Chapter 144: Can Writing Essays Really Kill People Nowadays?

Chapter 144: People Die From Writing Essays Now?

No kidding, it's literally a meme!

After getting the hang of this skill, Sheng Qingquan had an idea hit him when he got home: Could this skill also work on himself?

No time like the present.

He went ahead and used the skill on himself.

It actually worked?

He’d braced for failure, thinking if it didn’t work, he’d try a few more times before giving up. But to his surprise, it succeeded on the first try—without a hitch.

Maybe because he was using it on himself, this time, the familiar bubble didn’t pop up above his head.

Instead, it appeared right in front of him.

Inside the bubble was a looping image with words.

The GIF showed two very familiar people: a young woman cradling a baby, swaying back and forth, while a young man hovered nearby with a goofy smile, moving along with the baby, his hands hovering protectively nearby.

Sheng Qingquan went still.

"Mom and Dad…"

"Is this them putting baby me to sleep?"

The faces of the young couple were unmistakable, but the most unfamiliar figure was the baby. After all, babies that tiny all look the same. Sheng Qingquan dug out the family album and found a picture of himself as an infant. The chubby face in the photo was a dead ringer for the baby in the GIF.

And he hadn’t forgotten—he had just used the skill on himself. What he saw was undoubtedly a slice of his own past.

So there was no doubt about it: that baby was him.

Besides, the GIF had text. Who else could be called "my baby" by Mom and Dad but himself?

[Sleep, sleep, my precious!]

He had always been their pride and joy.

Sheng Qingquan stared, transfixed at the smiling faces of the young couple in the GIF, unable to look away for a long time.

It felt completely different from looking at photos—as if his parents were still alive.

Before he knew it, his eyes welled up.

Even after the GIF disappeared, Sheng Qingquan was still staring into space.

He didn’t use the skill on himself again, instead spending hours paging through the album in his hands.

By the next day, Sheng Qingquan seemed to have returned to normal, his gloom lifted and his missing them tucked away. Life went on like always.

Just another quiet day. That’s what he thought, until his phone suddenly rang.

It was Liaison.

Under normal circumstances, Liaison wouldn’t disturb him.

Working stiffs get working stiffs. Once you enter the workforce, who doesn’t know the value of downtime?

Who would want to receive a call from a colleague after work?

No matter how close the relationship, a call at such a time is annoying.

Knowing the other party must have something important, Sheng Qingquan didn’t dare delay and quickly answered.

"Recently, haven't there been too many accidental deaths? It's suspiciously high."

Sheng Qingquan understood what the Liaison meant.

He suspected these cases might be another precursor to an impending Doomsday crisis.

Thinking back, there had indeed been more funerals recently than usual. In the past, he might not encounter one all year, but just this past week, he'd already seen two funeral processions.

But...

"Golden Finger isn’t responding."

Because of this, though Sheng Qingquan had noticed the phenomenon, he didn’t think much of it and didn’t dwell on it further.

"No response is good news. Seems I overthought it." The Liaison let out a relieved sigh upon hearing this. Since no supernatural force was involved behind the scenes, whether these were actual accidents or foul play, they could safely leave it to the police to handle.

"If there’s nothing else, I’ll hang up first." The Liaison was about to end the call and return the time to Sheng Qingquan when he suddenly heard his voice.

"Wait."

Sheng Qingquan spoke with unexpected difficulty.

"Golden Finger just triggered a new novel."

A suffocating silence followed.

After a moment, the Liaison couldn’t hold back and cursed under his breath, "I jinxed it!"

"I shouldn’t have called—I jinxed us. Maybe then this wouldn’t have happened."

Though he said that, everyone knew deep down whether a Doomsday crisis arrived or not had nothing to do with his words. When it was time to come, it would appear regardless of whether he spoke or not. When it wasn’t, even if he talked till he was blue in the face, Tianlanxing would remain peaceful. After all, it was a Doomsday crisis, not his personal summon.

"Hold on, let me read the plot first." Sheng Qingquan had no time to listen to the Liaison’s regrets and quickly hung up, opening the novel.

"???"

