Seven Days and Nights with the Werewolf

Day 1·05

Fang Daichuan’s mind went completely blank.

Ding Zihui’s scream nearly split his eardrums, the acrid coppery stench of blood filling his nostrils—an odor impossible to wipe away. Everyone stood up on instinct, the scrape of chair legs against the wooden floor sending a shrill, teeth-aching sound through the room, the kind that reminded him of a teacher’s nail scratching a blackboard back in childhood.

Only Fang Daichuan sat frozen in place.

This wasn’t special effects. Old Chen’s skull wasn’t a prop crafted by a props team, this stench wasn’t artificially mixed fake blood—every single thing here was real.

Old Chen was truly dead.

Killed right in front of me, his blood splattered all over my face.

Fang Daichuan couldn’t feel his own breath, couldn’t hear the chaos around him. Seated across from the corpse, he watched the blood spill across the table, soaking all the poker cards. The joker card was pinned under Old Chen’s shattered skull, the clown’s bright red face seeming to twist into a sinister smile.

This isn’t Dragon Fruit TV’s reality show, Fang Daichuan realized belatedly. This is a real death game, and those men are holding real guns.

“I quit!” A man shoved his chair back and bolted for the door, tripping over something on the way, his steps unsteady. “This is a goddamn death match! I’m out! I don’t care how much money you offer, I’m not playing! I quit!!”

He yelled, flailing his arms as he ran toward the door.

BANG.

Another gunshot rang out, and his steps froze. Fang Daichuan watched a burst of blood bloom on his back; his body, still hurtling forward from momentum, slammed hard into the heavy metal door with a dull clang.

He crumpled to the ground, face down at the doorway, his fingers twitching as a small pool of blood seeped out beneath his body.

Ding Zihui waved her hands wildly in front of her chest, her eyes wide as saucers. This time, she didn’t cry or scream.

The group that had reacted so violently moments before didn’t make a single move now. The ten-year-old boy, who’d cried the loudest earlier, fell silent mid-wail, forgetting even to bury his face in his mother’s arms. Every single person stared fixatedly at the corpse by the door.

Silence reigned, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Fang Daichuan couldn’t remember moving toward the body, yet he found himself walking to the door, a dozen g*n muzzles trained on his back. So this is what it feels like to have ten guns pointed at you, he thought. His scalp prickled, the hair on his body standing on end, as if his skin was crawling with a million tiny rashes, as if small worms burrowed beneath his flesh, or electric currents zapped through his veins. He ached to jump and scream, to shake his shoulders so hard his bones rattled.

He swallowed hard, raised his hands, and stammered an explanation. “I… I’m not leaving. I just want to check on him. I need to see if he’s… if he’s dead.”

The g*n muzzles stayed locked on him. No one spoke, no one dared move. Not far away, Old Chen’s blood finally soaked through the entire table, dripping off the edge—one drop every half second, a soft plop, then growing faster, thicker, until it became a steady trickle. Fang Daichuan’s fingers brushed the dead man’s neck. The man’s hand still twitched, but there was no pulse in his carotid artery. He turned back to the others, a cold bead of sweat slipping from his temple and crashing down his cheek, and shook his head.

It was as if a switch had been flipped in everyone.

The little boy reacted first, his lower lip trembling, but he didn’t dare cry out loud. He turned and clung to his mother’s legs, burying his face in her waist and clamping down hard on her shirt with his teeth.

The girl who’d given all her luck to her boyfriend collapsed to the floor in a dead faint; her boyfriend slipped an arm under her armpits and hauled her roughly back to her feet.

“Welcome, everyone, to the Werewolf Game,” the man behind the speaker chuckled. “No turning back, no second chances, no takebacks.”

The voice, warped by the voice changer, was cold and malicious, utterly inhuman—like a snake’s slit pupil, or the pale white bone of a corpse. Fang Daichuan shuddered violently.

