Why is My System Glitching

Chapter 77 - Gazebo

The speed of the Umbral Spectre Footwork Art was blindingly fast—in an instant, Oen Shinae's nape of neck was within smash fist reach.

Miu Tyanh, devoid of mercy, was about to strike a killing blow on the woman, when his vision blurred. And in the next moment, he found himself standing in a dilapidated courtyard!

The courtyard should have been a place of serenity—lush with swaying bamboo, fragrant blossoms, and the gentle murmur of a forgotten stream. But now, it was a graveyard lack of greenery. The trees stood as broken sentinels, their splintered trunks jutting upward like the bones of long-dead giants. The grass, now a withered sea of yellow and black, crunched underfoot as if the earth itself had been drained of life.

Grey vines, thick as serpents, coiled across the shattered stone path, their gnarled fingers creeping over the remnants of a collapsed wall. The tiles beneath were cracked, their patterns fractured into jagged, unnatural shapes—as if something had clawed its way up from below. A sickly mist clung to the ground, swirling lazily around the ruins, carrying with it the scent of damp decay and something fouler—something metallic, like old blood.

At the courtyard's heart loomed a five-meter-tall rockery, its jagged stones jutting from the earth like the teeth of a buried titan. Once, it should've been a place of contemplation, where scholars might sit beneath the shade of flowering trees and compose poetry. Now, the rocks were slick with something dark—not moss, not rain, but a thick, clotting substance that seeped from the cracks like weeping wounds.

At its summit stood the lone gazebo, its once-vibrant red paint now peeled and blackened, as if scorched by unseen flames. The roof sagged under the weight of time, its upturned eaves now broken fingers clawing at the sky.

And there, beneath the rotting canopy, a figure sat.

Motionless. Head bowed.

Its shadow was wrong—too elongated, too still, as if it weren't truly sitting but waiting, its limbs folded in some strange imitation of human posture. The air around it warped faintly, as though reality itself recoiled from its presence.

Miu Tyanh's gaze snapped toward the courtyard gate—a weathered wooden door, half-ajar, its edges splintered as if something had forced its way through. Behind it, the air quivered with faint movement, a shifting of shadows that didn't match the wind.

The longer Miu Tyanh stood there, the heavier the world pressed in. The mist thickened with every breath, creeping like living tendrils, coiling around his limbs with damp, clinging fingers. It wasn't just fog—it was a suffocating shroud, leaching color from the world until only ashen grays and corpse-blacks remained. The air itself felt dead, stagnant, as if this place had been sealed away for centuries, forgotten even by decay.

Shapes warped in the haze. A gnarled tree in the distance? Or something far worse—something standing too still, its silhouette just slightly too wrong.

His vision blurred at the edges. The ground swayed beneath him, unstable, treacherous. Was it the earth that moved—or was it something beneath it, stirring awake?

But he was no ordinary man.

A Bloodline Lord did not panic.

Steeling himself, he moved toward the gate with deliberate silence, each step measured, his presence dissolving into the unnatural stillness. The broken grass crunched noiselessly underfoot, as though even sound feared to draw attention here.

Closer.

Closer.

His hand hovered just shy of the door—

—when the noise began.

A wet, rhythmic crunching.

Something was eating.

No—devouring.

Tearing flesh from bone in ragged gulps, gnashing teeth against something unidentifiable, accompanied by the thick, metallic reek of fresh blood. The scent was overwhelming, clogging his throat, making the air itself taste like rust.

And then—

He felt it.

A gaze.

Slithering over him, pressing against his skin like cold, greasy fingers. It wasn't just watching—it was sizing him.

From the other side of the door, something had stopped chewing.

And now, it was listening.

Waiting.

The crushing weight of the unseen gaze forced Miu Tyanh's hand back. His fingers curled into a fist, knuckles whitening—not from fear, at least Miu Tyanh wouldn't admit he's scared, probably only caused by the sheer, suffocating pressure pressing down on his spine like an invisible hand.

He turned sharply, abandoning the door, and strode toward the gazebo instead.

However, no matter how Miu Tyanh moved—forward, sideways, even circling wide around the crumbling rockery—the figure in the gazebo remained stubbornly, impossibly facing away.

Its hunched back was a constant. A law of this cursed place.

He tried shifting angles, darting between broken pillars and skeletal trees, yet every glimpse yielded the same sight: that same slumped silhouette, draped in palace attire, its neck bent at that same unnatural angle. The folds of its garments never shifted. Its shoulders never tensed. It did not breathe.

Even when he stepped sideways, deliberately trying to catch its profile—nothing. The moment his line of sight should have revealed even the barest edge of its face, the air itself seemed to warp, twisting perspective just enough to keep that featureless back eternally in view.

As if the figure had no front at all.