His confusion was practically visible.

"When I see question marks, it’s not because I have a problem—it’s because I think the novel’s plot has a problem."

"Seriously? This time, the protagonist is another damn kid."

"Why always target kids? Can't trouble aim at adults instead?"

Parents couldn’t help but tense up. Those with kids nearby instinctively pulled them closer, fearing their own might be the ones affected this time.

Others also frowned deeply. They’d rather the misfortune fall on themselves than on a child.

As long as they weren’t brats, Tianlanxing people generally held a protective attitude toward minors. While no one could speak for all children, the kids in this building were all well-behaved—respectful and kind, always greeting people when they met. They’d even help elders with heavy bags.

No one wanted to imagine such good kids enduring something like that.

"Though not as bad as last time when they made a three-year-old the protagonist, a teen protagonist’s just as bad!"

Sheng Qingquan could almost imagine the psychological scars this child would carry.

"No wonder the police couldn’t find any issues before and dismissed them as accidents."

"Who would’ve thought that these seemingly accidental deaths were actually their own families doing them in!"

Murder?

"Impossible!" The staff member responsible for liaising with the police shot back.

"Those officers aren’t just collecting paychecks. Even if a small fraction are negligent or derelict in their duties, most of them earn their badges every day!"

Having been a police officer himself, he knew his colleagues well.

"These are capable people who will hunt down the killers and bring justice to the victims."

"When someone dies, the first suspects are usually their spouse, followed by parents, siblings, and other relatives."

"That’s basic cop 101. Even ordinary people who watch crime dramas know this rule. If it really was a family member, the police would’ve nailed them by now."

"Even if they couldn’t catch every single culprit, at least most suspects should’ve been apprehended. At the very least, there should be evidence or leads. Not like now, where they can’t even ID a suspect."

"And yet, out of so many cases, not one got flagged as foul play under police investigation."

"No matter how they died, the police ruled them all accidental."

"One or two cases might be bad calls, but what are the odds that so many cases were all screwed up on? Especially since these weren’t just from one jurisdiction—police all over Tianlanxing reviewed the evidence and reached the same conclusion for their respective cases."

"Surely not every single officer is incompetent?!"

If that were the case, Tianlanxing would’ve gone belly-up before Sheng Qingquan’s warning.

If anyone else had said this, the staff member would’ve exploded, ready to argue. But since it was Sheng Qingquan speaking, after the initial shock, it gave him pause: "Could there be some misunderstanding?"

"The term ‘family’ is still too broad. To be precise, most of the victims were done in by their own children."

This hit everyone even harder.

Especially since, based on Sheng Qingquan’s earlier mention of the protagonist’s age—middle schoolers—they were all minors assuming they were on grade level.

Minors offing their parents was even more horrifying than adults committing such crimes. The thought of innocent children being linked to cold-blooded murderers was chilling, far more terrifying than if adults had done it.

Everyone felt goosebumps crawling up their arms, a cold shiver running down their spines.

But if it was all done by children, how could there be so many cases in such a short time? Even in broken homes, there shouldn’t be this many kids who’d turn against their own flesh and blood.

"I don’t understand," everyone found themselves thinking. Surely not all children decided to go after their families at the same time.

"They’re called killers, but in truth, they’re victims too."

Finally, hearing this, everyone relaxed a little. It seemed things weren’t as bad as they’d feared. Maybe it really was a misunderstanding.

"These people were just being puppeteered. In fact, afterward, they didn’t even realize their family members’ deaths were connected to them."

"They suspected murder, or thought it might’ve been just freak accidents. They just never imagined they were involved."

"The victims bought it just like the kids who wrote it."

"The reason neither the kids who wrote it nor the police noticed anything wrong was that it wasn’t a case of the marked man dropping dead right after the writing."

"If it were like ordering food in a kitchen, where you order and they kill it fresh, the police would have uncovered the truth long ago."

"This death has a time delay."

"In other words, a child might write in a notebook at the age of four or five, 'Dad scolded me today, I’m unhappy. I hope Dad gets hit by a car and dies, so he never comes back. I don’t need Dad; Mom is enough for me.' Then, by the time the child is seventeen or eighteen, their father actually gets hit by a car on his way home from work and dies, never making it back."

