Seven Days and Nights with the Werewolf

Day 1·04

This deserted island truly lived up to its name—utterly wild and desolate.

Steep sheer cliffs jutted up on its southeast sides, the churning sea crashing relentlessly against the stone faces. A gentle upland rose in the island’s center, flanked by meadows and woodlands on either slope, with sandy beaches and jumbled rocks lining the shore.

Fang Daichuan, of course, knew nothing of what had unfolded at Liuting Airport. This uninhabited isle in the open sea lay a thousand miles beyond China’s border, and he still thought all this was just an unusually inventive reality show.

“So this is the island…” Old Chen murmured, standing at the helicopter’s cabin door. His gaze toward the ground below was strange, making Fang Daichuan an uneasy knot in his stomach. It was a complicated look, hard to put into words. Even if Fang Daichuan’s martial arts skills were only half-baked, he’d acted for years—he had a knack for picking up on such undercurrents of emotion. Old Chen’s stare was like that of a man looking at a long-lost child: one sold away in infancy, who’d finally found his way home as an adult. There was nostalgia in it, guilt, and a flicker of raw fear…

At the very heart of the island, atop the flat peak of the upland, stood a large four-story villa, complete with a lovely little garden in its backyard and a vast helipad out front. The helicopter touched down right there, and several men in black seized Fang Daichuan and Old Chen by the arms, hauling them out of the cabin together. Fang Daichuan’s first instinct was to find the cameras, and he hammed it up for the lens, cracking a joke as he went: “Brother! You’re hurting me! Don’t be so rough! I’m a delicate little flower—show some mercy!”

A hard knee jammed into his rear from behind, and a gruff voice roared: “Shut up!”

“Oh, I get this one,” Fang Daichuan pouted, playing the cute fool. “You’re so mean.”

He hadn’t noticed from the air, but once on the ground, a quick glance told him the helipad was enormous, with a dozen or so helicopters parked haphazardly all around. A lot of people involved in this show, he thought.

Ordinarily, the first step of a reality show would be assigning dressing rooms, then having the cast introduce themselves to one another, meet the head director, go over the script, and draw their role cards. None of that happened here. Fang Daichuan was shoved straight into the villa.

The villa’s first floor was a grand banquet hall, soaring five or six meters high, with a crystal chandelier dangling long silk tassels from the ceiling, bathing the entire space in bright, spacious light. More than ten people sat around a long table—men and women, young and old—and all turned to stare as the two men were led in.

A flicker of unease pricked at Fang Daichuan. He didn’t recognize a single one of them.

Could this be a reality show with amateur contestants? he wondered. Xiao Zhou had said the show was meant to hype up Dragon Fruit TV’s female host—had they rounded up a bunch of regular people to act as foils for her? But that was far too many people; editing would be a nightmare.

A reality show episode was at most 90 minutes long, with a fixed amount of screen time allotted to each contestant. Too much time per person, and the audience would grow fatigued, the jokes falling flat; too little, and the contestants couldn’t shine, leaving no lasting impression on the viewers. Thus, the unwritten rule for most reality shows these days was to strike a balance between cast size and plot development—the international norm was 6 to 9 contestants for the best results.

Fang Daichuan counted quickly out of the corner of his eye: twelve people were already seated. Add himself and Old Chen, and that made fourteen—enough for two separate teams, Team A and Team B.

But how did that work for Werewolf Kill? Sure, the game had two factions, but assigning teams right at the start would kill all the suspense. How on earth would they edit this? Fang Daichuan grew more and more confused by Dragon Fruit TV’s choices.

The men in black let go of them, and the handsome mixed-race guy shot Fang Daichuan a glance, gesturing to the other staff. He clearly held a higher rank than the others—both in status and looks. The rest of the men in black filed to stand beside the seated guests, aiming their guns unwaveringly at the backs of their heads.

The villa’s heavy front door slammed shut with a deafening bang.

I should probably greet everyone, Fang Daichuan thought.

“Sorry we’re late… I’m Fang Daichuan. Thanks for waiting, everyone!” he said, grinning and trying to sound cheerful.

No one replied. Everyone was on edge, their faces ashen, staring fixedly at the small patch of table in front of them. Fang Daichuan felt a little awkward; he thought their acting was laying it on a bit thick. He scratched his head and pulled out a chair for himself, sitting down. Old Chen took the seat directly across from him.

A girl beside him forced a weak smile, her lips twitching upward: “I know you. Didn’t you star in a costume drama, *Si Mo*? You played the male lead’s best buddy—Young Master Wang, or was it Young Master Chen?”

Fang Daichuan sighed. “Young Master Xie.”

“Oh,” the girl said, looking embarrassed, and tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, I got the name wrong. Young Master Xie. You were really good in it.”

Fang Daichuan smiled back and thanked her.

The girl glanced nervously left and right, and when her eyes fell on the black muzzles of the guns, she swallowed hard, her voice tight with anxiety: “I’m Ding Zihui. Please look out for me later, okay?”

