Actually, the moment Han Su laid eyes on the man, he recognized him.
This man was also a member of the victims’ families—he was the brother of the pony‑tailed girl who died on the second floor of the Ancient Castle.
Over the years, apart from that wealthy couple, he was the one who had sought Han Su out the most.
However, that only lasted for the first few years—Han Su hadn’t seen him since about six or seven years ago, as if he had suddenly vanished.
Han Su didn’t dare to relax, slowly raised his head to look at the man, and tightened his grip on his backpack: “Everything I know, I’ve already told you.”
“Believe it or not, I have nothing more to say to you.”
Song Chu‑shi noticed Han Su’s wariness and gave up on shaking hands.
He nodded and said, “I understand.”
“This time I came back to Qinggang City, it wasn’t to dredge up old matters with you, Mr. Han. I just wonder—would you be interested in finding a place to sit and talk?”
Han Su was slightly taken aback and looked up at him.
A few minutes later, Han Su and he sat down in a nearby wonton shop, two bowls of egg yolk wontons placed in front of them.
Song Chu‑shi took off his glasses, pulled over a napkin to wipe them, and spoke softly to Han Su: “That incident ten years ago—it didn’t go well for anyone.”
“Back then, many people thought you were lying, or perhaps had lost your memory, replaced by some unrealistic hallucinations. So they were always waiting for you to recall some valuable clues.”
“But I believe you, Mr. Han.”
“I saw what you looked like when you had just escaped—the fear on your face wasn’t fake. Many times afterward, I also reviewed the footage of your interrogation by the Public Security Bureau, researched your class’s entire schedule at the time, the moment you all went missing, and the time you escaped.”
“Although the dark castle you described was never found, from the timeline and surrounding evidence, the incident likely happened not far from the place you described.”
“And for so many years, so many forces investigated thoroughly, turning over that entire region, yet they found nothing—that in itself is unreasonable.”
Hearing his words, Han Su looked up in slight surprise.
Since childhood, after telling the Public Security Bureau about the dark castle, no one—not the media, not the experts, not the victims’ families—had ever believed him.
Except for Xu Ji, who believed everything he said, this man was the very first.
He fell silent briefly, put down his spoon, and asked softly, “So why have you come looking for me?”
“Before what happened to my sister, I didn’t really believe in the supernatural or so-called ghosts. I’m a doctoral graduate of Qinggang University and a researcher on the applications of remnants from the Radiation Era. I believe in science and logic—not vague illusions.”
Song Chu‑shi exhaled a slow breath, gently rubbed his brow, and said, “But over the past ten years, to uncover the truth behind my sister’s incident, I’ve investigated a lot—even some outrageous claims.”
He seemed to want to say more but stopped, simply saying to Han Su, “I’m starting to waver, Mr. Han.”
Han Su listened closely to his words, feeling slightly stirred.
This man’s identity was far from ordinary.
In this world, anything related to relics or records from the Radiation Era was the most dangerous and difficult—so much so that the Administrative Hall had legislated that unauthorized access was prohibited. The fact that this man could work in that field spoke volumes about his capability.
“I’ve come to realize that there are many things in this world that don’t conform to the logic of reality.”
Song Chu‑shi slowly began: “This time, I came to ask you—could you help me recall what happened back then?”
“And the monsters you saw inside the dark castle?”
When Song Chu‑shi made this request, his expression held a trace of guilt.
He seemed to realize that asking someone who had escaped a nightmare ten years ago to relive those painful memories again and again was impolite.
Faced with his plea, Han Su was a little surprised.
After a moment of contemplation, he slowly nodded and said, “Alright.”
In fact, if this had been ten years ago, right after escaping, Han Su would have been unable to describe anything clearly—he had been too panicked to observe any details in the Ancient Castle.
But now, after returning again and again, and escaping over and over, everything had been etched deep into his memory.
The other man, hearing this, was extremely pleased and quickly took out a notebook and a sharpened pencil.
“There’s no need for me to explain the beginning.”
“It was just our class going on a field trip to the science museum. We were still young and didn’t know the way, and somehow ended up in that place.”
“That place should be a castle—or perhaps a prison. Even calling it a tower would be fine, because it seemed to have many floors, connected by spiral staircases, and on each floor… there was a monster.”
As Han Su began to recount, his tone was almost flat: “The gatekeeper monster had porcelain-white skin and wore a black suit. He was very tall—about three meters—and very thin, with withered vines wrapped all around him.”