"At that point, even if the child has an excellent memory, they wouldn’t connect their father’s death to the angry words they wrote as a child. Many children don’t even remember writing such things in the first place."

"If the child themselves doesn’t remember, how would the police even trace it? The notebook with those words? Probably lost ages ago. Even if the police knew about it beforehand and searched specifically, they’d probably hit a dead end."

"While most 'murders' don’t span such a long time, and not everyone vents their anger by cursing their parents—let alone putting those curses down on paper—"

"But here’s the kicker—Tianlanxing has exams!"

"During language exams, you have to write an essay."

"And when students are gunning for top marks and lack material to write about, many 'sacrifice' their parents or people they know to craft emotionally moving stories."

"Who hasn’t written about their parents, neighbors, or teachers in an exam essay?"

"To score points, everyone exaggerates."

"For example, when writing about maternal love, they might describe how their dad died early, so Mom raised them single-handedly, sacrificing everything, and how they must repay her love."

"When writing about teachers, they’d describe how the teacher, despite being ill, still came to class with an IV drip, only to die before seeing their success. They’d vow to forever cherish the memory of this dedicated educator..."

"Bottom line: they lay on the guilt trip thick."

"As for whether it’s true or not... if it works, who’s checking? Hardly anyone believes it anyway."

Everyone went quiet. Plenty had written stuff like that themselves—or at least read it.

Some couldn’t recall their own compositions, but as parents, they’d seen their kids’ essays while signing tests. They knew exactly what kids wrote.

"I’ve died at least three times in my child’s essays, each time in a different way. His grandparents never survived a single essay—they were always killed off somehow."

"Recently, his grandparents died in an accident while bringing him some locust flower cakes. He wrote about how he could never forget those cakes, though what he truly couldn’t forget was their love," a staffer deadpanned.

Another recalled how their relatives always got wrecked in their child’s essays.

"Either someone lost a limb, died on duty leaving them an orphan, or their parents divorced and abandoned them. Then they’d act up for attention—only to realize in the end that they should’ve studied hard instead."

"The essay would wrap up with a moral about how wrong their actions were and how their divorced parents still loved them deep down..."

"Who buys this stuff? The writers know it’s fake, the readers know it’s fake. But that doesn’t stop such essays from becoming A+ material for copycats."

"And then the imitation leads to disaster."

"Who knew essays could be deadly? These aren’t essays—they’re the King of Hell’s death ledger."

The child in the room looked utterly horrified, his face white as a sheet—looking deader than his characters.

He couldn’t remember everything he’d written before, but...

"This week’s journal assignment was about tomb-sweeping."

The child lowered his head, not daring to meet his parents’ eyes.

"I wrote about sweeping your graves. Said you’d been dead for three years, and while cleaning them, I couldn’t help but remember your kindness..."

The child couldn’t speak any further. He had genuinely run out of things to write about and had just slapped together an essay to hand in to the teacher.

Even this weekly journal wasn’t his own idea—he’d found a sample essay from *Exemplary Full-Score Compositions for the High School Entrance Exam* and copied the style to submit something similar.

Had he known this would happen, he would never have written it this way.

“Had I known, I would’ve copied something else—like that essay about a pet dying and grieving its loss terribly. I don’t even have a pet, so it wouldn’t matter.” The child couldn’t hold back anymore and broke down wailing.

“Mom, Dad, are you going to die because of me?!”

He’d been an orphan in his essays so many times, but only now, when he faced actually becoming one, did he realize how painful it was.

“Just hit me—this is all my fault!”

The child’s parents hadn’t expected things to turn out like this either. They were worried about their own safety but couldn’t stand seeing their child crying so miserably.

They felt he should be taught a lesson, yet at the same time, he wasn’t really to blame—it wasn’t his fault in the end.

The couple had no idea what to do. With their child so distraught, they couldn’t bring themselves to actually hit him.

They could only scoop him into a hug.

While comforting him in their arms, they shared a look over his head.

