Before the altar stood but two cushions, compelling the eight players to offer their bows in shifts.
Invited by Jason, Christine hesitated briefly before nodding in acquiescence. She regarded Jason as competent; after all, earlier that day, he had guided her to the ancestral hall's location without any prior clues. Following his lead seemed prudent.
The pair knelt together before the cushions, palms pressed in prayer, bowing deeply. Rising, they repeated the sequence—three times in total—completing the prescribed ritual of three bows and three kowtows.
Eric watched as Jason lifted a bowl of the Infant-Blessing Soup and drained it with resolute courage, silently admiring his decisiveness. Christine, staring at the murky liquid, clenched her teeth before swallowing her portion.
"Ugh—" She set the bowl down and, overcome with nausea, bent over to vomit.
"Was the taste unpleasant?" Anna helped support her, though Christine was too weak to respond, still retching.
"It reeked of something fishy," Jason confessed, suppressing his own revulsion silently as he stepped aside to recover.
"Samantha, shall we be next?" Kevin inquired gently.
"Alright."
They too consumed the unsettling broth.
Only Eric and Ronald, and Timothy with Anna remained, yet to partake.
Though the hall bore no clock, Eric reckoned the time by their departure—half past seven—and the half-hour journey, placing them at roughly eight o'clock.
"Shall we drink?" Eric asked Ronald, who hesitated, his face clouded with reluctance.
"Perhaps… shall we perform the ritual together, and you drink instead?"
Eric was indifferent; she was resolved to drink regardless.
After the three bows and kowtows, Ronald refrained from drinking as anticipated. Eric refused to dwell on the taste, knowing that even a single moment's recollection threatened to induce retching anew.
Crouched aside, she witnessed Timothy and Anna perform the ritual together, her surprise deepening as Timothy, without hesitation, swallowed the Infant-Blessing Soup in one gulp.
Ronald's expression shifted subtly—regret writ across his features. He parted his lips as if to speak but closed them again, refraining from questioning Timothy's boldness.
Eric remained silent. Though she had consumed the broth, as had all but Ronald, she could neither vouch for their choices nor bear responsibility for his fate.
The decision rested solely with him.
Perhaps Ronald's restraint was wiser after all.
An eerie stillness enveloped the hall. Recovering his composure, Jason began inspecting the chamber; Eric promptly rose to accompany him.
Mimicking Jason's movements, she searched thoroughly, yet the hall offered little to uncover. The door led directly to this single chamber with no side rooms—only the altar, two cushions, and two rows of candlelit sconces arranged conspicuously.
Jason tapped methodically at the floor tiles, one by one, before tilting his head skyward toward the ceiling.
Eric followed, her gaze tracing the shadowed expanse above. The weak illumination revealed nothing; the ceiling lacked windows and was shrouded in darkness.
Though she carried a flashlight, the moment felt ill-suited to produce it.
"Anything overhead?" Christine inquired.
"Nothing discernible yet, but my instincts tell me otherwise," Jason replied, lowering his gaze. "We should find an opportunity to return by daylight."
At that moment, the door swung open, revealing the village chief.
He surveyed the altar and noted a bowl left untouched, his countenance darkening. "Who hasn't drunk?"
Ronald swallowed hard. "I… I changed my mind at the last moment."
Under the eerie glow of white candles, the chief's expression twisted sinisterly.
"Why didn't you say so earlier? I've already petitioned the Goddess for the remedy!"
Ronald steadied his nerves and asked, "Since you've prayed, must I drink no matter what?"
"You—!" The chief's fury seemed to blister, veins throbbing at his temples.
Sensing the tension, Jason interjected swiftly, "Chief, we're all exhausted and wish to return to rest."
The chief cast a cold glare at Ronald. "Your disrespect displeases the Goddess. She will mete out punishment. Come, I will escort you back."
At that moment, Ronald was already consumed by regret.
Human nature inclines both toward conformity and hopeful fortune. At first, Ronald harbored a faint hope that abstaining from the soup was the prudent choice. Yet, upon witnessing Timothy—who had proposed that only the female players partake—also drink it, regret quietly gnawed at him. Now, confronted with the village chief's vehement reaction, his remorse deepened.
As the players departed one by one, Ronald's gaze flicked toward the lone remaining bowl on the table. Compelled, he suddenly seized it, eager to drink—only to find, to his astonishment, that the bowl was empty. Just moments before the chief's entrance, it had been full.
His complexion paled further.
The missed opportunity of the Infant-Blessing Soup confirmed a bitter truth: his judgment had been flawed.
Returning to the group, Ronald's limbs turned icy with dread.
Being in the same party, Eric noticed his despondent expression, as if mourning a grievous loss, and grew curious about what had transpired in his delayed exit from the ancestral hall. Yet, when she inquired, he remained silent.
The chief led them back along the same path, while Eric felt the unsettling sensation of being followed, hyper-aware of unseen eyes upon her. Each time she dared to glance behind—perhaps misled by the impenetrable darkness without illumination—there was nothing visible.