The voice sounded mockingly troubled. “Really, you people. One extra, one less… if I’d known someone would die, why bother with the Find the Ghost game? I went to all this trouble to round up thirteen people.”

Fang Daichuan swallowed hard, his voice tight with rage. “Who the hell are you? What right do you have to kill them?!”

“Oh~ you don’t know? You didn’t sign the contract?” The man drawled, letting out a low chuckle. “It seems we made a mistake. *You* are the real ‘ghost’ who snuck into our Dustwallow.”

Clicks echoed through the room—the sound of g*n hammers c*****g, bullets sliding into chambers.

Fang Daichuan was no stranger to guns. When he was a kid, his parents were always busy, and he’d often be dropped off at the police station, left in the care of the on-duty elder or the logistics clerk. Bored, he’d sneak off to the training ground to watch the officers drill, and he’d even snuck a touch of a real g*n—cold black metal, its weight and feel not so different from a top-tier mechanical keyboard or a metal-cased laptop, just another cold, exquisitely crafted trinket. It had never felt terrifying. Later, he’d stumbled into the entertainment industry, and thanks to his martial arts skills, he’d starred in countless anti-Japanese dramas where he tore devils apart with his bare hands. He’d handled prop guns, fired blanks, worn a blood pack on his chest, and acted out being shot and falling to his death.

But none of that meant he was used to having a real g*n pressed to his forehead, or that he could quell the panic coiling in his chest. The small of his shirt was already soaked through with sweat.

“I didn’t sneak in on purpose!” Fang Daichuan took several deep breaths, his voice still trembling, his throat parched and dry. He rambled out an explanation. “I was supposed to be on a Dragon Fruit TV reality show called *Werewolf Kill*, filming in Qingdao! Check the internet if you don’t believe me—there must already be sneak peeks and promotion posts up! My flight was delayed, the production team said they’d send a car for me, so I got in your car by mistake! I didn’t mean to!”

Fang Daichuan had no idea where to look. The man holding his life in his hands wasn’t even in the room. He can see me, though, Fang Daichuan thought. He tilted his head up, scanning the room for cameras, desperate to send his sincere, pleading expression to the eyes of the man behind the scenes.

The warped electronic voice cut through the air, cold and unfeeling. “I don’t care if you snuck in on purpose or not. I’m short on people anyway, so since you’re here, you’ll have to keep playing. What’s your name?”

Fang Daichuan couldn’t put into words how he felt in that moment—like a fallen warlock striking a deal with the devil, surrendering his soul the second he spoke his name. But death loomed inches away. He swallowed hard and said, enunciating each word clearly: “Fang Daichuan.”

“Fang Daichuan. Heh heh, good luck to you.”

It sounded like a curse straight from hell.

“You don’t know our rules, little ghost,” the electronic voice explained, surprisingly enough, addressing only Fang Daichuan. “Our game is fair and voluntary—well, except for you, you poor unlucky thing. The Werewolf Game is a real death game. Everyone who came here signed a life-and-death agreement. ‘There are no rules to the game. Once it begins, it cannot be stopped. Those who survive win a huge reward; death leaves you with nothing.’ Ask them—isn’t that what our contract says? Once you step foot in Dustwallow, you abide by the covenant’s rules. You can’t have your cake and eat it too—you think you can win the money *and* keep your life that easily?”

To Fang Daichuan’s surprise, this mastermind spoke with cold logic, sound reasoning—he didn’t sound like a deranged madman. Though who knew these days? Sociopaths with perfectly normal IQs were a dime a dozen.

The voice chuckled again. “Any more objections?” His tone was pleasant, even politely gentle—and that made it far more terrifying than any threat or shout could ever be.

Who dared object? The last person who had was lying dead at the door. No one said a word.

“Perfect. Then let’s draw the role cards. Si Nian, pass out the card boxes.” The man’s voice was brimming with anticipation and excitement, like a child about to watch ants fight—malicious innocence at its worst.

