Prologue

“No investigation, no right to speak—you accuse us of being charlatans, promoting feudal superstitions, but which pair of cash-bought eyes has ever seen us spreading tales of the supernatural?”

Luo Yu glared fiercely at the computer screen, his fingers clattering out a string of characters. He exhaled, right-clicking to refresh the dialog box over and over, waiting for that guy to come back and argue.

The web page’s background was a pale blue sky dotted with a few white clouds, setting off the white-and-blue interface of the country’s largest online forum: Dushou Waterbar.

Luo Yu had been part of this forum for a long time. He’d found his way here because of a little “problem”—though now he realized it wasn’t a problem at all, just a normal physiological phenomenon. Still, many uninformed people found it utterly terrifying.

This “problem” was nearly a household term in China, shrouded in mystery: the “nightmare” known popularly as “sleep paralysis.”

The first time Luo Yu experienced sleep paralysis, he was around eleven or twelve. In his dream, he felt suffocated and vaguely saw a shadow beside him. He was startled, but as a firm materialist, his fear lasted only a moment before he relaxed, thinking, “It’s just a dream.” And as soon as he thought that, the sensation vanished in a strange way.

He didn’t wake up immediately. Instead, he curiously observed the shadow, pondering what it could be. He tried to get closer for a better look, but his body remained immobile. Before he could feel regret, the shadow seemed to sense his thoughts and gently moved closer, pressing up against his chest. In that moment, Luo Yu sensed something marvelous: the presence was docile and completely under his control. Excited, he accidentally woke up for real.

As these episodes occurred more frequently, Luo Yu gradually learned to interact intimately with these “things”: controlling them, making them appear or disappear at will. He even discovered that, within sleep paralysis, he could slowly move his fingers and toes, break free from immobility, stand up and wander about; he could even run, leap, fly, or walk on water in his dreams.

The sensations in these dreams were incredibly vivid: the breeze brushing his cheek, the softness beneath his feet as he stepped on water—all left him both exhilarated and nostalgic. From his first experience, Luo Yu fell in love with sleep paralysis, praying every night to be “pressed by the ghost.” The duration increased from several seconds to minutes, then dozens of minutes… eventually, he could remain in that state for nearly two hours.

He never told anyone this secret. After all, those around him considered it inauspicious; he feared being seen as someone haunted by spirits.

Until one day, he came across a post on lucid dreaming. Casually clicking it open, Luo Yu was so moved he nearly cried: at last, he had found his kind! He hurried to Waterbar, exchanging experiences with other dream enthusiasts, blending in happily, sometimes even offering guidance to newcomers, relishing the air of a master among peers.

Among these self-styled “dream controllers,” it was widely believed that sleep paralysis was a normal physiological occurrence: when humans sleep, the body enters a state called “sleep atonia,” where the body cannot move according to the mind’s commands. This is a form of self-protection, preventing dangerous actions during dreams.

Most people are not fully aware when dreaming, rarely realizing they are in a dream. But when the body remains paralyzed and the mind is highly awake, a disconnect arises: the mind wants to move, but the body cannot. This is the origin of sleep paralysis. In this state, people, though highly conscious, are still within a vivid dream and cannot distinguish reality from illusion, leading to tales of ghostly mischief.

Luo Yu considered himself more knowledgeable about sleep paralysis than the troublemakers who came to stir things up, so he never held back, always besting his opponents in arguments and earning a reputation as a formidable presence on the forum. This time was no exception. The poor fellow wandered for a while, found no evidence of superstition, and, after learning the truth, quietly disappeared.

Rubbing his stomach, Luo Yu glanced at the lower right corner of the monitor; it was already half past six. An eighteen-year-old going without lunch until this hour was pushing his limits. He got up to head home for food. Locking up the shop, he wondered if he was hitting early menopause—how else could he be so irritable in such a wonderful world, when he was usually the most easy-going, beloved man around?

Shuffling along in his slippers, he sauntered leisurely through the bustling antique street, greeting acquaintances on his way to the garage at the street’s edge.

Luo Yu’s ancestors had all been in the antiques business, a family with a long tradition and considerable influence—so much so that they were targeted during the Cultural Revolution, suffering great losses. The old Luo family residence, once considered a relic itself, had been reduced to ruins by the time Luo Yu’s grandfather recovered it. The blow was heavy, and after a cursory cleanup, he lost interest in restoration.