“Absolutely!” Fang Daichuan agreed at once. So this must be the female MC, he thought. She wasn’t the goddess type at all, not a hint of plastic surgery—just sweet and cute, the girl-next-door sort. She could pull off a naive little sister role, sure, but could she carry the persona of the Goddess of Wisdom? Fang Daichuan wondered this as he shook her hand.

“Welcome, everyone, to Dustwallow.”

The voice came out of nowhere, making everyone jump. It was processed through a voice changer, a faint hissing static hum underlying it, its gender completely indistinguishable. Fang Daichuan knew this was a classic reality show trick—the voice was coming from speakers hidden around the room—but he still feigned shock, jumping a little and schooling his face into a look of terror.

This must be the head director, or the executive director, he thought, deliberately using a voice changer to amp up the show’s drama.

The voice continued, cold and unemotional: “Once upon a time, on a steep cliff-top mountain by the Rhine River, there stood a small village named Dustwallow. Each night, this village was plagued by vicious werewolf attacks. The villagers fought the werewolves in a desperate battle, and thirteen who escaped with their lives built a ship and fled the cursed village. This ship carried the thirteen villagers to a deserted island, which they named Dustwallow, and there they began their new lives. But when the first full moon rose, a terrible thing happened—among those thirteen villagers lurked the descendants of the werewolves. A new game of death is about to begin on this island.”

Not bad, Fang Daichuan thought. This backstory is solid, perfect for building a spooky, ominous vibe.

But a girl sitting at the head of the table frowned and spoke up: “Thirteen villagers? But there are fourteen of us!”

Fang Daichuan froze. She was right. The long table was set for fourteen—seven seats on each side, with two empty host seats at the head and foot. Fourteen people, an even number.

The “head director” chuckled softly, the sound warped by the voice changer: “It seems our ship has an uninvited guest aboard. A ghost has disguised itself as a human and snuck into our Dustwallow. What a pity… we only have thirteen role cards to hand out.”

“So, before the real game begins, let us play a little warm-up game—*Find the Ghost*.”

“There are two decks of poker in the cabinet behind you, Si Nian. You will be the dealer.” The head director gave an order.

The mixed-race guy who’d escorted Fang Daichuan to the island bowed his head and stepped forward, walking to the cabinet and retrieving two decks of poker. So his name is Si Nian, Fang Daichuan thought, watching his back. He wondered which characters it was written with. Was he Chinese? Did he have a role as an NPC too? Was he actually the MC Dragon Fruit TV was trying to hype up?!

“I assume everyone knows the rules of Find the Ghost,” the head director explained. “Two decks make 108 cards total. Remove the three jokers, and that leaves 105. Each person will draw seven or eight cards, discarding any pairs of the same number immediately. You will then take turns drawing one card from the person to your left. Discard any new pairs you make, and whoever is left holding the single joker at the very end is the ghost who has snuck into the villagers’ ranks.”

“Si Nian, deal the cards.”

The order rang out, the warped, ghostly voice and its dark, menacing tone hitting just the right note—even Fang Daichuan felt a chill run down his spine.

Si Nian’s card skills were nothing short of masterful. He shuffled the two decks back and forth, fanning them into a perfect bridge with effortless ease. His skin was fair, his long fingers flitting across the jet-black card backs so fast they blurred the eye. When he’d finished shuffling, he dealt the cards one by one to the fourteen people seated at the table.

I can’t get eliminated right off the bat, Fang Daichuan thought. If I lose the first round, they’ll probably send me packing on the spot. He pictured Xiao Zhou’s scowling face and Manager Deng’s gloomy stare, and shuddered involuntarily.

The cards were dealt. Seven lay face down before Fang Daichuan. He took a deep breath and flipped them over. Lucky—he had two pairs. He snatched them up quickly and tossed them into the discard pile in the center of the table, just like everyone else.

The guests were left with three to seven cards each, all of them looking like they were facing a life-or-death crisis. The man diagonally across from Fang Daichuan was as white as a sheet, looking half-dead, and everyone stared at each other warily, all suspecting he’d drawn the joker. The suspected joker was to Old Chen’s left, and a bead of sweat had already broken out on Old Chen’s forehead.

“We start at the head of the table. Yang Song, draw your card.” The order crackled over the speakers again.

Yang Song—the girl who’d first questioned the number of guests—was in her early twenties, her face expressionless, ice-cold and impassive.

She took a deep breath, drew a card from the person across from her (her left in the game’s order), compared it to her hand, and quickly tossed two matching cards into the discard pile.

The person to her left visibly relaxed—drawing a matching card meant she hadn’t picked up the joker. They then drew a card from Yang Song in turn.

The game moved fast, and in complete silence. Fang Daichuan’s eyes were fixed on everyone’s faces, especially Old Chen’s, as he prepared to draw his card. All eyes were on Old Chen and the man to his left as Old Chen deliberated for a full minute before picking the middle card from the other man’s hand. His left neighbor clamped down on the card, refusing to let it go, but Old Chen yanked it free in one sharp motion, his face softening in an instant. He glanced at the card, then met everyone’s gaze and tossed two matching cards onto the table.

