casually and lightly tossed the handkerchief, which had turned completely dark red.

The handkerchief unfurled in the air, like a blood-stained flag, slowly drifting down and finally covering the swollen man's bloodied and mangled face, which was still slowly oozing blood.

Shi Mo leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and seemed to be dozing off. All that remained was the mess in the carriage, the mangled corpses lying around, the thick blood flowing freely, and the few surviving "passengers" trembling in absolute fear, their thoughts almost frozen.

The bus continued to sway and move forward in the gray fog, making a monotonous and dilapidated "creak" sound, heading towards that unknown destination.

This journey on the "blood-red bus" raises questions about the definition of "horror," the interpretation of "rules," and the question of who truly reigns supreme within the bus...

It has been completely, bloodily, and irreversibly overturned.

The bus swayed and lurched towards its unknown destination. Inside the carriage, a perception of "who is the monster" had been completely overturned.

The rest of the journey was unusually "peaceful".

When the bus finally swayed into a dilapidated station and the doors creaked open, the remaining passengers practically scrambled to escape, their speed leaving afterimages in the air.

Shi Mo then slowly stood up and stepped out of the car.

[Congratulations, host, on successfully completing the dungeon "The Crimson Bus"! Mission evaluation is being calculated...]

[Given that the host quelled passenger demand with 'extreme efficiency' and ensured 'absolute stability' in the subsequent operation of the carriage, the overall rating is: S-level!]

A pure white door appeared before Shi Mo.

He pushed open the door and stepped into that absolute emptiness.

"System," Shi Mo stood amidst the pure white, directly posing the question that had caused the system to crash, "Can I simply use my wish to reclaim a skill I originally possessed?"

"...No, host." The system explained, "There are rules limiting it, host! The energy level of this space cannot support even one ten-thousandth of your original power!"

Shi Mo remained silent for a moment.

"...What a hassle." He finally uttered only three words, his tone carrying a slight impatience with this inefficient process.

He chose to upgrade his existing C-level skill, "Telepathy".

Pure white energy surged in, and the skill was upgraded to Rank B.

[Rank B 'Telepathic Communication': Enables clear and stable telepathic communication with multiple targets over short to medium distances, conveying complex information and simple emotions. Includes a passive effect: In each rule-based instance, allows intuitive judgment of the veracity of a rule (accuracy increased to 85%).]

With his wish fulfilled, Shi Mo pushed open the pure white door and returned to the alleyway near the commercial street he had entered before entering the instance.

Reintegrating into the bustling human world, Shi Mo looked at the busy scene before him, the system's words echoing in his mind—only by completing advanced dungeons could he possibly unlock a trace of his original power.

"System," he said, taking a step forward, his white hair shimmering under the neon lights, a faint smile reappearing on his face, "When will the next dungeon be available?"

system:【……】

It suddenly felt that this final boss of "experiencing life" seemed to have found some kind of new "entertainment".

And those upcoming dungeons... are probably in big trouble.