Hotel Between Worlds

There was a person hidden in the locked room that had never been opened. This realization made Darian's scalp tingle instantly, followed by a rush of uncontrollable speculations.

Who was it? When did the owner of that voice get in? Did they sneak in while he was asleep, or had they already been there since he arrived two months ago?

If it was the latter, then despite the long time he had spent inside this large house without stepping out, he could be sure that the second-floor room had never once been opened. So had the person been hiding inside all this time? Was there another passage in the room, or perhaps...

Was the one who laughed softly really even a person?

Chaotic thoughts surged wildly in his mind, but Darian's expression gradually settled into calm. Perhaps it was the encounter with that "frog" before that had triggered some kind of change, or maybe it was the effect of "coming back from the dead." Either way, his current state of mind felt... a bit strange.

He couldn't tell whether the voice was kind or malicious, but it was undoubtedly bizarre. Yet after the initial jolt of fear that sent chills across his scalp, all the terror and hesitation had faded away. What remained in him now was a powerful sense of curiosity.

He wanted to understand what was really in that room.

He wanted to uncover the secrets hidden within this large house he had made his shelter.

This was his safehouse, the only "home" he had in this vast city. There couldn't be anything unsafe in his safehouse.

He slowly leaned closer, pressing his ear against the door. He could still hear a faint, low chuckle inside—but perhaps it was just an illusion, just the hollow wind echoing in his ears.

He curled his fingers and knocked on the door.

"Open up. I heard you."

Of course, the door didn't open. But that eerie chuckle did vanish.

It was what he expected. Darian said nothing and simply turned away. He went next door, to the room filled with clutter, and fetched an axe.

Returning to the locked room, he raised the axe high in silence and brought it down with all his strength.

The sharp blade struck the thin wooden door with a screech of metal on metal, sparks flying at the point of impact. Strangely, not even a scratch was left on the door that looked like it could've been kicked open with ease.

That chuckling sound came again, faint and indistinct, but Darian paid no attention. With a calm face, he raised the axe again, as if performing a task that demanded care, precision, and patience. One strike at a time, he kept chopping.

He knew this door couldn't be opened—not with drills, not with saws. But even with that knowledge, for the past two months he had tried every way possible to break it open almost every day. And now, after hearing that strange voice from behind the door, his motivation to open it today was stronger than ever.

And the more his strikes failed, the more that determination grew. Each blow of the axe landed harder, more naturally, and somehow… more in tune with his own will.

His mind, gradually emptying, even began to entertain strange fantasies. He felt like Wu Gang chopping down the laurel tree on the moon. If only he could bring down that cursed tree, then Chang'e, the Jade Rabbit, Bald Qiang, and even Sisyphus would all gather around him and applaud...

He had no idea why Sisyphus was part of that fantasy.

Meanwhile, the eerie laugh behind the door was becoming more piercing, more distinct, and seemed to draw ever closer—as if the owner of the voice was now right behind the wooden door, fully aware that it was indestructible, mocking Darian with reckless abandon from behind this wall of sighs.

But then, amid the creepy, grating chuckle, another voice suddenly burst forth—anxious and angry:

"Can you stop laughing already?! If he really gets that door open, I'm the first one he's going to chop!"

The laughter inside the room stopped at once.

Darian, who had just raised his axe for another strike, froze. Then he suddenly heard a crack from his lower back.

With that sharp crack, the uncontrolled axe slipped from his hands and landed somewhere completely off target.

A different, crisp sound rang out from the door—distinct from the previous metallic clashes. The axe dropped to the floor, and Darian immediately reached up and clutched his lower back.

His back hurt. He had pulled something badly. The pain was sharp and searing.

Supporting his aching back, he limped closer to the door, pausing for a couple of seconds before focusing on the spot where his last strike had landed.

A "spark" hovered just two or three centimeters from the wooden surface near the hinges. It looked like the flare caused by the axe's impact, yet it was somehow frozen in midair, suspended at the exact moment the firelight had burst.

In that faint glow, Darian could vaguely make out something on the surface of the door nearby.

