Chapter 182 Let the intergenerational curse end with this generation.

Your plan was to take advantage of the daytime crowds, using the cafeteria as a starting point to cause a disturbance, and then quickly "take over" the main building—the teaching building—in the chaos.

The teaching building is right in front of us.

The square in front of the building used to be a place for flag raising, exercise drills, and graduation photos, which is quite similar to the situation in China. Now, however, it is filled with shoe prints, slogans, trampled plastic flags, overturned chairs, and sticks that have been pulled out from who-knows-where.

This small campus, it turns out, can come up with so many new ideas when everyone really gets involved.

When you led the charge with Meiling and the others, some people who were still hesitant followed. Perhaps they were afraid of missing a decisive moment, or perhaps your resolute steps awakened some long-suppressed impulse within them. In any case, they followed—after all, you'd already caused a huge scene, so you weren't afraid to do it again.

Often—perhaps due to a lack of necessary opportunities—you may not feel like you're a leader, but you discover that as long as a person has a clear direction and dares to speak out, they can subconsciously get most people to follow them.

The teaching building door wasn't locked, but two seemingly unsuspecting administrators stood ramrod straight at the entrance. They were two female teachers nearing retirement, wearing sunglasses and with their arms crossed. They were usually not to be trifled with, and now they seemed to be giving anyone who dared to approach them a major demerit.

Before you could even speak, a boy with pink hair and a mocking expression walked up to you, cursing, "Teachers, don't stop us! We're not here to cause trouble, we're here to find the truth. If you obstruct us, we'll consider you accomplices."

One of the female teachers gently pushed him—not a hard push—but the next second, the boy fell to the ground, screaming, "The teacher pushed me!" At the same time, someone shouted, "We caught it on camera!" Dozens of mobile phone cameras around immediately pointed at the female teacher, who recoiled as if burned. The elderly woman, in her fifties or sixties, had a face filled with anger, fear, and helplessness.

They are unaware that the balance of power has long been disrupted.

At this moment, the rules changed.

In the past, teachers could silence students reluctantly with just a few words like "I'll tell your parents" or "You'll be punished." Now, a shove or a shout can be recorded by dozens of cameras, uploaded online, and cause a storm.

Asymmetry is the essence of order. When equality is achieved, the old order collapses. At that point, whoever seizes the power of discourse first will rise to a position of authority.

—You've already seen it in the asylum in the previous instance.

There's no need to get entangled with these two old ladies.

You turn around and shout, "Don't touch them! The teachers are being used too. Let them go, we'll go in ourselves."

Your words were surprisingly effective. Instead of making things difficult for the two teachers, the students automatically made way for them. Some helped the boy who had fallen, some put away their phones, and most quickly rushed into the teaching building.

Teaching buildings, teaching buildings. My God, you've only been here for seven days! Yet everything here feels strangely familiar.

"Where is the principal's office again?"

"The last room on the left-hand side of the top floor, there seems to be a security guard watching it?"

"There are no security guards! Can we just go straight there?"

"Wait a minute." You waved your hand to stop everyone. "We need to figure out the structure first. We don't want everyone to squeeze in and then block ourselves up."

You naturally assigned tasks: "Ten people will stay downstairs to guard the stairwell and prevent unauthorized personnel from coming up. We'll also have sentries on each floor to report any unusual activity immediately. The rest of you will come up with us."

"Start a live stream on your phone! Have a classmate read the comments, don't stop." You need to keep an eye on external information at all times.

In the live stream, the crowd spontaneously chanted slogans as they walked: "Students also have the right to know! How dare this heartless school feed us human flesh!"

The slogan was simple and blunt, but at this moment, it struck a chord with every student who was moving forward, and the more it was shouted, the more cohesive it became.

This is a riot, but also a self-governing developing embryo.

At this moment, the entire school was like an isolated island that was implicitly locked down, and something subtle was brewing within it.

Outside the school gate, several police cars had already arrived, but none dared to rush in. They had been notified and knew that these brats were pointing their phone cameras at them, and that live streams were going on. Their every move could ignite a firestorm online.

No one wants to be the first to strike. Besides, given the serious safety issues at the school, those with supervisory responsibilities are still embroiled in this "dog meat scandal," so no one wants to be the first to step forward and then be unjustly labeled as siding with the unscrupulous school administration.

They chose to wait, to wait until you "have made enough of a scene."

It doesn't matter. You don't care about their thoughts; you have your own opinions.