Not until the economic reforms and opening up did his grandfather rekindle his passion, acquiring a shop on Chuan Deng Temple Antique Street and reopening for business, reviving the family trade. Being an early mover and an old name, their shop, the Treasures Pavilion, became an institution on the street.

Luo Yu’s father, Luo Chu, did not follow the family business. The remaining valuables were sold off early on to help Luo Chu marry and study abroad. He majored in oil painting and is now a professor at Qingning Academy of Fine Arts. As for Luo Yu’s mother, he had only seen her in photographs. Back in the day, Luo Chu and his wife were classmates: Luo Chu, a handsome young man; Luo Yu’s mother, a campus beauty—people called them a match made in heaven.

After suffering such upheaval, Luo Yu’s grandfather desperately wanted a full house, so he poured his heart into their marriage, spending the family’s savings to secure a daughter-in-law. Yet within two years, Luo Yu’s mother had second thoughts.

At the time, Luo Chu had not yet gone abroad; after graduating, he became an art teacher at a city high school. Teachers’ salaries were low, the shop was struggling, and the economic reforms were still fresh. Many classmates headed south and returned wealthy, boasting that the streets were paved with gold for those willing to pick it up. Luo Chu, gentle and easygoing, lacked ambition and drive. Comparing the two, Luo Yu’s mother swiftly left him for brighter prospects down south.

This second blow led the old man to a new understanding: what’s meant to be will be, what isn’t, don’t force it. Three generations living together, after all, wasn’t a bad thing. Luo Chu was still young—he married at twenty, driven by his father’s eagerness for a grandson. Young hearts are fickle, and so it was. Now, at thirty-eight, Luo Chu had returned from abroad, won a silver medal at the National Youth Art Exhibition, and been recruited by the academy at a high salary. The work was easy and stress-free; his youthful looks made him seem barely thirty, a perennial favorite among students and an object of many a schoolgirl’s affection.

Because of this, Luo Yu’s grandfather no longer worried about his son’s remarriage—he already had a grandson, so he needn’t fret about his son’s future. As for his son’s happiness, that would follow its own course.

With the old man’s open mind, Luo Yu was equally carefree, never giving his father’s marital status a second thought. As for Luo Chu, his wife’s request for divorce had shocked him, but he had never truly felt heartbroken. This puzzled him. He liked Luo Yu’s mother, remembered her birthday, even gave her roses on Valentine’s Day—unheard of in those days. Yet, how had things come to this? When she left, he barely felt sorrow. He often wondered: someone as slow-witted as himself was no match for Luo Yu’s mother—a phoenix who needed blazing fire, while he was but a ladle of tepid water, only fit to boil a frog. A frog? The image of someone flashed through Luo Chu’s mind, sending a chill down his spine, and he quickly dismissed the thought.

As for Luo Yu, abandoned by his mother at birth, doted on by his grandfather and protected by his father, he grew up carefree until three. Then, determined to guide his son from an early age, his father left for England for four years. By the time he returned, Luo Yu was in primary school, already able to identify and date antiques, but barely recognized his own father. Seeing the handsome man looking at him with such sadness, on the verge of tears, Luo Yu, moved by compassion, tugged his sleeve and was swept into a tight embrace. Thus, father and son reconnected in a single hug, and all the affection of those missing years returned in an instant. After all, the image of his father had always lingered in his heart—prompted by photos, his grandfather, and neighbors, who would ask, “Do you miss your dad?” So, in his mind, he would revisit memories of the man who once circled around him.

Now, Luo Yu had graduated from secondary school and just received his acceptance letter from Qingning Academy of Fine Arts—soon to study right under his father’s nose. With nothing much to do during the holidays, he brought his laptop to his grandfather’s shop to keep him company.

Luo Yu had always excelled academically, but growing up immersed in the family’s artistic atmosphere, he naturally gravitated toward the arts. Still, unlike his steady father, he was unnerved by the thought of spending years on a single painting, so he chose the traditional Chinese painting department. He chose Qingning partly to be home, partly because, as his father said, art was about environment, guidance, and, above all, practice and reflection. “See more, think what’s good in others, compare where you fall short. Practice makes up ninety percent, talent five, and teaching another five. Learn the basics, exchange ideas with classmates, seek guidance from masters after graduation, and that’s all you need.”

Luo Yu had asked, “Then why did you go study in England?” His father replied, “Because oil painting is a Western art—you have to experience it in its homeland. When the time is right, I’ll go to Italy, too, to see more, think more, compare more. You have it easier: traditional painting is our own heritage; just study the classics, and you’ll have plenty to learn.”