He reached out to touch it.

A stifled, high-pitched squeal came from behind the door:

"Eek!"

Darian's eyes snapped open. The living room's bright ceiling light stung his eyes. His whole body ached from sleeping on the couch. The wall clock not far away ticked steadily. Its face showed that he had only been asleep for less than forty minutes.

Lying on the sofa in a daze, Darian slowly recalled the fuzzy memory in his mind.

He had fallen asleep... That was just a dream?

He was zoning out, but all of a sudden, something felt wrong.

That "dream" had been far too realistic. The details were vivid and complete. He could even clearly remember the feel of the axe in his hands, the frozen spark on the door, and…

He suddenly sat up from the sofa and abruptly raised his hand to clutch his lower back.

His back hurt. He had seriously pulled a muscle. The pain was sharp and piercing.

"Ahh… damn…" Darian couldn't help letting out a string of curses. The pulled back, combined with the sudden movement and the soreness from sleeping on the couch, created a perfect storm of agony. For a moment, he felt like he'd rather have the frog stab him in the heart again. At least that only hurt for two seconds. Clutching his waist, he struggled to stand up, and with every passing moment, he became more certain: that was definitely not just a normal "dream."

You don't feel a pulled back from something that only happened in a dream.

Something unnatural had appeared.

That thing had invaded his "safehouse."

He adjusted his posture and mindset, trying to minimize the impact of the pain. After a moment of thought, he gritted his teeth and made his way up the stairs.

With a baton in one hand, he returned to the cluttered room and found the very same axe from his dream. He held it in his right hand. The feeling of the wooden handle in his palm was exactly the same as in the dream, as if the warmth of his grip had lingered on it.

He approached the sealed door. It still looked pristine and untouched, showing no sign of the "light scar" left from the dream's hacking.

The room behind it was completely silent.

Everything appeared perfectly normal, as if nothing had ever happened.

But Darian still remembered the exact spot where the light had appeared.

He hooked the baton onto his belt, shifted the axe to his left hand, and reached out with his right to feel around the door—searching for the place where he had struck and seen the flash in the dream. He remembered it was near the hinge, where he had vaguely seen something...

The next second, he felt a handle.

A handle invisible to the naked eye.

But he knew for a fact there was no handle there. On the very first day he discovered the sealed door, he had examined every inch of it, felt every surface. He was certain he had never touched any kind of "invisible handle."

Why now? Was it because he had seen it in the dream? Because he had broken through some illusion with the axe? Because he had confirmed its existence, and now it existed?

Darian mentally rifled through every movie, TV show, game, and novel he had ever encountered, instantly coming up with a dozen possible explanations. But his hand didn't hesitate. He had already gripped the invisible handle and gently turned it.

The indestructible sealed door swung open effortlessly—from the hinge side.

It was an empty room. Through the gradually widening crack, he could see only the floor and walls. The light spilling in from the doorway slowly illuminated the dim interior. Yet even after cautiously opening the door fully, Darian still didn't see the owner of that mocking voice from the dream.

Gripping the axe tightly, he scanned the room with extreme caution—only to find that it was truly empty. Not even a bed or a chair.

Just cold moonlight, streaming through the worn curtain's seams and casting a dappled pattern on the floor.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught something.

There was something in the room. On the wall directly across from the door hung a painting.

A finely crafted frame, the edges adorned with intricate, classical vine patterns. In the center of the canvas, the background showed a seat covered with a soft red carpet.

And that was it. There was no cursed ghost sitting in the painting, cackling at intruders.

Darian frowned and stared intently at the roughly half-meter-tall oil painting. Still watching it closely, he reached to the light switch beside the door and turned on the overhead light.

Under the glow of the bulb, the painting's details became even clearer.

He carefully approached the painting, examining it for a long time.

Then, he noticed something—barely visible in the corner of the frame… the edge of a skirt.

"..."

He paused, his expression growing strange, and said, "Are you there?"

"No, I'm not!"

A guilty voice echoed from within the painting.

(End of Chapter)

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