Chapter Twelve: The Ghost Bus

As the young apparition retreated, wary of the short sword in Mu Rongxun’s hand, he suddenly saw a layer of dark red slowly descending over the windows of the ghost bus, gradually covering the entire vehicle. Mu Rongxun’s brow furrowed; he sensed an inexplicable threat, though he could not pinpoint its source.

With no time to hesitate, he rolled up his sleeve, revealing blood-red markings on his left forearm, and a silver glove appeared in his hand. After quickly putting on the glove, Mu Rongxun activated the power of the Ghoul.

A low, mournful wail echoed through the bus. The remaining apparitions, as if driven by some mysterious force, rushed toward Mu Rongxun with reckless abandon. Strangely, they seemed oblivious to Xu Ying and Zhang Jiao, entirely ignoring their presence.

Within the bus, the once bright lights began to flicker and dim. As darkness settled, the apparitions’ power surged, as if some force that had been suppressing them lost its effect. In the shadowed bus, only the gleam of Mu Rongxun’s short sword and the faint luminescence on his arm remained.

The apparitions rushed at him like moths drawn to a flame. Yet they were far too weak for Mu Rongxun; in a few swift moves, he dispatched them all.

Soon, only the young apparition remained. He was the sole one to reach the first rank, identified in the records as the Painted Skin Ghost, whose primary ability was to steal others’ faces and impersonate them. Even those most familiar with his victims could not distinguish the impostor from the genuine article.

Although his abilities were eerie, his combat strength was lacking—hence his fear of Mu Rongxun. But Mu Rongxun had no time to concern himself with him now; the bus had changed drastically. Its exterior looked corroded, as though abandoned for decades.

The Painted Skin Ghost cried out in terror. “It’s awake! It’s awake!”

“Who is it?” Mu Rongxun’s gaze was cold as he leveled his sword at the apparition. “Speak clearly.”

“It—it is the master of this place, the Ghost Bus itself. Once it awakens, it drags everything into its domain. Those who disobey are devoured!” The Painted Skin Ghost’s expression was one of utter dread.

Mu Rongxun said nothing, now acutely aware of the peril. The bus was changing not only outwardly, but inwardly as well. First, the seats became tattered, then a liquid began to seep through the interior.

“Blood?” Mu Rongxun frowned as he leapt onto a nearby seat. The Painted Skin Ghost followed suit.

“Explain yourself. You’re an apparition too—why are you so afraid of the Ghost Bus?” Mu Rongxun fixed the ghost with a penetrating stare.

“You don’t know?” The Painted Skin Ghost looked at him in disbelief.

“Should I?” Mu Rongxun’s sword pressed closer.

“No, no!” The Painted Skin Ghost waved his hands frantically. “You don’t need to know, you don’t need to know!”

Temporarily withdrawing the boost from the Ghoul’s power, Mu Rongxun gripped the seat’s backrest. “Tell me everything you know.”

“I don’t know the specifics,” the Painted Skin Ghost said, prefacing his account with a disclaimer before beginning his tale.

At last, Mu Rongxun learned the origin of the Ghost Bus. Over a decade ago, a bus vanished mysteriously while full of passengers. Despite lengthy searches, nothing was ever found; both the people and the vehicle disappeared without a trace. Years later, however, the city of Tianhai saw the sudden appearance of a bus known as Route 1402—the last bus of the night—which traveled between the worlds of the living and the dead, carrying both humans and ghosts.

While this bus operated, its stops were no longer the original route. If passengers failed to alight in time, it would carry them back to its own realm. No one, human or apparition, knew where its terminus lay or what awaited there.

Most stops along its route were in the underworld, with only a few in the land of the living. If someone boarded by mistake, they needed luck to encounter a stop in the living world; otherwise, even after disembarking, they would likely fall victim to an apparition’s deadly touch.

For instance, the old woman who had warned Mu Rongxun earlier—the stop where she got off was also in the underworld, but it was closest to a station in the living world. Disembarking there offered a high chance of escape, though at the time Mu Rongxun hadn’t paid it any mind.

As the Painted Skin Ghost spoke, the blood pooled ever more violently inside the bus. Mu Rongxun took a talisman and tossed it into the blood. The liquid churned, emitting hissing sounds, and the talisman vanished without a trace, leaving the blood unchanged.

Seeing this, Mu Rongxun’s expression darkened. These talismans were trophies from Li Jing—effective against apparitions, but now, confronted with the blood, they simply disappeared without a ripple. This spoke volumes about the Ghost Bus’s true power.

“Do you know where its terminus is?” Mu Rongxun asked, glancing at the Painted Skin Ghost, who was watching the chaos.

“I don’t!” The Painted Skin Ghost’s voice rose, fearful of a sudden attack.

Mu Rongxun ignored him, bent down, and plunged his sword into the blood. Instantly, the blood recoiled as if faced with its nemesis, spreading away and leaving a gap around the blade. Wherever the sword passed, the blood retreated, needing no urging.

“Interesting,” Mu Rongxun muttered coldly, raising the sword and stabbing downward with force. This time, however, before the blade could touch the bus’s body, a membrane-like layer of blood blocked the tip, preventing any penetration. The blood seemed to evaporate with each attempt, but was replenished from elsewhere.

“How do we get out of here?” Mu Rongxun demanded, ignoring the emerging cues as he fixed his gaze on the Painted Skin Ghost.

“I—I don’t know! Please don’t kill me!” The ghost’s voice trembled with tears.

Mu Rongxun was genuinely amazed—a ghost, so afraid of death.

He paid him no heed, leapt from the seat, and charged toward the driver’s position with sword in hand. As he landed, the blood surged, attempting to envelop him. But golden light radiated from all over Mu Rongxun’s body, keeping the blood at bay.

The Painted Skin Ghost, watching from the side, felt a wave of relief. If he had touched the blood earlier, even accidentally, he would have been doomed.