The mixed-race guy stood expressionless, gesturing for someone to set the card boxes on the table.

Thirteen boxes in total, exquisitely crafted square cubes wrapped in tan leather, their corners bound with polished brass.

“Each of you pick a random role box. The thirteen are identical in appearance and weight. Inside each is a role card and the game rules. The werewolf boxes will also have four vials of wolf venom. Wolf venom takes thirty minutes to take effect—if you get the antidote within that time, you might still live. After thirty minutes… well, sorry about that. The witch’s poison takes effect instantly, and there’s no cure for it. Wish you all a pleasant game.”

Yang Song—the girl who’d questioned the number of players—stepped forward quickly, picking up a box and shaking it hard. Not a single sound came from inside.

“Don’t bother,” Fang Daichuan sighed. “If he says they’re identical in weight and appearance, the contents are definitely fixed in foam inserts. The syringes and paper cards are all locked in place—you won’t hear a thing no matter how hard you shake them.”

Yang Song refused to believe it, shaking every single box one by one. Sure enough, as Fang Daichuan had said, not a single one made a different sound. She sighed, grabbed a box at random, and collapsed into a chair. “No choice now. Life and death… are in the hands of fate.”

Compared to the other girls crying and wailing, Yang Song was calm and rational. She’d signed the contract long ago, so unlike Fang Daichuan, who’d stumbled in blind, she was at least a little mentally prepared.

The rest of the group finally came to their senses, swarming the table to grab the boxes as if the last one left would be a worthless dud. Fang Daichuan watched them, making no move to join in. Ding Zihui picked a box and turned to him, confused. “Why aren’t you picking one?”

Fang Daichuan sighed. “With my E-rank luck, I’m better off taking what’s left. Someone else might leave a good card for me. If I pick one myself, it’ll definitely be a villager. I’m used to it.”

Everyone else had picked their boxes—though it was all random anyway, no real choice to be had. Fang Daichuan stepped forward, hesitated for a moment between the two remaining boxes, and closed his eyes, grabbing one.

Only one box sat alone on the table.

“We’re still one short. Whatever shall we do?” The man let out a low chuckle, his voice dripping with unspoken malice. He gave an order. “Si Nian, why don’t you stay and play a round with them?”

Fuck! Even a tiger doesn’t eat its cubs, a rabbit doesn’t nibble the grass around its burrow! Fang Daichuan whipped his head around to stare at the mixed-race guy, who’d gone pale, frozen in place. He was the only one among the men in black without a g*n, no bushy beard or bulging muscles—he looked gentle and scholarly, the easiest target to pick on. A foreign man beside him grabbed Si Nian by the collar, tearing the earpiece from his neck, and pressed a g*n to his forehead.

The disembodied voice chuckled again. “Si Nian, play with our guests. Be a good boy.”

Si Nian glanced at the other players, their gazes a jumble of fear, hatred, and a strange, fragile sympathy. He gave up all resistance. Staring at the black muzzle pressed to his forehead, he let out a long sigh, stepped forward, and reached for the last box on the table, his fingers shaking violently as he picked it up.

“Perfect, absolutely perfect,” the madman clapped and laughed. “It’s getting late outside. You’d better find a safe place to open your role boxes—there’ll be a little surprise inside. Oh, and one more thing: besides the role card, each box has an unmarked identity magnetic card. Remember to swipe your role card and bind your fingerprint to it—it’ll come in handy. …I almost forgot to mention—there’s an underwater volcano near this island. An active one. In seven days, this island will be engulfed by steam, carbon dioxide, volcanic ash, and lava from an underwater explosion, turning it into a dead island entirely. I’ll send a helicopter to pick up the winner then. Remember, remember—God only favors the wise. My helicopter only takes the winner.”

“Welcome back to Dustwallow, my dear guests. Now, all unrelated personnel, please exit immediately. Our Werewolf Game officially begins!”