Fang Daichuan let out a long, relieved breath.

The game had gone three full rounds.

A ten-year-old boy who’d come with his mother was the first to empty his hand—kids were always the luckiest at these card games, there was no helping it.

Ding Zihui was the second. She set her last two cards gently on the table, her fingers still trembling, then quickly crossed herself on her forehead and shoulders, clasping her hands in prayer against her chest.

Anyone who’d ever played Find the Ghost knew this: drawing the joker first wasn’t the worst thing. It was easy to pass it on early in the game, and the tension only ratcheted up the further you got.

Sure enough, after two-thirds of the guests had emptied their hands, it was Old Chen’s turn to draw again—and this time, his composure crumbled, his face paling to ash in an instant.

His left neighbor looked like he was about to cry from relief, taking three deep breaths to calm himself.

The joker had changed hands.

Old Chen lifted his eyes to Fang Daichuan, shuffling his three remaining cards over and over in his trembling hands.

Fang Daichuan swallowed hard. He had two cards left; Old Chen, three. Only four people remained in the game: Old Chen, his left neighbor, the young mother with the boy (several seats away), and himself. The mother and Old Chen’s neighbor each had just one card left.

Fang Daichuan’s finger brushed each of Old Chen’s cards one by one, and Old Chen’s eyes followed his every move, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Fang Daichuan tried to reassure himself: it’s just a joker. If I get it, I get it—worst case, I get sent packing. But the thick, suffocating tension in the room made even that small comfort feel impossible. Screw it, I’ll just pick one at random. He glanced to his right, where Si Nian stood by an empty chair, staring at him with a meaningful look.

I’ll pick the right one! Fang Daichuan plucked a card gently and added it to his hand.

Three distinct cards—no joker, no pairs. Fang Daichuan’s expression stayed calm, no elation at surviving, no despair at the narrow miss. He fanned his cards out silently and held them out for the person to his left to choose from.

Ding Zihui had been next to him, but she’d already emptied her hand, as had the next few guests. The new person to his left was the young mother with the boy, sitting far away. She could read nothing from Fang Daichuan and Old Chen’s faces, and hesitated for two full minutes—Fang Daichuan’s arm grew sore from holding the cards out—before finally standing up and drawing the middle card.

It was the King of Hearts. The young mother let out a huge sigh of relief and slumped back into her chair, tossing her last two Kings into the discard pile.

Only three people left. It was Old Chen’s left neighbor’s turn to draw—his original left neighbor had emptied his hand, so by the rules, he had to draw from Fang Daichuan. He had just one card left.

Fang Daichuan shuffled his two cards casually, and the man gritted his teeth and reached out to pick one. A girl beside him grabbed his arm suddenly, stopping him.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked. They were clearly a couple.

The girl’s body was shaking slightly as she kissed his cheek: “I’m giving you all my luck. Don’t you dare die.”

Really? Fang Daichuan rolled his eyes at the overly dramatic couple. It’s just a reality show, not a life-or-death situation. “Hurry up!” he said, growing impatient, and waved his cards at the man.

Du Wei squeezed his eyes shut and snatched a card at random—the Ace of Spades, a perfect match for the one in his hand.

Du Wei flung his card down in triumph, kissed his girlfriend fiercely, their smacking lips loud in the dead silence of the room.

The game was over.

Fang Daichuan had just one card left. By the rules, Old Chen had to draw it from him. The joker, unpassed, was seemingly fated to stay with Old Chen.

Old Chen’s face was as white as a sheet. He took the card from Fang Daichuan with trembling hands, pulled out a matching card from his own hand, and slammed them both down on the table. Only a single card lay face down in his palm.

Si Nian stepped forward, flipped it over, and pushed it into the discard pile—the joker.

Fang Daichuan was exhausted, his nerves frayed from the intense game. He reached into his pocket, wanting a cigarette, but checked himself, remembering this was a reality show and forcing the urge down.

An eerie silence fell over the room.

The hissing static of the voice changer crackled to life again in the corner: “The game is decided. It seems you have all unmasked the ghost that snuck aboard our ship. Now that the ghost is dealt with, let the real game begin. I can barely contain my excitement.”

Before anyone could react—before a single breath could be drawn—the foreign man standing behind Old Chen stepped back two paces and fired a shot.

BANG.

Bright red blood and pale pink brain matter splattered across the tabletop, drenching the poker cards in the discard pile. Fang Daichuan sat directly across from Old Chen, and sprays of blood and gore hit his face and chest, warm and sticky.

The viscous, coppery fluid seared his skin, jolting him violently awake from his daze. He stared blankly, lifting a hand to touch his cheek; fresh blood dripped from his trembling fingertips onto the table, and the thick, choking stench of death filled his nostrils.

Old Chen’s skull had been blown to pieces. His body crumpled forward heavily, his shattered head slamming down onto the revealed joker card before him, the paper soaking up the blood at once.

“Ahhh!” Ding Zihui, sitting beside Fang Daichuan, clamped her eyes shut and let out a bloodcurdling scream to the ceiling.