After dinner, Luo Yu cleaned up, wiped the table and floor spotless, folded the dishcloth neatly, and put the fruit basket back in place. Looking around, satisfied he’d met his father’s standards, he declared it time for leisure.

The Luo family no longer lived in their ancestral courtyard, but in a house bought and renovated when the city moved to a new district—a blend of postmodern and Nordic avant-garde styles, with a garden full of lisianthus and poppies.

All three bedrooms were upstairs. At the top of the stairs, opposite, was Luo Yu’s room, complete with a glass balcony built over the garage and studio, half of which served as his living room and study.

His father’s room was above the guest room; the space above the living room was a communal lounge, open to the garden through floor-to-ceiling windows draped with layers of beige curtains. Three large cotton sofas surrounded the projector screen mounted on the wall; cushions were scattered across the carpet, and in the center, a white rattan tray a meter and a half wide overflowed with snacks. Beyond that, over the dining room and kitchen, were the grandfather’s bedroom and study.

The central lounge was Luo Yu’s sacred ground. When the projector was first installed, he spent days and nights playing Final Fantasy until his father nearly lost his temper.

Later, his father and grandfather also loved to gather there for movies. During those times, Luo Yu would nestle beside his father, lying on the carpet like a puppy, rubbing his face against his father’s calf, and everyone felt a deep sense of happiness.

Bounding upstairs, Luo Yu entered his living room. It was small, with a Nordic-style floating bookshelf packed with his treasures: DVDs, games, all sorts of comics and novels. Beside it stood a glass case displaying his figurines: Ryuk, Light Yagami, L, Vegeta, a golden Saint Cloth, Ziyin Zhenren, Sephiroth… and a supporting character from a hot-blooded anime named SHIKI. Though Luo Yu never quite understood the plot, SHIKI, with his black coat, twin crosses, and sword-swinging flair, was just too cool to resist.

Luo Yu turned on his computer, logged into Penguin, and was about to start a game when a message popped up.

[Wolf Clan☆Wolf Blade: Finally, you’re here. Wolf Fang’s been banned. Quick, help us update the hack!]

Luo Yu groaned.

[Feather in Flight: Dammit, I’ll do it this once, the last time. From now on, I’ll mend my ways—never again will I commit such heinous acts. Retribution, I tell you. I was just about to start gaming. T.T]

[Wolf Clan☆Wolf Blade: …Just update it first.]

[Feather in Flight: If it gets banned again, I’ll just play dead…]

[Wolf Clan☆Wolf Blade: …]

Wolf Fang was the name of a game hack—written by none other than Luo Yu.

As a gaming enthusiast, Luo Yu had started as an honest player. After some time, he joined a clan called “Wolf Clan.” Outgoing and skilled at PvP, he quickly became a core member.

Wolf Clan had a rival clan; they hunted each other relentlessly, and when they couldn’t win, the rivals resorted to hacking accounts. “Wolf Clan☆Feather in Flight” was a prime target: his gear kept vanishing, his accounts were deleted countless times, and the enmity grew deeper. The feud spilled from one game to another—wherever they went, the two clans remained sworn enemies.

Driven mad by repeated thefts, Luo Yu began studying hacking for revenge. With decent English and solid science grades, he frequented forums like China Hacker Alliance and S Moon Alliance, first downloading existing tools, then studying server vulnerabilities, and finally learning to code himself. What began as revenge became a passion, and soon he was more interested in code than in playing games—this was the first time he’d been so absorbed in anything, more so than even art or gaming.

Wolf Clan’s leader, Wolf Blade, watched with regret as a promising talent strayed down this path, trying daily to coax him back to the righteous road of gaming. But after years of study, Luo Yu grew indifferent to clan feuds and scoffed at the rivals’ amateurish hacking—no longer worthy adversaries. He realized gaming had become an exhausting cycle: instead of playing the game, the game played him. Enlightened, he decided to part ways, and to thank his leader and express his affection for the clan, he wrote a universal hack, “Wolf Fang,” custom-made for his clan as a farewell gift.

At the time, Wolf Blade let him go, and the clan held a farewell party on the forum and in YY voice chat. But as games continued to update, technology evolved, and soon enough, Wolf Blade was back, asking for another update—once, twice, five, ten times…

Luo Yu yanked at his hair in despair—why had he been so foolish? He swore this would be the last time!

That night, the computer screen glowed long into the night.

Best Friends’ Immortal Journey 1_Best Friends’ Immortal Journey Full Free Reading_1 Prologue updated!