As if it were only a back.

A thing not meant to be seen from any other angle.

The air grew thicker, colder. His breath came in short, visible puffs, each exhale swallowed by the mist before it could fully leave his lips. His pulse hammered in his throat—not from exertion, but from the dawning, dreadful realization.

This wasn't natural.

He stopped, chest heaving, and stared at the unmoving figure.

Then—understanding crashed over him.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low, measured, but laced with the barest tremor of reverence.

"Might I ask... which of Sect Successor Lith's Phantom Maids graces this place?"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"It's Joanie."

——

Meanwhile, in the Skeletal Roost Mire, Oen Shinae stood braced, sweat streaking her pallid face, her eyes darting through the fog—every nerve taut, primed for Miu Tyanh's killing blow.

"Umbral Spectre Footwork Art!" In contrast to her vigilance, Sharky Ink and Fang Jit were relieved of all pressure and were filled with malice joy. Sharky Ink laughed skyward, fawning loudly, "How marvellous Bloodline Lord Miu is! His honor was indeed the legend number one disciples back in the Outer Sect! It is a holy blessing for Wraithbone to have Lord Miu preside over the Bloodline. Now with mastering the Umbral Spectre Footwork Art, if his honor will be able to master Five Spectres Heaven Hell Evasion Footwork in the future. Bloodline Lord would have a brighter future to his path to Great Dao. No matter how vast, how endless the world is, his honor can go anywhere he want!"

"Oen Shinae, you are so ungrateful that you even dare to refuse Bloodline Lord Miu's personal invitation. You are simply begging for death!"

Fang Jit chimed in, his smile a crooked slash, voice oozing fake concern and pity. "Senior Sister, wise birds perch high trees. Bloodline Lord Miu's generous with mercy intentions, his honor practically begging you to join him—why play the stubborn mule? Think about it, Senior Sister! You've got talent, that creepy Coffin of Netherbloom Virgin, a damn golden ticket to the Great Dao. Given time, your future will be limitless. Die here, and it's just a waste—such a crying shame."

Oen Shinae's glare cut through them, cold and scornful. She flicked her wrist—the chains in her grip clinked like a death knell. The black coffin shuddered, vomiting a thicker plume of corpse qi—a roiling, inky smog that swallowed the light, spreading fast, a shroud of rot choking the mire.

Sharky Ink and Fang Jit, emboldened by Miu Tyanh's presence, didn't flinch. They lunged as one—Sharky Ink barreling from the front, Fang Jit slinking behind, a two-pronged assault dripping with malice. Fang Jit was the nastier blade, his strikes zeroing on Lordi Payne, still shielded in bone chains. He hammered at the ivory color bone chain shield, each blow a taunt to rattle Oen Shinae's focus.

"You damned rats! How dare you betray the Bloodline Lord like this?!" Oen Shinae's voice erupted, a furious growl slicing through the smog. "When Bloodline Lord Wexford drags your filthy hides before Sect Successor some day, you think Wraithbone's scum will sheild you from her highness's mighty fury??!" Oen Shinae was not afraid of a one-on-two fight situation, however, now she had to protect Lordi Payne and watch for Miu Tyanh, so she was stretched a amount of flustered for a while, and finally roared angrily, "Traitors! Gutless cowards—clinging to life like greedy maggots! You'll die choking on your own filth!"

Fang Jit snorted, his scoff thick with disdain. "Come off it, Senior Sister—why're you stuck in this fucking rut? What right do you have to chain us to Deathveil's sinking corpse? You wanna drag us into its grave, fine—but don't expect us to play martyrs! Sect Successor Lith? Her highness wouldn't blink at this speck of a squabble. We're ants to her—you, me, all of us. Even Kinson Wexford, strutting around claiming Fairy Lith's his kin, got his ass kicked bloody by Bloodline Lord Miu back in the Outer Sect. Where was her 'mighty fury' then? Not a damn finger lifted!"

Sharky Ink piled on, his sneer a jagged edge. "Forgot something, Senior Sister? Our Holy Sect has more than one Sect Successors. Wexford's got Fairy Lith's gown to hide behind, sure—but Wraithbone's got Sect Successor Chou. And yes, Fairy Chou, her highness, was no lightweight either."

Their words flew as fists and chains collided—the trio locked in a brutal fight. Oen Shinae's body paling to a lifeless husk, sweat and corpse qi clinging to her like a shroud. Chains erupted from the mire in droves—jagged ivory tendrils lashing wildly, a storm of bone that overwhelmed the fog. She was a walking grave, her every move fueled by unyielding fury.

