Tricked 133: National Salvation News

Pingping didn’t feel any prejudice toward Jin Yuebai. In fact, she found her intriguing, even admirable—managing to carve out some vibrance and freedom in such a tragic line of work.

But her bodily reactions just now contradicted her conscious thoughts.

Her limbs were stiff, her gaze evasive; when she sat on the bed, she only perched on one corner—not just out of awkwardness, but out of resistance.

It was the subconscious response brought on by her character setting. With Jin Yuebai’s talent for reading people, she would surely detect what such behavior meant.

—She was lying.

If Pingping substituted her own personality into the role, she would have chosen “Option 3.” Since she’d been seen through, she might as well be open about it, go nap, and later keep Jin Yuebai company—sit with her while she cooked, do her best to be the companion Jin Yuebai wanted.

But if Pingping substituted character-for-character, she would have chosen “Option 2.”

That meant getting to work immediately.

“Option 1” and “Option 3” didn’t fit a child’s mindset—“Option 1” was a retreat to advance, “Option 3” tried to turn the tables, both just a bit too sophisticated. Only “Option 2” carried that overcompensating, guilty-over-lies flavor.

Because she’d lied, she wanted to bury her guilt through busywork. As someone living off others, she’d naturally want to earn Jin Yuebai’s favor.

So “Option 2” was probably the correct choice.

But Pingping was nothing if not contrary. She was determined to see what kind of ghost she’d attract by answering wrong, so she didn’t hesitate, and firmly pressed “Option 3.”

Once confirmed, Pingping sat quietly on the bed, waiting for the system to take control.

Two minutes passed. She still retained full body control.

“…”

Pingping was a little stunned.

She ran back through her logic and actions. No deduction error. No misclick. But then why hadn’t a ghost come for her?

Pingping began to doubt her own existence. She looked around, her little face growing increasingly awkward. Soon three minutes had gone by, and there was still no effect. She flexed her arms and kicked her legs; her embarrassment only grew.

Did she actually pick right?

Was the correct answer really just to nap?

But this kind of reverse-logic correct answer…

Pingping pretended not to care, looking to the floor and plucking at an eyelash, turning it thoughtfully in her hand. But the longer she thought, the clearer the issue became.

Given what had happened to the others, even with the right answer, the system would take control and execute the “correct” option. Right or wrong, she should still be moved. So why wasn’t anything happening?

Was the energy field frozen? Had she been isolated?

Time passed rapidly. Stuck in an awkward spot, Pingping finally decided to act out the option herself. She hesitated, took off her shoes, and pretending to be puppet-controlled, lay back in bed and pulled up the covers.

The quilt felt heavy; Pingping shifted, uncomfortable.

Staring up with her back flat, she scanned the room.

The upper wall was a bit dirty, with a dark stain in one corner like a child squatting there; Pingping peered more closely and saw it was just a water mark.

She looked toward the window.

The curtains were drawn, thick enough to block all light, with only the faintest gleam at the very edges, barely illuminating the gloom.

Pingping looked around for a while, sensing something had changed.

She tried to reason out what was different, but suddenly a wave of immense drowsiness overtook her. She fought to keep her eyes open, struggling for a long time before realizing what was wrong.

It was getting darker.

Even though it was midday, outside the door was utter darkness. When Jin Yuebai left, she hadn’t shut the door; Pingping hadn’t, either—being new, she didn’t want to mark the space as her own. If Jin Yuebai wanted to check on her, she could do so freely.

Now Pingping regretted it.

It was too dark now. No more light seeped in from the curtain’s edges; the whole room was as though swallowed by some gigantic beast.

Pingping disliked the dark, so she shuffled along the wall searching for a switch.

She quickly found it and flicked the light on—a blinding, harsh glow filled the room. Pingping kept still, squeezed her eyes shut, and only after a moment did she open them.

With the bright bulb, even the scene outside was now visible.

Several meters away, there stood a woman in a white dress. Pingping couldn’t make out her face, only her long hair and shivering form.

She was trembling, body writhing, and a sparse puddle of liquid dribbled in front of her.

Though only in front.

As if she weren’t soaked, but salivating.

