No way. Before losing consciousness, I was in a rural tile house doing the summoning. How did I end up in the building's well in a blink?
Hesitating, with nowhere else to go, I decided to explore.
Climbing the steps, I passed the gate and walked about 500 meters, spotting an ancient temple with three layered courtyards, exuding depth. Above it, a visible black mist swirled, condensing like a soft creature clinging to the roof.
Seeing the temple, I gasped—it had wind chimes! Under the eaves, chimes swayed in the breeze, tinkling softly.
Chills ran through me. This was the temple from the painting!
We'd been wrong—it wasn't a temple, but a Taoist observatory! Yin-Yang Observatory!
But why did this Yin-Yang Observatory look nothing like the one in the building?
I stood in the courtyard before the gate, surrounded by gnarled trees, their vines swaying like ghosts in the moonlight, terrifying.
Pondering fruitlessly, I entered the gate into a vast, gloomy hall, supported by tall pillars, eerily empty. Only a candle flickered before the altar's statue.
A bald man in black sat before the statue, back to the door, writing something.
He seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him.
I crept closer, seeing large yellow rice papers around him, scrawled with black ink—figures, objects, chaotic. Approaching one, I froze. It depicted hellish torment! Flames roared, a hunched imp brandished a fork, skewering a naked female soul through the chest, blood dripping. Though in black ink, the splattered strokes were more vivid than red blood.
The woman, like a kebab, was thrust into the fire, her hair loose, unable to cry, embodying the painting's horror. My legs weakened, sweat poured, and I imagined her screams.
I groaned involuntarily. The man paused his brush, hesitated, then turned slowly.
Seeing his face, I was stunned.
It was Brother Peng! How was he here?
His face, half-lit by candlelight, was sinister, staring blankly.
The scene paralyzed me with fear, my heart nearly bursting.
We locked eyes, me frozen, not daring to move.
Brother Peng squinted, his face shadowed, thoughtful. His gaze was odd, like I was a stranger. After a long pause, he turned back, resuming his painting.
I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and called, "Brother Peng."
No response. I shouted, "Peng Liang!"
His brush froze, hesitating, then continued. It felt eerie—he didn't recognize me, maybe couldn't see me.
"Peng Liang!" I yelled louder.
He stopped, stood, and grabbed the candle from the altar, holding it carefully, shielding the flame, scanning around.
The dim light cast a ghastly glow, our shadows stretching long on the stone walls, twisted and evil.
The scene was horrifying, my heart encased in lead, suffocating. I roared, "Peng Liang!"
"Crash!" The candle slipped, hitting the floor, flames scattering.
The hall plunged into darkness. Vaguely, I saw him dart like a rabbit toward the back hall.
I'd called his name thrice—why was he so panicked? A distant memory stirred, as if I'd seen this before.
In that split-second distraction, his massive shadow flickered on the wall, vanishing into the back hall.
I chased, too dark to see, hearing only footsteps ahead. Fumbling for my phone, I unlocked it, its faint green glow weaker than a firefly. I saw his shadow melt into the back hall's wall.
Stumbling forward, I found a closed red door, like a fire exit, locked from outside. Desperate, I kicked it with all my 160 pounds.
"Crack!" The lock gave, and the door swung open.
I rushed out into a courtyard, the red door behind me, three-story wooden buildings on the other sides. It was silent, empty—Brother Peng was gone.
I looked around, lost, like I'd wandered into a cold, eerie maze.
Moonlight bathed the yard, bleaching a few trees ghostly white.
A burnt smell hit me, tracing back to the red door. Re-entering the back hall, I saw the front hall ablaze, flames roaring.
I froze, realizing the fallen candle had ignited the rice papers.
A fire here, in a wooden observatory, would be catastrophic. Once it spread, no one—not even a hundred Taoist priests—could stop it.
Smoke billowed, heat surged, flames lit the hall red, black shadows flitting in the fire. Without thinking, I pulled out my phone to call 119.
No signal. I laughed bitterly—I was likely in the painting. Where would I find firefighters?
Better run. Forget Brother Peng—every man for himself. I sprinted toward the front hall's gate but stopped, recalling fire safety: panic kills, and smoke chokes more than flames burn.
I yanked off my coat, covering my head, shielding my nose and mouth, leaving only my eyes. Legs pumping, I prepared to charge.
Reaching the front hall, the scene nearly made me lose control.
In the raging flames, black shadows danced. What shadows? Brother Peng's hell paintings had come alive!
Black fog, smoke, and sparks flew like rain. Naked men and women writhed in the fire, hands reaching through flames toward me. Bulging eyes, twisted faces, trembling muscles—a living hell.
Imps darted through the flames, brows arched, brandishing forks, grinning gleefully. They stabbed anyone they disliked, forks piercing chests, victims screaming silently.
Some souls tried crawling out; imps forked them back, treating it like a game.
A woman, her burning hair loose, rolled in the dazzling flames, her large breasts stark. No man, however lustful, could feel desire here. Seeing me, she crawled, eyes bleeding, hands outstretched, like I was her savior.
An imp grabbed her hair, dragging her back into the fire.
I cried. Why? Because she was the office goddess I'd once stood up, who'd since ignored me. I never expected to see her here, like this.
Dizzy, gasping, I realized there was no sound—like a silent film. Only tortured faces filled my vision, their expressions indescribable, too harrowing to recall.
Those twisted faces carried unbearable negative energy.