In the cafeteria, the principal and teachers were being watched over by a group of students. Besides them and the students who followed you to the teaching building, the rest of the group were also working together, spontaneously patrolling to maintain order during the "occupation," forbidding vandalism and violence—to prevent some bad students from taking their anger out on the teachers in the chaos. You heard someone loudly reading the school rules, saying, "We need to be more disciplined."

That's actually kind of cute.

As you climb the stairs, you look back at the group behind you. Some people are carrying backpacks, while others are holding newly bought energy bars to replenish their nutrition. Everyone is eager to find out the truth about this den of iniquity.

You take a deep breath and push open the door to the principal's office amidst everyone's expectant gazes.

Unsurprisingly, the room was empty.

Dozens of students rushed into the principal's office, making the large room suddenly crowded. Everyone touched and explored everything as if it were a novelty.

Only you and Meiling noticed that every corner here was suspiciously well-organized: the certificates on the wall were neatly arranged, with signatures ranging from forty years ago to last month; Buddha statues and prayer beads were displayed in the glass cabinet, and the bronze incense burner was emitting thin wisps of smoke, with the air filled with the scent of sandalwood and old paper; even the old ceiling fan was turning slightly, not turned on, and there was a creaking sound overhead as if pushed by a wind from an unknown source.

It's a principal's office with a rather scholarly atmosphere.

The only thing out of place was the table.

In the center of the desk sat several yellowed ledgers, their pages curled at the edges, with brownish-red stains seeping through. That color... it's no wonder you might think of long-dried bloodstains, probably mixed with ink and dust.

Meiling flipped through the documents, frowned, and said to you, "Look at these accounts, 'sacrificial expenses,' 'protection fund'... what does that mean? And the dates, they can even be traced back to thirty years ago."

"Hasn't the principal changed several times already?" Huimin frowned, her words tinged with unease.

“At least three.” Went squatted in front of the filing cabinet, finally pulling out a stack of old photos from the bottom. She dusted them off and pointed to one of them, “This is the former principal—Sartsch, who died ten years ago. Hmm, was it a heart attack?”

"Heart disease?" You scoffed. This was a familiar scenario: the most unscientific way to die was always cardiac arrest.

You walk to the table and lift the ledger with your hand.

The latest ledgers are only ten years old, and the pages are already so brittle they'd practically crumble at the slightest touch. At first, Meiling and the others carefully translated them for you, but later you didn't need their translations anymore; you could understand them on your own.

Because every page contained the same few words, such as "blood sacrifice," "offering," and "protecting destiny," written in reverse order. The handwriting gradually became distorted and messy from the early neatness, and by the later pages it was almost entirely scratches, indicating that the writer was not in a good mental state.

You asserted, "He must have gone mad before he died."

As soon as he finished speaking, the office lights flickered twice.

But did anyone turn on the lights?

—Click. Click-click.

It's an old-fashioned typewriter.

This rather old "artifact" started pressing buttons on its own. You've only ever heard this kind of sound in spy movies; it even sounds quite rhythmic on TV. But in reality—I don't know if it's a problem with the machine, but the sound of fingernails scraping against metal is mostly a nauseating noise.

The students all turned around. The old, black machine sat forlornly in the corner; logically, having been unused for years, it should have become nothing more than a decoration. But a roll of paper, which someone had somehow slipped inside, slowly began to expel a new line of text:

"The blood of students is an offering, the blood of dogs is a seal."

Someone gasped and plopped down on the ground: "Is...is it haunted?"

Someone quickly mocked, "At this point, are you still afraid of ghosts?"

"I... I'm just scared, so what!"

They burst into laughter, and the boy who had been called a coward reached out to prove he wasn't.

"Don't move," you stop him, stepping forward and staring at the typewriter. Your mind races.

"It's giving us a hint."

But who is it? And why should it help you?

The moment you thought that, the air became damp, as if countless tiny hands were caressing outside the window, and suddenly many small "bubbles" swelled up on the curtains like abscesses.

In another corner, static came from a loudspeaker, followed by an old recording.

"Long live freedom! Let's stop them from sacrificing our blood for their glory!"

It was a roar of slogans, a murmured mix of cries and footsteps, but the sound quality was so poor that it crackled! Even such inspiring words sounded terrifying and eerie.

Meiling's face turned deathly pale. She covered her ears tightly and gripped your hand tightly: "These are... recordings of those bloody marches!"

"What kind of parade?" someone asked in a low voice.

