Chapter Thirty-Seven: Terror at the Airport

To avoid wasting time, Lin Ran chose to fly immediately. The flight was scheduled for that very night, and by the time he arrived in Fengdu, it was already two in the morning.

There weren’t many people taking the red-eye; Lin Ran glanced around and counted only a dozen or so. The airport was eerily empty, with barely a soul in sight. The vast, deserted terminal brought a chill to his heart.

Suddenly, Lin Ran felt an urgent need to relieve himself—perhaps from anxiety and stress, he thought. Left with no choice, he decided to find a restroom first.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where the restroom is?” He searched for a while but couldn’t find it. Spotting a security guard dozing in the duty room, Lin Ran hurried over.

He called out several times, but the guard paid no attention. Walking closer, Lin Ran realized the guard had fallen asleep sitting up, pen still in hand, as if he’d dozed off mid-sentence. Even knocking on the glass didn't wake him.

Resigned, Lin Ran set off to find the restroom on his own. Thankfully, there were signs overhead, and he soon located it without much trouble. Inside, a row of urinals lined the wall. Lin Ran strode quickly to one, unfastened his belt, and let out what felt like a torrent—three minutes straight. With the last drop gone, a shiver of relief ran through him, as though all the day's anxiety had been flushed away.

He shook himself off and zipped up. Just then, the sound of flushing came from the next stall. Surprised, Lin Ran glanced over—he hadn’t noticed anyone else enter. Turning, he saw a man in his forties standing beside him.

“Busy night, huh, brother? Taking such a late flight?” Lin Ran made small talk, if only to break the silence.

“Yeah,” the man replied, rolling his neck as if it ached from a long journey.

A sharp crack rang out. Suddenly, as he twisted, the man’s entire head fell off with a thud, landing on the urinal before rolling to the floor. The man hurriedly fumbled to place his head back on, leaving Lin Ran’s scalp crawling in horror.

Lin Ran’s expression changed. He suddenly remembered what he’d read in that book about the Ghost City: “The living walk by day, the dead by night.” Panic set in. Without thinking, he spun around to leave, but a cold, powerful hand clamped down on his arm.

He turned to see the man gripping his wrist, holding his head in his other hand and extending it toward Lin Ran.

“Wait! Don’t go, little brother! Help me put my head back on—I can’t see what I’m doing!” The severed head grinned foolishly at Lin Ran.

“Damn!” Even though Lin Ran had encountered ghosts before, this was almost too much for him. His scalp tingled with fear.

“Please, help me!” the man pleaded, holding out his head with a pitiful tone.

“Get lost!” Lin Ran snapped, face darkening.

“Why won’t any of you help me? Why won’t any of you help me? Why won’t any of you help me? I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you!” Suddenly, the man’s face twisted into a hideous snarl, his eyes bulging as fresh blood streamed from beneath them.

With that, the head flew straight for Lin Ran’s neck. Horrified, Lin Ran kicked at the headless body, hoping to break free, but the man’s grip on his wrist was like an iron clamp.

As the head hurtled toward him, Lin Ran fumbled at his waist, yanked out the peachwood sword he’d prepared before landing, and thrust it at the gaping mouth.

With a hiss, the blade pierced the head clean through, spraying blood all over Lin Ran’s face. He froze, stunned that the sword had gone straight through. Was it a fake? He couldn’t help cursing the swindling shopkeeper in his mind.

Disgusted, Lin Ran quickly tossed the peachwood sword aside, bloodied and sickening as it was. Suddenly, he felt a crushing pressure on his neck—the headless ghost had him in a death grip.

A wave of suffocation swept over him. Lin Ran clawed desperately at the ghost’s hands, trying to pry them loose, but they wouldn’t budge. Within moments, dizziness flooded his mind.

Frantically searching his waist pouch, his fingers closed around a slender stick. He yanked it out and struck the headless ghost’s body with all his might.

A scream tore through the air. Instantly, the grip on his neck loosened. As the dizziness faded, Lin Ran realized the headless ghost had vanished.

Staring at the stick in his hand, Lin Ran’s heart pounded with lingering fear—he had truly brushed against death. In the end, it was this thing that saved him. Something that had always seemed useless had worked wonders tonight. It was nothing other than a mourning stick—the kind rural elders are buried with after death.

Especially striking was the sorghum stalk still clenched in his hand. The ghost he couldn’t break free from, no matter how hard he tried, had been sent packing by a single blow from this stalk.

As Lin Ran stood there, still reeling, a soft exclamation sounded from a distant, shadowy corner. Someone was watching him, surprise flickering in their gaze. Slowly, a smile curled at the corner of their mouth as they murmured to themselves:

The show has only just begun!