Yet the last person…
She pushed herself upright on trembling hands. A dainty person, with an air of elegance. Every move she made seemed rather graceful, but sorrowful. Similar to a ballerina in the midst of a tragic play.
She was dressed in white and red, fabric torn and scorched, the hem dark with dried blood. Her hair had come loose from its bindings, black strands clinging to her cheeks. She looked like she'd been dragged through a shrine and then set on fire afterward.
A bell was clenched in her fist. A cute bell. A pretty bell.
It was probably magical, with ghost repelling powers?
He wanted to destroy it though.
Ah'Ming's brain, still trying desperately to cope, supplied: Oh. Shrine maiden aesthetics. That's probably important. Very nice though. If only he was a maiden too, then he could get cool items. It was actually rather annoying.
Everyone else had cool aesthetics, with crazy doctor, gruff but affectionate assassin, mage shrine maiden. Where were his cool decorations? Unfair. Refund wanted.
Refund regrettably denied, however.
The paper people had gone utterly still.
Their crimson-stained bodies trembled, heads tilting in unison toward the newcomers. The one that had been pointing at Bianheng slowly lowered its arm.
The resentment in the air sharpened.
"Oh no," Huipao whispered. "They're still mad."
Very mad. Understandably, considering the entire egg tart shop was now in ruins, floors cracked and walls shattered.
Even if Ah'Ming wasn't a monster, he was still upset over the ruin of the very nice looking shop. Oh no, would they have to pay reparation money as a bystander fee? Did that exist?
As if to agree, the paper menus began to crinkle. Smiles stretched wider, edges fraying. Chairs scraped softly as the paper people leaned forward, attention torn between fresh meat and unfinished orders.
The shrine-maiden girl sucked in a breath that rattled in her chest.
"Don't…" she rasped, voice shredded raw. Like, uncooked steak raw. "Don't move."
She forced herself to stand.
Her knees buckled. She nearly fell, yet with a light ting-a-ling in the air, the bell rang.
Ling.
The sound was soft. Almost disappointingly so.
But it spread.
The note unfurled through the café like ripples across still water, clear and cold, cutting cleanly through the thick metallic stench in the air. Ah'Ming felt it pass through his skull, down his spine, settling somewhere behind his heart. Very nice. Would recommend, maybe a four and a half star on Yelp?
Very nice for therapy. Lord knows he needed it. Rest in peace Jane (his other therapist) wherever she was. Well, if she was dead. But she probably wasn't? If Ah'Ming was the one in a different world, did that mean he was the dead one?
The paper people froze mid-motion.
Menus stopped crinkling. Smiles slackened. Crimson stains lightened, bleeding back into pale parchment. One by one, they straightened, movements smoothing out, hostility draining as if someone had turned a valve. All the tension flowed out of them, and they seemed to become a hundred times lighter. Which was very light, because they were made of paper.
Did that mean that they'd be beat by scissors? Very interesting.
Chairs scraped again, a screeching noise across the floor, like chalk on a blackboard, but this time it was as the paper people sat back down.
Peacefully.
Very peaceful.
Unlike Ah'Ming's inner turmoil and disappointment over not seeing any cool action.
The paper person nearest Bianheng carefully folded its menu and placed it on the table. Its smile returned to something small and polite.
The café… reset.
Silence crashed down. You could hear a pin drop. Except, you probably couldn't hear, since there were about eight humans breathing and another twenty-plus paper people all rustling.
Still, the phrase almost fit because it represented tension.
Very useful in setting the mood.
Huipao let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Oh. Oh thank Haite. Bells. Bells are good."
Who's Haite? Maybe like a deity or something. Ocean themed?
Bianheng slowly lowered his daggers but didn't relax. "That won't last," he said flatly.
The shrine maiden swayed.
Zhaoying was already there, catching her before she could collapse. "Hey. Easy. I've got you."
It was kind of scary, seeing Zhaoying like that. With an almost smile? Stuff like that was gonna—
Up close, the injuries were worse. Burns along the ribs. A deep gash at the thigh, wrapped poorly with cloth already soaked through. Her pulse fluttered weakly under Zhaoying's fingers.
"What's your name?" Zhaoying asked, voice steady.
"…Shen Yulan," she whispered. Her grip tightened reflexively around the bell. "Don't… don't let them ring it again. I don't have much strength left."
Ah'Ming blinked. "Ring what again?"
"The instance," Yulan murmured, eyes sliding toward the walls. "It gets angry when you ignore the script."
That was… concerning. But also kind of obvious.
Did she perhaps have an ability where it was a temporary gain, but would make the rest of the instance harder?
The tall man dragged himself closer, teeth clenched against pain. "We came from the banquet hall," he said hoarsely. "I'm Gu Wenhao. That thing…" He swallowed. "Well. We tried the painting route. It… didn't go well. We're down two, the guides were wrong! There were nearly double the monsters!"
Huipao made a small, distressed noise.
The woman with claw marks laughed weakly. "At least paper monsters are honest," she said. "I'm Lin Qiao."
A soft tap echoed.
Once.
Ah'Ming stiffened.
The paper person at their table had lifted its menu again.
Tap.
It smiled politely.
Outside, somewhere deeper in the resort, something rang back.
The bell in Yulan's hand trembled.
"…We don't have long," she said.