As Han Su spoke, Song Chu‑shi’s pencil scratched softly across the page—he was actually sketching the monsters.
He was quite skilled—his drawings looked somewhat like the actual creatures Han Su had seen.
Unfortunately, no matter how accurate the drawing, it couldn’t capture the oppressive terror of facing that creature as a ten-year-old child.
“At the time, we were all on the elementary school bus. We just felt a jolt, the sky seemed to go dark, and when we opened our eyes again, we were already in a courtyard filled with the stench of rot.”
Sitting across from Song Chu‑shi, Han Su continued slowly, “That porcelain-skinned man led us into the castle.”
“Many monsters were seated around a long table, as if attending a banquet. They spoke words we couldn’t understand—or perhaps it wasn’t speech at all, but rather the howls of monsters—their language.”
At this point, Song Chu‑shi’s brows subtly furrowed—his expression grew more serious.
Han Su went on, “They stared at us, like toys—or like food. Then they carefully selected the children they liked and brought them upstairs.”
“Some disobedient children started crying. One was smashed to death by a monster in a black apron—blood splashed all over our faces. After that, no one cried again. We didn’t understand why a child’s head could burst like a watermelon and he wouldn’t even cry.”
“They were very pleased with our silence. So they became even more meticulous in their choices—looking at our eyes, teeth, palm lines, eyebrows, and ears. Some of the monsters got so excited that drool dripped from their mouths.”
“There was one monster wrapped entirely in a black robe, like a noblewoman—she chose a girl with a ponytail…”
“There was a half-bodied female monster who laughed like a goat—she picked a boy wearing glasses…”
“And another one—he wore a trench coat, his body as huge as a statue of a giant. He carried off a girl who looked like a doll, wore a white dress, and had a birthday crown on her head…”
“Oh right, her name was Li Xiaoman. She was the daughter of the CEO of Magic Box Corporation. Over the past ten years, her parents have often come looking for me, asking about her whereabouts.”
Song Chu‑shi’s hand trembled slightly as he sketched.
After a long time, he looked down at the pictures he had drawn and whispered, “These… these are the ones the newspapers once reported—Withered Butler, Lady Meat Horns, Worm Monk, and the Pale Giant…”
Han Su let out a mocking laugh. “Yeah.”
Back then, after Han Su escaped, the Public Security Bureau interrogated him repeatedly, and some reporters even got hold of the interrogation records and published extensive reports.
Although no one believed Han Su’s account, the case had such a huge impact.
They still published detailed articles about his story, even giving the monsters he described specific codenames.
However, despite all the media coverage, the story faded quickly from memory.
Who would’ve thought Song Chu‑shi still remembered it all.
After a long silence, Song Chu‑shi finally looked up. “And then?”
Han Su looked at him calmly and said slowly, “Then—I escaped.”
“That girl with the ponytail—she was brave, maybe even reckless. She was young, but clearly trained, very agile. She leapt out, knocked over a candelabrum, and started a big fire. The terrified kids began to cry.”
At this part, Han Su paused for a moment and glanced at Song Chu‑shi’s expression.
There was no overt sadness on his face, but somehow, his features seemed to blur.
Han Su sighed lightly and said, “Because of that fire—or maybe just because the children were disobedient—the monsters became agitated. Amid the chaos, I ran out through a door that hadn’t been shut yet and dove into the nearby rose bushes.”
“I just remember crawling through countless thorns and vines, then running nonstop, not daring to look back—until a rescue team spotted me.”
“Afterward, I pointed out the direction of the Ancient Castle to others—but as you know, nothing was found.”
Han Su did his best to satisfy Song Chu‑shi, sharing every detail he could remember—including the mysterious symbols from his memories, which he drew out and firmly stated were clues.
Song Chu‑shi took meticulous notes, not missing a single detail.
But as their conversation neared its end, he suddenly stopped his sketching.
His eyes sharpened with sudden clarity and sharpness, a far cry from his usual weary look: “Mr. Han, it’s been ten years—and you still remember this many details?”
Meeting his scrutinizing gaze, Han Su suddenly grinned.
He spoke softly, “These past ten years, I’ve dreamed often—dreamed of that cursed place.”
“I relived that experience again and again—I couldn’t forget it even if I tried. Even in my dreams, I’ve tried over and over to save the other children…”