Martin Ouyang kept resisting. From within his body, power surged forth, fighting against my intrusion. This was the first time I truly began to understand what it meant to be a ghost. And as I entered, I felt Martin Ouyang’s intense loathing for ghosts—pure hatred.
This absolute, uncompromising hatred—this was the second time I’d sensed it so clearly from him, directed at ghosts. The first was from Damian Chen.
“It’s useless, Ethan Zhang. Even if you are a ghost now, you want to invade my body—my will won’t allow it.”
I wrapped Martin Ouyang completely with my Specter Web, like silkworm threads, while my true form turned to mist, slowly invading his body. The world around us seemed to collapse inward, and beneath my feet, in the suffocating darkness, I saw countless dream passages radiating in all directions, each one dazzling and otherworldly.
Inside those passages were all sorts of spherical orbs, each containing a dream. I saw people of every kind, their dreams being dragged down into that massive book—Horror Stories.
A dense swarm of dreams kept pouring into the open pages of Horror Stories.
I could feel it clearly—this wasn’t just Martin Ouyang’s will, but the will of Horror Stories itself. It hungrily devoured dreams.
I’d considered this outcome: from now on, anyone who dreams would be drawn into Horror Stories. If Martin Ouyang wished, he could use the book to pull people’s consciousness fully into its depths.
“Why do you hate ghosts so much?”
I asked. Martin Ouyang’s face twisted, contorted with rage, as he roared, trying to force me out of his body. I couldn’t worry about anything else—my Specter Web had snapped countless times, but I kept weaving more, wrapping him tighter, invading from every direction.
My Specter Web kept snapping, and I was barely holding on. The ghost energy creating the web was running beyond its limits, forced to constantly spin new threads. The moment those black threads invaded Martin Ouyang’s body, his power severed them, rejecting them outright.
“Brother, using the Specter Web like this will get you laughed at by other ghosts. Forcing it so hard isn’t what a ghost should do.”
Suddenly, Yin Choujian’s voice rang clear in my mind. I was shocked—though it was faint, as my Specter Web entered Martin Ouyang’s body, it felt like fine needles piercing his skin. But his skin was like steel; the needles couldn’t penetrate.
I had to control the Specter Web with even greater delicacy. Gradually, I calmed my restless heart and let my consciousness drift. Now, my web was no longer a needle—it flowed like water, softly clinging to Martin Ouyang’s body, to that steel-like power.
Suddenly, Martin Ouyang sensed something was wrong and struggled even harder, flailing his arms wildly.
The sensation was unmistakable—water’s subtlety, wind’s gentleness. Both can slowly erode even the hardest things, like water carving stone or wind scouring a cliff. The process was patient, relentless.
I was finally able to touch Martin Ouyang’s soul. Instantly, I heard crying—wails, sobs, heartbroken cries—all kinds of weeping echoed into my mind through the ghost energy.
All these sounds resonated inside my head, swirling and echoing. I adjusted my awareness, and the moment I sensed a gap in Martin Ouyang’s strength, I shouted, sending black mist surging madly into his body.
In that instant, I saw Yin Choujian floating in front of me, smiling, just dozens of meters away. It was an odd sensation—I was still myself, yet not myself. I lifted my hands and saw pale skin, and everything about my body was Martin Ouyang.
Suddenly, my raised hand was forced down—Martin Ouyang, though possessed by me, was still desperately trying to drive me out of his body.
“You lowly ghosts, don’t get cocky—argh!”
Martin Ouyang shouted. I felt as if the volcanic force erupting from within him was about to expel me from his body—his very soul was pushing me out. Suddenly, I found myself in a dark space; everything before me vanished.
A faint sobbing echoed in the darkness. In the distance, a small point of light appeared, and I saw a boy in white crouching there. I drifted closer, bit by bit.
The one crying was Martin Ouyang. He looked only about ten or so, but I was sure this was the same Martin Ouyang who had been trapped in dreams since childhood.