"Stop turning around; it's too frightening," Anna's trembling voice urged. Yielding, Eric ceased looking back, suspecting that the unseen presence wished to remain concealed.
Upon arriving at the courtyard, Eric expected the chief to depart immediately, but instead, he accompanied them inside.
"After drinking the Infant-Blessing Soup, if all goes well, the spirit child will come seeking you—sometimes as soon as three days, at most five. During this time, you must fulfill every one of its demands. If pleased, it will remain and grant you children. Our village does not harbor outsiders; after five days, you must leave. I will still arrange for meals thrice daily. Do not wander unnecessarily, lest you disturb the spirit child."
Realization dawned—this prying presence was the spirit child! Eric's heart tightened. Though the term sounded benign, she had not forgotten this was a paranormal dungeon; safety was far from assured.
Having spoken, the chief moved to depart. Ronald, struck dumb by the revelation, realized ruefully that he had missed the most vital clue.
"Chief!" Ronald reached out to halt him. "May I visit the ancestral hall once more? This time, I swear to drink the Infant-Blessing Soup properly!"
The chief pried open his hand and scrutinized Ronald from head to toe. "You wish to visit the ancestral hall again?"
"Yes! Please, chief. Will you allow it?"
A smile crept across the chief's face. "This time, the price will be markedly different. Can you pay?"
Ronald nodded instantly. "How much? I can sign an IOU—and once I return home successfully, I'll repay you triple!" He cunningly proposed this. Jason was about to speak in protest, but the chief accepted, his gaze flicking toward Jason. Jason felt a chill crawl down his spine and instinctively avoided the chief's eyes.
"Very well! Come with me to my home to sign the note. I will arrange your second ritual for tomorrow night."
Watching Ronald eagerly trail after the chief, Eric, though inexperienced in such spectral dungeons, sensed something amiss. She stepped forward, intent on calling him back—only to be restrained by Jason's firm grip.
In his early forties, Jason wore a solemn expression. "We cannot intervene. This is his choice." He released Eric's hand and recounted the fleeting yet horrifying glance the chief had cast upon him.
"At that moment, I found him utterly terrifying."
Eric shivered. "Thank you, Jason."
"Let us clean up and prepare for rest. There are three rooms; I advise we pair off to sleep—women in one room, men in another. When Ronald returns, he can occupy the smaller room behind the parlor. We all drank the Infant-Blessing Soup except him. Tonight, strange things might occur to us; better that he keeps his distance." Jason scanned the players, rendering his decision. "I will discuss this with him. I believe he will agree."
Despite his caution, Eric discerned the subtext—the exclusion of Ronald.
The other players remained silent, and so did Eric.
She lodged with the three other female players in the room on the left side of the parlor, while the men occupied the room on the right. The smaller chamber at the rear was reserved for Ronald.
An antique bed occupied the room, barely spacious enough to accommodate four women lying across it.
"Sleeping sideways means our feet hang over the edge—I don't feel safe. I keep imagining something lurking under the bed, ready to grab my feet at night," Christine whispered.
"Good heavens, that's frightening!" Anna rubbed her arms anxiously. "Better to sleep lengthwise. We're all women; we can squeeze together. Sleeping on our sides will do."
Samantha agreed. "Fine. Crowding together feels safer. By the way, let's move the bed. It's currently under the window, directly facing the door."
The room's door and window were aligned, with the bed beneath the window and directly opposite the entrance—an arrangement Samantha found ominous at a glance.
Together, the four women shifted the bed to the left corner, away from both door and window.
"That's much safer. Even if something enters at night, we'll have some warning."
Samantha's words sent a chill through Eric's heart. She couldn't resist asking, "Do you think something will come tonight?"
"Certainly. Didn't you sense something on the way? I saw you glancing back repeatedly."
Eric nodded. "It seemed something followed us from the ancestral hall."
"We drank the Infant-Blessing Soup; the spirit child will surely trail us."
A noise stirred outside. Samantha peered out the window—it was Ronald, returned. Meanwhile, Jason emerged from his room and spoke quietly with Ronald, who then entered the small chamber behind the parlor.
"Time to sleep," Samantha said, closing the window firmly. She was the first to climb into bed; Anna quickly followed, then Eric hastened to claim the third spot. Christine climbed in last, occupying the outer edge.
Noticing Christine trembling, Eric's unease grew.
"Do you feel any discomfort in your stomach?" After a while, Christine spoke, her voice trembling.
"No… Does your stomach ache?" Eric asked, aware Christine was among the first to drink the Infant-Blessing Soup. Could symptoms already be manifesting?
"Don't worry. Try to discern whether it's real or just a sensation," Samantha comforted her.
Christine paused, cheeks flushed. "It seems it was only my imagination."
"Then let's sleep."
Silence enveloped the room as Eric drifted into slumber.
Suddenly, faint rustling sounds crept into her ears, stirring her from shallow dreams. Blinking, she struggled to open her eyes amidst the gloom.
She sensed a shadow before her. As her eyes adjusted, the form became clearer.
The shadow moved—and looked up at her.
Eric shuddered violently as the dozing fog fled—there, before her, stood a child.