Though the Ghost Emperor seemed deeply asleep, perfectly still,

being a ghost, she had no breath—her chest showed no rise or fall.

So outwardly, it was impossible to tell if she was truly sleeping.

If she was only feigning rest, Zhong Cheng’s attempt to slip out of bed now would be instantly detected.

Escape: failed.

If caught, Zhong Cheng would face a grim fate—bound hand and foot, displayed spread-eagle, subjected to the so-called “rich mistress’s ‘pleasure package.’"

Disaster!

Zhong Cheng’s heart hammered. *Thump-thump-thump.*

Was she asleep… or not?

He stared unblinkingly, straining to catch even the faintest sign.

No matter how hard he looked—until his eyes burned with strain—he couldn’t tell.

The Ghost Emperor lay utterly motionless: a face of breathtaking beauty, near-flawless features, long crimson hair vivid as blood.

Tranquil, she resembled Sleeping Beauty.

Yet without body heat, with skin pale to a sickly hue and a chest that never rose, a closer look made her seem more like a corpse.

But slap her thinking she’s one? She’d leap up instantly and crush your skull with a single palm strike.

“Your Majesty… Ghost Emperor…?” Zhong Cheng whispered, voice barely audible, terrified even a breath might wake her.

After ten soft calls, she remained silent, unmoving.

Could she really be asleep?

So ghosts sleep too—an unexpected discovery.

Still uneasy, Zhong Cheng slowly reached out and lightly poked her cheek.

Smooth texture, but cold—like silicone.

It reminded him of life-sized, full-body silicone dolls, poseable in any position…

*Poke. Poke. Poke.*

Still no reaction.

She truly seemed asleep, completely off guard.

Perfect. *“Enemy vulnerable—time to strip her!”* His mind raced—then he shook his head hard.

If poking her face drew nothing, would going further be safe?

His gaze drifted to where the crimson quilt rose into two majestic peaks.

Like the Himalayas, forged millions of years ago by tectonic collision—vast, towering, tempting to climb.

Reach the summit? Life’s pinnacle. Standing above all mortals.

*Ahem.* What was he thinking?! This was his golden chance to escape the ghost’s den!

Actually “climbing” would wake her—and get his head crushed. How unjust!

He swiftly discarded the reckless, filthy thought.

Zhong Cheng carefully lifted the quilt, sat up, smoothed it back into place.

He slipped on the slippers the ghosts provided—embroidered with the double-happiness character.

His original pair was long gone.

Tiptoeing silently, he took one step, glanced back.

Eyes still closed.

The dread of turning to see them wide open sent chills down his spine.

Anxious. Uneasy.

Time had never felt so agonizingly slow.

Thankfully, by the door, the Ghost Emperor showed no sign of stirring.

*Creak.*

The door’s groan startled him—he’d been so careful!

He glanced back, heart pounding… then sighed in relief.

She lay perfectly still.

A heavy sleeper? How soundly she slept.

Good. It helped his escape.

Outside, he closed the door gently—this time, silent.

“Alright. Out. Now which way?”

Zhong Cheng faced the eerie, green-lit corridor.

Luckily, while being carried to the bridal chamber, he’d feigned unconsciousness, stealing glances to memorize the path.

But fearing detection, he’d seen little.

Now he could only trust his memory.

He stepped resolutely into the shadows.

Patchy as his recall was, hundreds of *Detective Conan* episodes had sharpened his observation and logic far beyond average.

Clue by clue, he followed the trail.

Frustratingly, the place was vast, riddled with branching paths.

Even with landmarks half-remembered, he nearly got lost.

And he had to complain: the ghosts’ aesthetics.

They could’ve made it bright and grand—but chose this creepy, suspenseful vibe.

Like a haunted house.

Well… it *was* a haunted house.

“Why green flames? Will-o’-the-wisps?”

Curiosity overtook him.

Indoors, countless flames, no ventilation—yet no heat. Only unnatural chill. Strange.

He should’ve been focused, nerves taut.

But curiosity won.

*Curiosity killed the cat?*

Pfft. Just curiosity. No cat died.

Zhong Cheng approached a cluster of green flames, hand outstretched—then froze.

Too reckless. No need to test with his own finger.

He spotted a small stick on the ground, crouched, picked it up.

Extended it toward the flame.

*Whoosh!*

The stick erupted like gunpowder.

The sudden blaze startled him; he bit his lip to stay silent.

Green fire raced up the stick. He hurled it down—it turned to ash before hitting the floor.

Terrifying.

Zhong Cheng’s hair stood on end. Thank goodness he’d stopped. A finger? Gone. His whole body? Ash.

Burned too fast.

The flames looked ordinary—just green, no heat, seemingly easy to snuff.

Yet their power was horrifying.

Good grief.

“No more tempting fate. Retreat. Now.”

Shaken, Zhong Cheng vowed: not one extra second here.

He crept onward, eyes sharp, ears alert.

Strangely, not a single ghost appeared since leaving the chamber.

Asleep?

Ghosts were nocturnal. Dawn had broken—surely they’d retired?

Relief washed over him. Escape might actually work.

A flicker of smugness.

Then—vanished.

At the main hall, several ghosts stood or sat, utterly motionless. Eerily still.

Had he not seen them move before, he’d have mistaken them for statues.

These night owls—why weren’t they sleeping? Partying?

Wait. Shouldn’t they be “day owls” now?