“The student movement that broke out here decades ago,” Went replied. You all know this painful memory from history, but the other students may not have heard that their school also has such a history.

“To make a long story short, we also have students dying here,” Went said.

"How could this happen..."

Suddenly, you hear a "clack-clack" sound behind you. Who's walking in wooden clogs? You slowly turn around—the corridor is empty. But the footsteps grow closer, from far away to near, from light to heavy, until they stop outside the door.

"Close the door," you commanded hastily—with so many people around, weren't you worried that you wouldn't be able to open the door after closing it?

Meiling reached out and rushed out to close the door, but it slammed shut by itself, the lock automatically engaging.

quiet.

Everyone held their breath.

—"Gulp."

A deep tremor came from beneath my feet. Then, another. The ground began to shake slightly.

Someone screamed, "Blood—blood is flowing from the floor tiles!"

You look down and see a line of dark red liquid slowly seeping from the grout lines of the snow-white tiles. At first it was just a little, then it seemed drawn to the center by something, gathering more and more, faster and faster. The bloodstains meandered along the grain of the tiles, eventually forming several gibberish letters—

"She inherited his legacy."

Amidst gasps of shock, everyone backed away. Only you remained standing.

At that moment, you felt a strange chill—a certainty.

You look at the shape of the blood, and it has a certain resemblance to the one that appeared in your house before.

It seems this room is more than just an office. It might even be an altar. The deliberately left-behind ledgers, Buddha statues, incense burners, and even the typewriter are all part of a formation.

You slowly crouch down, reaching out to touch the pool of blood. It's cold and viscous. But the instant your fingertips touch it, the blood suddenly spreads, embedding itself into your fingerprint like a living thing, then creeping up.

Meiling reacted quickly, pouring a cup of gold paint directly onto your arm: "Don't be so careless!"

You couldn't stop Meiling in time, but thankfully, that little bit of blood still allowed you to see a flashback-like scene—

The parade on the playground, the sound of sticks falling, the figures of students falling in the rain, the young man holding a banner being dragged into the school gate...

Everything felt like it was being forcibly shoved into your brain. You could barely breathe.

"Hey! Wake up!" Meiling's voice came from afar, while she shook you so hard you felt like your soul was leaving your body.

"Okay, okay, I'm all better now." Before you were fully awake, you forced yourself to stand up to avoid shaking your brain.

"What did you see?" Wentt realized you had just entered a certain perspective.

You struggled to lift your head and murmured, "This school... has never been 'clean' since that day."

A gust of wind swept through the window cracks, extinguishing the fire in the incense burner. The smoke swirled in the air, transforming into a transparent hand that slowly reached for the photographs on the table. Suddenly, the photographs burst into flames, the fire spreading silently, turning each old photo to ash. As the ashes fell, the certificates of merit on the wall automatically detached, one after another.

The room became dark.

The hoarse slogan rang out for the last time on the radio:

"Let's stop them from trading our blood for their glory—"

Then, everything fell silent.

Only the typewriter remained, continuing its "click-clack" in the corner, typing out the final sentence:

"She inherited his legacy."

Who inherited from whom? We need to confirm who said that first. You almost already know.

An invisible force draws your gaze back to the pools of blood on the ground.

The blood flowed across the ground as if it were alive, meandering and branching outwards like twigs. At the end of each vein appeared footprints: one pair, two pairs, ten pairs, a hundred pairs.

They were a group of students.

They wore worn-out uniforms, their trousers faded blue, cuffs torn, and badges symbolizing the "Student Self-Government Association" pinned to their chests. Rain and blood mingled on their bodies, blurring their features yet making them all the more real. Their faces were young but indistinct, as if erased by time, leaving only outlines.

They didn't speak, they just watched you.

They stood still, yet you could almost hear the echo of their footsteps.

They were once a united group of students—but they succumbed to the weight of the times and ultimately perished in blood and death. However, their sacrifice was not in vain; otherwise, your unity today would also have been nothing but wasted blood and sweat.

The students' shadows stood silently, raising their hands and pointing in unison to the corner of the principal's office.

Everyone was still a little scared, but you didn't hesitate. You walked over, carefully avoiding the bloodstains on the ground.

There, in a place you all inexplicably overlooked, lay a thick stack of files. Layers of dust piled up, as if they had been sealed away for decades. The cover bore the words "Work Log" written in Thai.

You gently brush away the dust. The archive still exudes a putrid smell of decaying paper that seems out of place with its actual age.

“It’s Principal Nana’s handwriting,” Meiling said. “She’s a calligrapher, and her handwriting is very distinctive.”