Should they get their affairs in order and plan for the worst-case scenario, just in case? If something really did happen to them, at least their child wouldn’t be clueless, with their property ending up in strangers’ hands and leaving him to suffer.

They’d also need to find a reliable guardian. Cash wouldn’t cut it—someone would have to take care of him until he turned 18.

Though things might not actually get that bad—now that the authorities knew, surely they could prevent it. But just in case… Parents who love their children plan for their future. This was no exception.

“But why are these essays becoming reality?”

That was what everyone else wanted to know too.

Hearing this, everyone leaned in.

“Hold up—the real protagonist isn’t the middle schooler upstairs—it’s actually you!”

Sheng Qingquan’s eyes widened as he finally pieced together what was going on.

So who was the real protagonist? What was this all about?

The crowd grew impatient, dying to shake Sheng Qingquan by the shoulders and force the answers out of him.

Sheng Qingquan didn’t keep them waiting long. His thoughts echoed again.

“The real protagonist is Tang Wenfeng.”

Tang Wenfeng, who lived on the second floor, stiffened. Wait, what does this have to do with me?

I’m in my forties—I stopped writing essays like that ages ago. And even if I did, it’d be harmless. My parents passed away over a decade ago.

My wife and I divorced, and we never had kids.

I’m a lone wolf—even if I wrote something like that, who would it hurt?

Not to mention making up deaths for other people just to score high marks. It’s been years since I took the high school or college entrance exams!

“I don’t even keep a diary!” Tang Wenfeng was completely lost, even feeling a little wronged. He’d somehow ended up taking the fall for nothing.

"Even if I have to be the protagonist of an apocalyptic story, it should at least make logical sense. I always thought I would be the main character in a story about the revival of spiritual energy."

"After all, I run a shop that sells items for the afterlife. It’s connected to spirits and ghosts, making me look like a good seedling for a cultivation story."

Tang Wenfeng had imagined several possible scenarios that could lead to the apocalypse on Sky Blue Planet. For instance, after the revival of spiritual energy, the ghost money he sold caused inflation in the underworld. The ghosts, holding large amounts of money they couldn’t spend, rebelled, leading to a night of a hundred ghosts rampaging and causing widespread carnage, thus bringing about the apocalypse.

Or perhaps, the paper-made handsome men and beautiful women he sold only satisfied ordinary small ghosts. The Ghost King found these fake people too lowbrow and unworthy of his noble status. So, the Ghost King came to him, demanding real people.

He firmly refused, showing great courage and integrity, and ultimately sacrificed himself. The Ghost King then sought others to provide him with beauties, causing chaos and suffering among humans. A war broke out between the human world and the Ghost King, resulting in mutual destruction and the apocalypse.

Another possibility was that the incense he sold was of such high quality that after the revival of spiritual energy, it not only fed the ghosts but also enhanced their cultivation.

Who wouldn’t want higher cultivation?

So, the ghosts fought over this exclusive incense, and in the chaos, he, being of lower cultivation, unfortunately died, his soul scattered.

Without his skills, no one could continuously supply them with such special incense. Thus, the remaining stock in his shop became rare and highly sought after, leading to more conflicts among the ghosts. As the battles escalated, they eventually brought about the end of the world...

In short, in Tang Wenfeng’s imagination, even if he were to be the protagonist of an apocalyptic story, it should be something like this. How could it possibly be related to writing essays?

"Tang Wenfeng runs a shop that sells incense, paper money, and paper offerings. He has a habit of keeping records."

So what?

Isn’t it normal for shopkeepers to keep records? Tang Wenfeng was puzzled.

"So is there something wrong with the shop?" Others followed the logic of the statement.

Everyone in the building knew each other well. They were aware that Tang Wenfeng’s business was thriving, with both a physical store and an online presence, achieving high sales, and recently becoming the top seller in his category.

"There’s nothing wrong with the shop or keeping records, but unfortunately, one day while Tang Wenfeng was recording accounts, he noticed some blank space on the page and casually wrote four words—'Hope for Wealth!'"

"And that day, Tang Wenfeng just happened to have switched to a new pen."