There's definitely something wrong with this murder mystery game

Xu Shuo listened quietly to the noises and also felt the gradually encroaching cold malice on his body.

He began to understand why the other players had been speaking in riddles earlier—it was like Bi Gan's heart, where you wouldn't die unless you had a clear awareness of "death".

But if your awareness was shattered, what awaited you would be true death.

However, before plunging completely into the Abyss, there was still a chance to struggle.

Xu Shuo picked up the cane that was resting on his knee, intending to tap it on the floor, but suddenly, the outstretched cane touched something.

He stopped in his tracks, and turned his head slightly.

Seemingly aware that Xu Shuo had discovered it, a soft giggle followed from the side.

The dancer hugged his arm holding the cane and leaned in to say, "Where did you want to go, little sister? You can't see, and it's difficult for you to find clues, but I can be your eyes~"

After a pause, Xu Shuo said, "Actually, I was just making a random guess earlier, I didn't expect everyone to start arguing because of it."

"That means they have a guilty conscience."

"What about you, big sister?" Xu Shuo went on, "Aren't you going to look for clues? With so many things happening in the villa, you must be involved too."

"No worries, once they have found the relevant clues, my affairs will probably also become clear. Why bother exerting myself?"

Xu Shuo turned his head towards the direction from which the voice came.

In the darkness, he couldn't see anything, only feeling the sensation from his arm that was being hugged and the faint scent that wafted over when the person got extremely close.

Xu Shuo extended his unrestrained left hand and gently lifted it, like he was groping to touch the face of the person in front of him.

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Then he pinched with his fingers, and the dancer let out a puzzled sound. Explore new worlds at empire

"Big sister, I'm pleased you're so considerate," Xu Shuo said in a low voice, "but I can't see anything and don't know where to find the clues. Why don't you just lead me around, and tell me whatever you see?"

"Sure, I'll help you," the dancer said cheerfully as she stood up.

...

...

The piano room on the second floor.

The pianist had taken apart the piano and seemed to be looking for something.

Although there were many guest rooms on the second floor of the villa, just as the kitchen belonged to the chef, the piano room could be considered under his charge. Starting his search here was reasonable.

However, there was nothing unusual about the piano—so why had the dancer approached him at that time? Was it really just to casually observe him playing piano?

The pianist sat on a stool and began to look through the signed score.

Suddenly, he sensed something and turned to look at the doorway.

The female writer walked in, wearing a white chiffon shirt with a shiny red brooch at her chest.

"What's up?" he raised an eyebrow.

"We should collaborate," said the female writer, as she placed her notebook on the piano keys and leaned on the piano, "I have your records here, and I'm certain you're not the 'extra' murderer. Besides, our relationship is under suspicion, so we might as well work together."

"If we're seen together, wouldn't that make us even more suspicious?" the pianist remarked.

"Doesn't matter."

The female writer hugged her arms, as if a bit cold, and surveyed the piano room, with its dark red hues, feeling as if the air here was even more chilling.

Curious, the pianist picked up her notebook and said, "What if I really was involved in the murder? Like, maybe I killed the lawyer out of jealousy and then took possession of you or something."

At these words, the female writer gave him a strange look, implying that she was creeped out by the suggestion.

"I can really trust that I love my own husband," she said.

As for your thoughts, they are up to you.

The piano player neither agreed nor disagreed, opening his notebook to check.

It must be said that the female writer's certainty was not without reason; the notebook mostly contained her own musings and sources of inspiration for writing.

But if someone else appeared in its pages, it certainly was just the two of them, her and the lawyer, and each time the words written were filled with the literary elegance of a sickening sweetness.

It wasn't until the blind girl arrived that another person began to appear in the notebook.

From the text, it was apparent that the female writer liked the girl who joined their family, and she also drew inspiration from her.

Later still came the appearance of the piano player.

The female writer's affection for him was roughly the same as that for the blind girl, with endless praises of his music stirring boundless imagination.

As for the last entry in the notebook, it was of the female writer and the lawyer's candlelit dinner.

"Did you read the love I have for you?" the female writer asked in a deep voice after he finished flipping through.

"I did read..." the piano player reflected, "Your later entries about your husband became less and less. After the blind girl appeared, your attention shifted to others."

"Maybe," the female writer frowned.

She had also reviewed a few unpublished novel manuscripts before, a love story between a painter from the border city and a wandering white-collar woman, one pursuing romance and spirituality, the other materialism and reality, each redeeming the other.

If writers like to project themselves into their stories, then that tale was the true portrayal of the female writer.

Her insane yearning for inspiration in writing was such that, upon discovering that music could elevate her thoughts, she threw herself into it wholeheartedly.

The piano player said, "So, if your husband suspects you of cheating on him with me because of your neglect, then the chance that both of us would die at his hand is the highest."

The female writer responded, "And then?"

"But if you felt you hadn't cheated at all and thought your husband was making unfounded accusations, then the two of you would..."

"Have an argument?" the female writer narrowed her eyes.

"Right," the piano player continued, "Do you remember what I told you before? There were bloodstains on the banister, likely from someone upstairs falling and hitting it."

"But that vase..."

"The vase's stand is actually some distance from the spiral staircase. If during your argument, you were accidentally pushed down the stairs by your angry husband, and at that time the male servant was cleaning the vase—

[The servant wiped the vases in the villa.]

"He could have rushed over and struck your husband with a hammer."

"..."

The piano room fell silent for a while.

The female writer twitched the corner of her mouth, pressing hard on her notebook with her finger, "There's absolutely no mention of the male servant in my diary!"

The piano player soothed her, "Don't be anxious, this is just my hypothesis."

"But don't you think your hypothesis has become even more complex?" The female writer asked with a scowl, issuing a soul-searching question, "Why would the male servant do such a thing? Attacking his own employer is hardly likely because he was also having an affair with me, right? Do I have to cheat no matter what?"

Stroking his chin, the piano player mused, "Who knows? Anyway, that vase definitely has something to do with the male servant."

"What about you?" the female writer pressed.

"Me?"

The piano player paused for a moment, since the female writer had already shared clues with him, he didn't mind revealing a little something of his own, so he reached into his trousers and took something out.