Nana is the current principal of this school.

You asked Meiling to help you read this diary, and everyone gathered around. The language difference didn't stop you; everyone helped each other translate, either listening or looking at it.

"This school has an ominous origin. The spirits of the students who shed blood decades ago have not dissipated, and in order to suppress them, the school must perform a blood sacrifice every year to maintain its fortune and peace. At first, there were only dogs."

You exchanged a glance.

"I'm so stupid! I know nothing! Satshi has left me with a mess!"

"The previous principal, Satsch, discovered that by slightly altering the rituals, he could transfer the power of the offerings to himself. He changed the blood sacrifice from 'protecting the school' to 'nourishing life,' requiring the slaughter of more and more dogs, and the rituals became more frequent, even bringing in stray dogs from outside the school. But the price was—resentment afflicted the students. During that time, student suicides were frequent, and many students went insane; even the teachers remained silent. He suppressed everything!"

You feel a tingling sensation in your palms. The handwriting seems to tremble slightly, and a sense of malice still lurks beneath the paper.

“After his death, I was promoted to the position. I was young then—people from the Department of Education said I was efficient, intelligent, and had faith. The leaders of the Education Bureau called me personally and said it was ‘the country’s trust.’”

"I was too young! I was blinded by excitement and never thought that such a good job would fall to a female teacher like me with no background. After the transfer order was issued, I packed my bags for two days and came here."

"On my third day in office, the Buddhist shrine spontaneously combusted. The entire dormitory building was engulfed in flames, and seven teachers were trapped inside. Only three bodies were rescued. Dealing with their funeral arrangements subjected me to endless criticism for a whole year, and I spent all my time writing apology letters. I really thought I had done something wrong, but what could I do? Why are they cursing me?"

Then came a year of trivial matters. Principal Nana was boycotted by the families of the deceased teacher. Because she was a young female principal, everyone resented her—or rather, they were bullying her. They didn't dare to cause trouble at the Education Bureau; they only dared to surround her.

"The students did well in their college entrance exams this year, and I applied for a graduation trip. Then there was a car accident. All the teachers in the car plunged off a cliff; there were no survivors. I went to the scene; the deaths were horrific. It's like a curse; something's not right!"

"I sought out a sorcerer, who told me that there was a sinister blood array in the school. Could this be how Satshi died?"

"I wish the deceased to be reborn in paradise, but must I, in the world of the living, bear the burden of all their sins?"

“I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t want to pay off someone’s debt, nor did I want more students to die. I knelt before the Buddha statue for three days and three nights, finally begging him—to let these teachers stay here and continue teaching, and not let their families blame me for their deaths. The monk agreed, but said only: ‘Forcing the dead to stay is not a blessing; it will only breed resentment sooner or later.’”

"But I still have a bright future ahead of me, and I can't bear the attacks and insults that shouldn't be directed at me. I didn't cause the history of this school either. So, I'm sorry."

"This school is already riddled with sins, so what's a little more?"

"I'm sorry, please Buddha bless me!"

Having read this far, the school's story is now clear.

The students who hadn't finished reading the story passed their diaries around, while your heart tightened.

You never expected it to turn out like this.

Principal Nana is certainly not a good person, but she is, after all, an extremely unlucky scapegoat. She isn't without guilt; she's caught between "responsibility" and "fear." She tries to maintain a semblance of order, but in doing so, she constantly delays the disaster, creating more disasters.

“I know they won’t forgive me. They smile in class, but cry their hearts out in the school building at night. Buddha said that those who are attached to things cannot attain Nirvana. But I let them be attached forever. Buddha will not protect me.”

The last page. The handwriting is already blurred.

“There is no deeper karmic obstacle than this. I dare not stop, nor can I stop. Buddha, please protect me! Or, let them come and take me away!”

--"they".

Who is it? Is it another student who died in that movement?

The blood-red branches flowed across the ground once more, winding into new characters:

"You're not the only one who's guilty."

The air trembled, and the dead students remained expressionless, silently watching.

The truth is not just "her crime," but a conspiracy of the entire school—a system that passes down responsibility from generation to generation.

The former principal gained power through greed; the education department maintained stability by shirking responsibility through elections; the new principal maintained order through compromise; and the students, and even the teachers, were just a group of pitiful victims.

Damn! This story is more disgusting than just one person's greed or malice.

After everyone had finished reading the story, you all felt a chill run down your spine when the student who had forgotten to comment because he was reading the log exclaimed, "Why was the live stream cut off?"

