The moment I heard that voice, every hair on my body stood up. My head rang with a sharp buzz, and I nearly jumped right off that so-called divine seat.

  “System, you bastard! You again?!”

  But as soon as the words left my mouth, something felt… off.

  That tone, that drawl, that theatrical energy—didn’t sound like the System at all.

  I glanced left.

  Empty.

  Right.

  Still empty.

  Lian and Hua?

  Gone. Completely.

  A chill ran down my spine. My breath hitched.

  “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Then the voice came again—lazy, amused, like the owner had just finished a dance and was sipping a cup of tea and enjoying my panic.

  “Lord Qu, don’t you remember? The cloth—is a vessel of form. You sit on that seat, you inherit the temple’s karma.”

  I knew that voice.

  It was Hua.

  Only this time, I couldn’t see him. The whole place was shrouded in fog, veils falling like curtains, and his voice seeped straight into my skull.

  I jumped up—well, tried to. The red thread around me went taut with a snap, yanking me right back down.

  “Hey! Hey! Can I just not sit here?!”

  I struggled, half-snarling, half-pleading.

  “Fine, I’ll burn incense, I’ll bow three times—just don’t make me solve your cursed ghost cases!”

  Then another voice cut through the haze. Cold. Calm. Heavy enough to crush a heartbeat.

  “The cloth seals form. One case, one shape. One thread for every grievance. Until the spirit is freed, the thread remains.”

  Lian.

  Also unseen.

  Only his voice remained, circling the air like the echo of judgment.

  That’s when I realized—

  They hadn’t vanished.

  I had been pulled somewhere else.

  A mirror within a mirror.

  A cloth within a cloth.

  Form defined.

  Form confined.

  The world fell dead-silent. The incense guttered out. The red threads coiled around me like spider silk.

  The cloth in my lap stirred. A faint bulge rose from its fabric—as if something beneath it was about to crawl out.

  I swallowed. Hard.

  “…Don’t tell me this thing grew a soul.”

  No answer.

  Well, that’s fine. I’m used to talking to myself anyway. Especially when the System’s being dramatic and refuses to show up.

  The only light came from a single flickering oil lamp, trembling in the wind.

  A shadow crept across the wall.

  An old case—unsolved, unburied—stirred awake.

  And finally, the System’s voice returned. Serious. Flat. Annoyingly self-righteous.

  “The cloth defines form. The host must identify the grievance to release the seal. Case initiated: The Crying Child of the Qu Village.

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  Symptom: continuous weeping, suspected parasitic curse.”

  The world twisted again. The altar, the incense—gone.

  I was still bound to that ancient elm chair, red threads biting into my wrists. The others were gone, swallowed by fog.

  Then came a faint sobbing—soft at first, like a mosquito’s hum, then swelling into a rainstorm of tears.

  “Waaah… waaah…”

  My stomach dropped.

  That story. The one the villagers whispered at night.

  Three generations ago, the village head’s son fell ill. Cried without stopping. They called it a curse, sealed him alive beneath the temple. The child died. His body was never buried. And on every full moon—his crying returned.

  “You want me to solve that case?!”

  “To discern the form is to break the seal,” the System droned. “Host must enter the lower shrine. Confirm cause of death.”

  “...”

  I groaned. Long, hard, and entirely defeated.

  Then came the wind again. The back door creaked open—slowly, mockingly—revealing a staircase carved in cold blue stone.

  “Fantastic,” I muttered, clutching the ‘evil-warding charm’ Lian had given me earlier. (Pretty sure it was just perfume in a pouch.)

  “Little brother ghost, I come in peace! I’m just here to check if your ancestors screwed you over—no hard feelings!”

  The stairway wound down deep beneath the earth. Wooden name plaques lined the walls—Patriarch Qu, Generation after Generation.

  At the bottom stood a small stone niche.

  Inside lay a pile of child-sized bones. Cracked. Bound by iron wire.

  I froze.

  “That’s… not a curse seal. That’s a soul lock.”

  The red threads stirred in the air, quivering at my words.

  A faint red glow rose from the bones.

  A child’s face emerged. Thin, hollow-eyed. Whispering through broken teeth:

  “It hurts… I want my mother…”

  I nearly crushed the charm in my hand.

  He wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… lost.

  I knelt before him. My voice came out hoarse.

  “You’re the old village head’s son, aren’t you?”

  He nodded weakly.

  “Do you know how you died? Was it a curse—or were you sealed alive?”

  The child hesitated. Then a single tear slid down his pale cheek.

  I felt something heavy inside me twist. He couldn’t be more than five or six.

  “You were the one they used in the sealing ritual, weren’t you?”

  Another nod.

  I clenched my fists.

  “The Daoists said they were sealing a plague curse. Needed a ‘pure vessel’—blood, soul, body all together. You were perfect for the role.”

  “They put you to sleep. They sealed your soul inside the array. This cloth—is your shell. You were never cursed, only used.”

  He blinked, confusion flickering like candlelight.

  “Then… did I really hurt them?”

  “Nonsense!” I snapped. “They hurt you! You’re the victim here!”

  “If Heaven truly has order, how could it allow this?”

  The System chimed in, as emotionless as ever:

  “Case reconstruction complete: Daoist sect established living seal to contain plague. Child’s soul bound for three generations. Villagers deformed as counter-sacrifice. Sequence verified.”

  I slammed my fist against the floor.

  “That’s not a seal—that’s a human sacrifice!”

  “They called it exorcism. It was murder.”

  “The demon wasn’t in the curse—it was in them!”

  The child stared, wide-eyed. Maybe no one had ever yelled on his behalf before.

  And me? I was still tied to the array, unable to move—but my fury burned through the fear.

  “You didn’t do wrong. They did.”

  The red threads shivered in the air, trembling with my words.

  Then came the voice again—Hua’s, smooth but chilling:

  “Will you proceed with Judgment?”

  I looked toward the dusty altar, at the Qu ancestors’ plaque—faded red cloth still draped across it. Forgotten.

  “…I have no idea how to do that.”

  Silence.

  Then, against my better judgment, I reached for the plaque.

  The instant my fingers touched it, a cold force surged through me—rushing from my hand to the back of my skull.

  My vision blurred. My lips moved on their own.

  And then—my voice wasn’t my own anymore.

  “Descendants of Qu, heed my words.”

  Internally, I screamed: I swear I didn’t rehearse this!

  But the voice rolled on:

  “This child bears no guilt. His soul was chained by deceit and fear. By divine authority, I cleanse his name and restore his purity. Let this injustice end.”

  The red threads snapped tight—then burst apart with a crackling flare.

  Light rained down like severed spider silk.

  The pressure vanished.

  I slumped to the ground, gasping. The ancestor plaque slipped from my hand and shattered.

  And in the silence that followed, a small voice whispered:

  “Thank you…”

  I looked up.

  The boy smiled—a quiet, peaceful smile—and bowed. His form dissolved into soft motes of light, rising toward the shrine above.

  His bones turned to dust. Gone with the wind.

  I sat there, utterly spent.

  “Did… did I actually finish it?”

  Then came Lian’s voice, cool and effortless:

  “First case—complete.”

  “Complete, my ass!” I shouted, dragging myself up the stairs. “I almost died!”

  “Host karma +100.”

  “I don’t want karma! I want a vacation!”

  The stone door creaked open again.

  Moonlight spilled in. A single red thread recoiled into the cloth—now bearing a faint new crack.

  The Cloth of Shape—

  freed one seal.