Mysterious Awakening

Miles found himself cloaked in an oppressive sense of suffocation, his struggle for breath reminiscent of a smothering hand. While his mind remained lucid, his body was locked in paralysis. Here, his dim quarters took on the chilling ambiance of a dark prison, with him as the trapped prisoner. It felt like he was sinking into an endless abyss, bound eternally.

Then, out of nowhere, the inky ceiling morphed into a massive, ghostly eye. Despite being closed, its ominous presence was palpable. It sprawled across the entire ceiling, and its eerie gaze seemingly fixed on him.

A sudden “thud” resonated out of the blue, and a frigid sensation nipped at his cheek as if rending his flesh open – a blood-red eye emerged from the torn skin, its reveal eerie and unsettling to Miles.

His mind was swamped with a surreal perspective over this. He could sense something squirming within him, its movements sporadic and unsettling to the point of tearing through flesh and skin.

But Miles was clear-minded. He wanted to move but was powerless against this unknown entity wreaking havoc within him. A scream was at the tip of his tongue, but his lips merely twitched, silencing his voice.

This agonizing ordeal was not short-lived – it persisted for two to three excruciating hours as he bore the torment in his wide-awake state. The duration seemed to stretch into eternity, but he wasn’t sure how he’d survived.

Finally, around six in the evening, the torment ceased abruptly, and sensation flooded back into his body. The moment he could move, he pushed himself up from the bed, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air.

Miles raised his trembling hand and whispered, “What happened? I felt like I was coming apart as if something wanted to burst out of me. Was it because of that giant eye?”

He pondered over his shaking hand in silence for a moment before he pulled out a piece of dark brown parchment from his pocket. He inquired, “Can you tell me what just happened?”

Soon, a message surfaced on the parchment: I woke in agony today and could sense the evil spirit inside me reviving. I overused the spirit’s power due to school affairs. My life won’t last much longer at this rate. But I must bear this torment from the thing inside me because… I want to survive.

Revival of the wicked spirit?

Apprently, he was walking the same path as Right, enduring the agony of the awakening evil spirit, only to be taken down by the ghost within him someday.

Was this the cost of survival?

“How long do I have left?” Miles asked.

The parchment revealed another line of text: If we don’t find a solution soon, I predict I won’t survive over three months with this torment.

Three months?

It’s faster than succumbing to cancer. If I have to bear this torture daily, death would indeed be a relief, just as Right suggested.

The gravity of the situation left Miles in a state of panic. He was still just a young student with parents who were depending on him for their future well-being. The thought of leaving them behind was unthinkable.

He couldn’t die, not yet.

He rose suddenly, his eyes bore into the parchment, “You’re enigmatic, and your words are difficult to trust. Do you expect me to simply believe I’ll die in three months? You once said I’d die at school, and that changed, didn’t it? You can’t predict the future, you can only estimate based on the present circumstances.”

“But I know one thing, you must be knowledgeable, exceedingly so.”

“What are you, really?”

The parchment offered no reply, remaining eerily silent as if opting for a deliberate mute response.

“No issue if you won’t answer, I’ll figure it out eventually,” said Miles.

His mind recalled the torturous incident with the evil spirit, triggering a memory. He reached for Right’s satellite-positioning phone that displayed a text message: a website address.

“The address Build gave me. Maybe I can find some valuable information on that site,” Miles turned on his computer immediately and entered the address.

The website was oddly barren, a blank space, as if nonexistent.

He recognized it as a safety precaution.

He picked up Right’s phone again and entered the specific code number inscribed on it into the website.

Instantly, the webpage refreshed, redirected, and a new page materialized.

Miles skimmed the page briefly. It was filled with urgent global events, calls for ghost tamers’ assistance, and bounties offered by various governments.

The rewards were staggering; most were billion-dollar rewards, with a few in the tens of millions.

He clicked on an entry: “A level C evil spirit has manifested in a certain state of the U.S., codenamed Ghost Church, a reward of 30 million dollars offered for resolution.”

An accompanying video was linked.

In the video, there stood a church, its walls coated with moss, peeling paint revealing its age. But at the entrance, a blurry figure was visible. It was difficult to discern the figure’s features, but it was unmistakably humanoid, radiating a creepy aura.

Suddenly, a fighter jet thundered above, and a missile plummeted down, striking the church accurately.

The resulting explosion engulfed the church in a fiery blaze, an unmistakable demonstration of military force by the U.S. army.

“Will that work?” Miles watched with anticipation.

But as the bright light slowly dissipated, his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

In the midst of the flames, the church stood defiantly unscathed. Incredibly, a missile with such destructive power failed to damage even a fragment of the church’s wall.

Then, in the video, the shadowy figure at the entrance began to move, gradually stepping out, advancing towards the camera.

Suddenly, the video distorted, and the image vanished.

The comments section underneath was rife with remarks:

“30 million dollars to deal with this? The U.S. president can shove it. Keep the money for your kids’ candy. They’re classifying this as C-level? Are they trying to use us as cannon fodder?”

“The footage may be somewhat muddied, but it suggests the presence of a ghost that can manipulate its surroundings. It’s likely on the verge of forming a ghost domain. It should be categorized as at least B-level or A-level if there’s any fairness left. The American public truly lives amidst peril and hardship. Novices might be easily deceived and meet their end if they’re not careful,” a user from Europe replied.

“Well, considering I’m on borrowed time, teaming up to collect some gold doesn’t sound bad. Looking for comrades, come join me, it’s going to be fun.”

“These bounties videos are not to be trusted, not even for a second.”

Miles perused the comments and began to ponder, “Ghosts have levels? I should look into that.”