Chapter Two: The Stranger
1
White flashes exploded one after another at the Shibuya Crossing, like someone had pressed a faulty strobe light in the night sky. The glare was blinding, stinging the retinas.Zhao Yan instinctively raised his hand to shield his eyes, peering through his fingers at the silhouettes—one, two, three... eight in total, scattered across the corners of the intersection. Each flash of white light revealed a figure curled up inside, huddled like newborn infants.
As the white light faded, the figures thudded to the ground one after another.
"Cough cough... Where the hell are we?!"
"My head's spinning... I'm gonna puke..."
"Where's my bag?!"
Screams, curses, and groans mingled in a cacophony of languages. Zhao Yan's mind raced like a high-speed camera, scanning the scene and sifting through the chaos to grasp the key details:
Ten meters ahead on the left, a middle-aged man in a gray jacket scrambled to his feet first, instinctively rolling once as he rose—a gun-searching motion. His hand brushed empty at his waist; likely no weapon there. No doubt a veteran or active cop, he was solidly built with a buzz cut, a scar running from his left browbone to his cheekbone, and a face that screamed trouble. Around forty-five.
At the convenience store entrance to the right front, a young woman in a white lab coat knelt retching. She wore rimless glasses, her long hair pulled back in a meticulous ponytail. Even now, looking utterly disheveled, she had buttoned her lab coat all the way to the top. She appeared to be a doctor or researcher—her hands were immaculately clean, nails neatly trimmed.
Beside her stood a kid in a hoodie and jeans, barely out of his teens, his face as pale as paper. He clutched a laptop bag to his chest like it was his lifeline. Programmer? Or student? Fear filled his eyes behind the glasses, yet his fingers tapped the bag's side unconsciously, as if typing code.
Beneath the billboard behind them stood a couple. The man wore a floral shirt, a thick gold chain around his neck, and a dragon tattooed on his arm. He was pointing at the sky, cursing up a storm, spittle flying everywhere. A classic street thug, a tough guy.The woman was his polar opposite—tight red dress, high heels, big curls. At this moment, she even pulled out a compact to touch up her lipstick. Unbelievable. A dancer? Or something else?
At the street corner, a small man in a delivery uniform crouched by the roadside, hugging his head, shoulders shaking. A few undelivered packages lay scattered at his feet. Just an ordinary delivery guy, looking honest and hardworking.
Finally—
Zhao Yan's gaze settled on the center of the intersection.
Two figures stood there. One wore a tailored suit, his shoes polished to a mirror-like shine, the watch on his wrist reflecting the neon lights. Clearly a rich kid or young boss.His face was ashen, yet he stood rigidly upright, struggling to maintain his composure. The other was peculiar—a middle-aged man in a faded, washed-out traditional Chinese jacket, carrying a roll of paintings on his back. He was gazing up at the sky-high screen, his expression as calm as if he were viewing an art exhibition. An artist? Or someone involved in the arts?
Eight people.
With himself, that made a squad of nine.
"Freeze!" Zhao Yan bellowed, his voice echoing through the deserted street.
Those who had been about to scatter or shout froze, instinctively turning toward him.
"My name is Zhao Yan. I'm a firefighter!" He forced his voice to steady, adopting the tone used to direct evacuations at fire scenes. "Listen up. We're in serious danger right now. Stay together. Don't run off!"
The man who looked like a veteran soldier was the first to react. He strode over to Zhao Yan, standing with his back to him while scanning the surroundings warily. "Old Zhang, retired reconnaissance soldier. What the hell is going on?"
"Can't explain everything right now. Long story short—" Zhao Yan glanced at the countdown on his wrist: 00:08:12. "We've been thrown into a globally broadcast survival game. This is Shibuya, Tokyo, but the streets are swarming with monsters. We need to survive six hours and figure out who among us has been replaced by a monster."
The scene fell silent for two seconds before erupting in chaos.
"Bullshit!" The guy in the floral shirt pointed at Zhao Yan, spittle flying. "You watch too many movies, kid? This is some prank show! Where are the cameras? Director, get your ass out here!"
"My phone has no signal..." The programmer's voice trembled as his fingers frantically tapped the screen.
"What... what are those things?" The woman in the red dress pointed at the frog-headed man in the suit still pedaling his bike in the distance, her finger shaking violently.
"They're monsters."
The speaker was the middle-aged man in traditional Chinese attire. He had approached unnoticed, his voice soft yet oddly commanding over the chaos. He gazed up at the sky-screen, watching the rolling bullet comments, his eyes deep and unfathomable.
"A night parade of a hundred ghosts. The night parade of a hundred ghosts from Japanese folklore." He paused. "But I never imagined I'd see the real thing in my lifetime."
The rich kid sneered. "What kind of nonsense is this? I, Zhou Ming, have no time to waste on your silly games—"
His words caught in his throat, half-spoken.
Because the chewing sounds in the alley suddenly stopped.
The sailor-suited girl—the one with the compound eyes split open at the back of her head—slowly emerged from the alley entrance. A trail of bright red flesh still hung from the corner of her mouth. In her hand, she carried a severed arm—judging by the suit cuff and the watch on the wrist, it was likely the unfortunate office worker from earlier.She tilted her head, the compound eyes on the back of her head swiveling in unison to fix on the nine of them huddled together.
Then she smiled.
Her mouth stretched wide, revealing a mouthful of sharp, densely packed teeth.
"Run!!!"
The moment Zhao Yan bellowed that word, everyone charged toward the convenience store like madmen.