Sharky Ink and Fang Jit, outmatched in raw power, took bruising hits—ribs creaking, blood trickling. The clash rang with thuds and cracks, their breaths ragged. Sharky Ink's eyes darted—Miu Tyanh's absence gnawed at him. Sharky Ink then assumed that this Bloodline Lord was valuing Oen Shinae's strength and offering her one more chance. Thought this, panic edged Sharky Ink's voice as he bellowed, "Bloodline Lord Miu, your honor! Move your ass—snag this wench now! She's a freak, pigheaded as hell—loyal to a fault, the kind who'd rather rot than bend. That's why Wexford dumped Lordi Payne on her! I'm afraid that your honor's mercy intentions have been wasted for granted by this bitch!"

——-

Meanwhile, in the gazebo courtyard.

With that gentle word, the gray mist in front of Miu Tyanh thinned and faded away instantly.

One moment, he stood in the ruined courtyard.

The next—he was ascended to the rockery and seated in the gazebo, as though time had skipped.

Across from him, the translucent figure of a woman sat in perfect, porcelain stillness. Her face was a masterpiece of elegance—high cheekbones, lips like faded rose petals, eyes twin pools of hollow black that swallowed the light whole. A floral crown rested atop her elaborate bun, its blossoms unnervingly fresh in this place of decay.

On her round pale thighs, there lied a wierd flatten blanket. However, its smooth surface reflected light like leather. Its shape looks like a body shape cuishion crushed and flattened by heavy smash. However, with a close look, it actually was an entire human skin!

But below the knees—nothing.

Only a swirling mass of black mist, tendrils coiling like restless serpents.

At this moment, she was slowly putting down the embroidery in her hand.

In her pale, slender hands, she cradled an embroidery frame. The fabric stretched across it was too smooth, too wrong—its surface gleamed under the nonexistent light, not like cloth, but like skin. Flattened. Stretched. The shape unmistakably human, the edges still faintly retaining the contours of limbs now crushed into grotesque artistry.

And the embroidery itself—

A scene of ghouls feasting beneath a crescent moon, their needlework rendered in threads that writhed, each strand a soul pulled taut, their silent screams vibrating through the bone needle she held. The half-finished ghouls' mouths gaped in eternal hunger, their stitches weeping thin trails of black.

Joanie set the frame down with terrifying gentleness.

Her ink-black eyes locked onto Miu Tyanh.

A chill spidered down his spine.

"Please, help yourself."

With her light voice, a teacup materialized before Miu Tyanh. Its contents blacker and denser than the void under abyss. The liquid moved—not from steam, but from something swimming beneath the surface, its sinuous body disturbing the tea with slow, deliberate ripples. The tea radiated cool before he even touched it. Frost crackled along the rim of tea cup, creeping across the table like grasping veins.

Miu Tyanh's fingers twitched, but he dared not lift it.

Instead, he bowed his head, voice graveled with forced calm:

"Might this humble one ask... is this by the order of Fairy Lith, Her Highness? Or does Lady Joanie have... instructions for me?"

Damn it!

Why a Phantom Maid appear here?

Miu Tyanh was both frightened and confused. Last time he stormed Withered Orchid Villa, beaten Kinson Wexford violently and bloody in front of the disciples of Deathveil Bloodline and left. Not a single shadow had stirred to intervene, no mention any Phantom Maid took action.

Why does Lady Joanie come to me now?

It's impossible that her highness suddenly remembered to stand up for Kinson Wexford after so many days, send her with vengence for that worm. Could it be for the Ice Pith Fire?

No, this is unlikely.

Sect Successor Lith was such a noble and with her such high status in cultivation power, that the Ice Pith Fire was useless to her and her favored retinue.

Then what?

"Leave Lordi Payne alone." Just as Miu Tyanh's mind raced and he racked his brains to guess the reason, Joanie gave her short words, and she resumed embroidering again.

Miu Tyanh's thoughts froze.

Before he could react, the bone needle in her hand pierced the stretched human skin once more.

A fresh bead of blood welled up, thick and glistening, as if the flesh still remembered pain.

Then—

The screams began.

Not one voice, but many—layered, overlapping, a chorus of agony shifting between a sobbing girl, a shrieking infant, a hoarse old man's gasp, a young man's guttural howl. Each cry was raw, alive, as though the skin had trapped not just the victims' likenesses, but their very souls, still writhing in eternal torment.

Joanie paid no mind.

Her needle dipped, rose, dipped again—each stitch precise, each puncture drawing another muffled wail. The embroidery grew darker, the ghouls' feast beneath the moon now tinged in fresh crimson.

"Remember my word," she murmured, her tone devoid of inflection. "Then you may leave."

At her words, the courtyard gate groaned open on its own, revealing a path beyond.

Outside of the courtyard, a passage was seen. It indeed is the way out, cause the scene outside was not dilapidated in pale grey. However, it was wrong. it was not the way back to Skeleton Roost Mire either.