A wave of dread washed over Pingping. She tried immediately to get up, but in that moment she lost all bodily control. She watched her own hand reach for the switch.

“Click.”

The light snapped off. Total darkness.

Pingping lost sight of the white-robed woman.

Before she could exhale in relief, her hand pressed the switch again.

“Click!”

Pingping had no idea why her body was flicking the switch repeatedly. The glare was so harsh she wanted to shield her eyes, but being under control, she couldn’t raise her arm—just stared out toward the door.

And what she saw made her heart stop.

The woman seemed closer now.

Just before, she’d only been a writhing shape; now her face was faintly visible.

The light went off again.

Pingping watched herself flick the switch for a third time.

This time, the woman was closer still.

Now Pingping could see her chalk-white face, and her long, vertically slitted eyes—one on her forehead, one at her nose. She had neither eyebrows nor a nose, only those eyes and lips split clear to the ears, mouth gaping open, drooling constantly.

Pingping didn’t want to turn on the light again, but could neither stop nor even speak.

After several cycles, the woman was already sprawled at the doorway, clutching the frame with white-knuckled hands, half her body lost in shadow, only her head poking in—glimmering with malice, eyes fixed unblinking on Pingping.

“Click!”

Darkness again.

The woman nearly inside.

Pingping heard her own labored breathing—it was so dark. She could only hear herself. Then, not too far in front of her, came another breath—hot against her face.

Pingping sensed herself reaching for the switch again, helplessly afraid. She wanted to close her eyes, but they wouldn’t obey.

“Click.”

Light.

“Click.”

Dark.

“Click, click, click, click—”

The switch snapped madly back and forth. Pingping saw nothing now, knew the woman must be horribly close, but her eyes, dazzled by the flashes, could see nothing.

At last, she let go of the switch.

The room was bright as day. She saw herself lie back in bed, pull up the heavy quilt.

But the heaviness of the quilt whispered of misfortune.

All Pingping wanted was to jump out the window, but her hand, under system control, reached for the zipper—slowly unzipped.

From inside, a pair of narrow white hands reached out.

Moments later, the woman crawled out of the bedding, climbed onto Pingping’s body—

—and bit directly into her head.

…

After being eaten by the ghost once, Pingping’s stubbornness briefly disappeared.

Initially, she’d wanted to try all the wrong options, but now her heart was pounding; she’d had a taste of mortality and decided to choose life. She quickly picked “Option 2.”

The system took over. Pingping hopped out of bed, put on her shoes, obediently swept the floor, lugging a broom taller than herself into the other rooms.

Inside Jin Yuebai’s quarters she swept this spot and that, never stopping.

Jin Yuebai sat chin-in-hand, watching—her smile growing with every glance.

When she finished sweeping, Pingping, still system-controlled, fetched a rag and after much jumping and stretching, wiped down the bookshelf with difficulty. Jin Yuebai finally took the rag herself.

By then, Pingping was dripping in sweat. Jin Yuebai fetched some home-cooked mung bean soup from the kitchen and poured her a bowl.

“You don’t need to do chores for me.”

When Pingping finished her soup, Jin Yuebai ran her finger over the top of the cabinet—a thick layer of dust marked her touch. “You’re too little. The top’s nothing but wavy lines from your hand.”

If it were Pingping’s true self, she’d have retorted, shifting the blame. Something like, “Why didn’t you hand me a chair?”

But she didn’t want another quiz so soon, so she pressed her lips together, hid her hands behind her back, and ducked her head in embarrassment.

She asked, “Do you… not want me anymore?”

“No, I can see your sincerity,” Jin Yuebai said, ruffling her hair. “My place isn’t big, but I’ve got plenty of money. I could feed ten like you easily. It’s not that I can’t afford servants—I just don’t want them. So you needn’t do servant’s work. Clean your own room, that’s enough.”

“Oh, right—can you read?”

Pingping shook her head.

“There’s a school in the village, but because of my reputation, you’ll get bullied there. So I’ll hire a teacher to come here instead. Until then, I’ll teach you myself. Once you’ve learned some basics, I’ll bring the teacher.”