It's so cold. On this sweltering summer afternoon.

Then, a strange clicking sound came from somewhere—

The walls bulged slightly, and tiny bloodstains seeped from under the floor—unlike the bloodstains, this was thick, black, dirty blood that had seeped out from every crevice! The desk drawer opened and then slammed shut by itself, and a ceiling light swayed without wind before shattering with a crack.

Not again?

This small principal's office was already full of secrets and sins. The resentment that had been suppressed for decades finally found a crack and burst forth.

But at the heart of all this is not just the wronged souls of the students.

Suddenly you hear a low creaking sound behind you, like the soft grinding of bones. You turn around abruptly and see a teacher slowly "walking" out from behind the corner—no, it's not walking at all.

Her feet were on the floor backwards, heels pointing forward, knees bent backwards, head slightly lowered, her face a blur. Her arms were hanging high, like a marionette. Then, a second, a third… more and more teachers emerged eerily from the walls, the ceiling, under the tables, behind the bookshelves.

They were all teachers you used to know, and they should have been locked up in the cafeteria. Now, their bodies were twisted, and thick black energy swirled around them.

The only difference is that the English and Chinese teachers have tree branches stuck diagonally in their throats, the math teacher's arm is bent over, and the PE teacher is constantly dripping water...

Isn't this exactly the inexplicable state that you've observed teachers exhibiting during the day?

However, they are not evil spirits. They are also victims who have been trapped for too long.

You have no doubt that they were all teachers who loved their students, after all, you also received care from these teachers.

However, these instincts of care have probably been completely eroded by the chaos of being forced to remain in the world for so many years.

They never chose to stay. They were merely "preserved" to maintain a charade built upon the sins committed by others.

You hear them murmuring like whispers, but it's not language; it's a stream of air filled with repression, grievance, and anger, pouring into everyone's eardrums.

Your classmates rushed towards the door in terror, and the door was easily kicked open, but after a few steps, they realized in despair: "We're standing still!"

ha!

You try to move, but you find that with each step, the shadow beneath your feet pulls you back an inch.

The corridor was like a never-ending treadmill, with light stretching horizontally, making the exit at the door seem impossibly far away.

Worse still, a row of dancers dressed in traditional ballet costumes had appeared in the corridor ahead—their faces were no longer traditional masks, but cracked, black skulls, their movements bizarre and twisted, like out-of-control puppets. They were props from the dance studio!

They approached you as they strode forward, their gold-trimmed robes billowing in the air.

Gold-trimmed sleeve robe!

Meiling met your gaze in fear. Was the golden formula useless this time? And it was only daytime!

—After all, you directly came into contact with the formation...

Behind them, the teachers walking backwards were also closing in.

You are trapped in the middle, unable to retreat or advance, with only incantatory whispers and the cracking of bones filling your ears.

We must find a way! We must use the rules!

There isn't a single rule that works! So, does that mean—

"Rule 12: Let everything go back to where it belongs at the right time."

You open your eyes and shout: "Rule 12!"

Hurry! It works! You came up with this strictly following all the rules of expression and adhering to the limits of its feasibility! It can't possibly go wrong!

The world seemed to be shaken by a giant bell. The air suddenly froze.

The next second, a golden light rises from beneath your feet, like the hands of a clock, quickly sweeping across the surroundings. Blurry golden threads appear on all these souls who died unjustly—these golden threads connect to their shoulders, spines, and ankles, and finally, little by little, they are drawn by the golden light.

The teachers stopped in their tracks. The black aura surrounding them surged violently for a moment, then slowly dissipated. Their faces began to clear, transforming from a grotesque expression back to their familiar features, and their joints returned to their normal positions.

They looked at you with no resentment, but rather with a sense of relief and peace.

They nodded slightly, and then—they all turned and embarked on their journey home along the path of time formed by the golden light. Their figures grew lighter and lighter, more and more transparent, until finally they transformed into specks of light and dissipated into the air.

Looking back at the monster on the other side of the corridor, it merely clasped its hands in a gesture of respect before vanishing like mist. The corridor returned to normal, and the exit was now within easy reach.

You have finally returned to the real timeline.

"You just mentioned rules, what rules?" Meiling asked, somewhat stammering, her expression becoming blank.

-----------------------

Author's Note: Woof woof woof (Okay, I'm really not going to be a dog anymore, the next chapter is the end! Hehehe! This time I'm not lying at all!!!)