I glanced around, searching. This place was Martin Ouyang’s inner world—an abyss of darkness, not a single glimmer of light.
I slowly approached Martin Ouyang and crouched before him. Just now, I’d truly felt his hatred for ghosts—as if he was born with it.
“Why are you crying?” I asked, reaching out a hand.
“Go away. All of you, go away.”
In that instant, young Martin Ouyang lifted his head. I stared in surprise—his face was filled with anger and hatred, his eyes utterly devoid of light.
Chirping and chatter—suddenly, everything changed. The sound of a babbling brook, warm sunlight, a gentle breeze, and beneath the clear sky, a sparkling stream. A boy of seven or eight chewed on a blade of grass, lying under a tree, eyes closed in blissful enjoyment.
I saw him—it was Martin Ouyang, a young Martin Ouyang. At that moment, on the distant riverbank, a striking figure appeared: a girl a few years older than Martin, her hair in a bun, carrying a basket.
As she came closer, I saw her features—delicate and pretty, a beauty in the making. She smiled and walked up to Martin Ouyang.
“Young master, it’s time to eat. You ran off again today—madam sent me with your meal and told you to hurry back for your lessons. If the master comes home and finds out, he’ll be angry.”
Martin Ouyang sniffed the air and smiled.
“Xiao Mei, do you think people will ever be as free as the birds in the sky?”
“Young master, I don’t know. The servants all say you’re a little odd, always daydreaming. I don’t understand what you think about, but I don’t think it’s possible.”
Martin Ouyang laughed, then stood up, opened the basket, and began to eat.
“Not here, no. But in dreams, you can be free.”
Watching this piece of Martin Ouyang’s memory, I gradually understood: in such chaotic times, the Ouyang family, as merchants, was already on the brink. They had to pay huge sums to local officials, constantly travel, and deal with dangerous circumstances—all while rebellions broke out everywhere.
In these perilous times, the Ouyang family managed to get by, but Martin Ouyang was always an oddity—prone to wild ideas since childhood.
That night, Ouyang Manor was ablaze with light—the family patriarch had returned.
“Chen’er, let’s see how well you’ve studied.”
A man in his forties, every bit the head of the house, stern and imposing. But Martin Ouyang couldn’t answer his questions.
With a sharp slap, his father struck him across the face.
“Father, what’s the point of learning this? If we want official rank, our wealth can buy it. Why bother with useless studies…”
Before Martin could finish, the servants summoned by his father locked him in his room, as usual—forced to reflect on his mistakes behind closed doors.
But Martin Ouyang never felt he’d done anything wrong. Since he was little, he loved strange things and spent his days lost in fantasy.
Locked in his room, Martin showed no sadness—just excitement. He pulled a brick from a corner, retrieving something wrapped in parchment.
As he opened it, I stared in surprise—it was Horror Stories. Martin Ouyang opened the book and called out.
“All of you, come out.”
In an instant, I saw it—inside young Martin Ouyang’s tiny room, people and ghosts began emerging from the open pages of Horror Stories, one by one, until the room was filled with every kind of person and ghost. Martin Ouyang laughed with delight.
“Hurry up and tell me about those strange things!”
As soon as they appeared, Martin Ouyang called out. An old ghost floated over and began to tell his tale.
I stared, unsettled. Among all the people and ghosts, one ghost stood out as truly different. Though Martin Ouyang’s memory gave me little to sense, this ghost’s presence was uncanny—where the others seemed like apparitions from stories, this one felt disturbingly real, as if it didn’t belong.
After the old ghost finished his story, Martin Ouyang looked a bit disappointed, but everyone else was still cheerful. Then, the ghost I’d noticed stood up. His face was sly, and his eyes never left Martin Ouyang.
“Little Chen, you’re a bit special. Tonight, I’ll tell you a story you’ve never heard. How about this: I’ll tell, you write. After all, this is a story that’s never appeared in this book before—your grandfather wrote this book.”