Pingping tilted her head up at Jin Yuebai, truly confused for the first time.

This era, this place—not to mention how hard Jin Yuebai worked for her money—yet she wanted to send Pingping to school, and just to spare her from bullying, would pay extra to hire a private tutor?

Pingping thought it over, then tried, “I heard from Lin Xiaotang that your last little sister became a concubine. Aren’t you afraid, if you spend so much on me, I’ll…”

Jin Yuebai burst out laughing.

She straightened, laughed for quite a while, then finally tapped Pingping’s forehead with her fingertip. “What are you even worried about at your age? Always overthinking things!”

“And besides, by the time you’re old enough to become a concubine, maybe there won’t be any more lords and concubine positions in this country at all.”

“In the future, it’ll be monogamy for everyone. No matter how high the official, or how rich, they’ll only be allowed one wife.”

“If things are still that way by then…” Jin Yuebai looked Pingping over, wiping away tears of laughter, shaking her head cheerfully, “If by then you marry someone great—a rich, powerful, or truly good man, no matter who, I’ll still praise you for your skill.”

“But I do have conditions.” Jin Yuebai’s tone suddenly turned serious.

Pingping grew serious too. “What conditions?”

Jin Yuebai said, “You’re starting late, so you must move quickly. One hundred characters a day. I’ll quiz you daily, and I can always tell if you’ve been slacking. If you’re lazy, I’ll hit you.”

“I’ll only hit you three times. After that, I won’t hit you and you don’t have to study anymore.”

Pingping stared at her for a long time.

She vaguely remembered her character information said she’d never attended school. She felt a bit unsure; for someone who couldn’t recognize a single character, learning a hundred a day sounded like building a tower overnight.

But soon, she had her answer.

She felt her usually tense shoulders begin to relax.

Jin Yuebai had cultivated a sense of safety—she, her character, was now trying to draw closer to Jin Yuebai.

So Pingping nodded hard. “Okay!”

*

That whole afternoon, Jin Yuebai taught Pingping to read.

Jin Yuebai had no textbooks; she simply plucked a wad of newspapers off her shelf. Pingping stood on tiptoe, reading the masthead:

National Salvation News

“This is from last week,” Jin Yuebai explained. “I’ve kept every issue since it started publication. I’ve also got Progress News, Survival News, World News—whenever they come, I buy them. Folks often ask to borrow, but I never let them leave the house. You can read them on the spot and return them to me.”

“But today, let’s start with Lingren Village Daily.”

Pingping realized this was a natural clue, so she read diligently.

“…Lingren Village sits at the border of two provinces. The powers from both have chosen a policy of peace, agreeing not to occupy this neutral ground. There’s even a written agreement: should their soldiers ever meet within, no blood may be shed.”

After reading this much, Pingping grew curious.

“If someone does shed blood—who’s in charge? The village chief or the two sides?”

Jin Yuebai answered, “Lingren Village has no chief. The five families—all the lords—govern jointly, voting on all big decisions.”

“So far, there hasn’t been an incident of bloodshed. Even if there’s a skirmish on the road, it only goes as far as fighting, never killing. So there are no precedents yet.”

“But…”

Jin Yuebai thought it over, then chuckled. “Our lords are all bluster, fearful of making enemies. If real bloodshed ever does happen, at most they’d report it to both sides. Then, before a larger conflict erupts, they’d flee by car. Us on foot wouldn’t get far. We’d just end up like the vagrants—dead by the roadside.”

“I hope there’s never any conflict,” Pingping said, folding her hands in prayer.

At that, Jin Yuebai fell silent.

Her gaze swept across a newspaper headline to the side; Pingping followed, though her character supposedly couldn’t read. Jin Yuebai didn’t explain, only sighed and put the paper away.

But Pingping still remembered those bold, dark headlines.

“Foreign troops have occupied Anping and other cities—their forces expanding rapidly.”

“Some villages in the Yanzhou region have already fallen.”

“Comrades Chen Enrong, Hu Hai, and Qiu Ning died heroically covering their comrades’ retreat, killing more than twenty enemies.”

“The people of all villages are urged to unite, to save the nation and themselves. Never lose heart.”