I had expected him to ask the value of that screen, but unexpectedly, his words carried a rare trace of deduction. He said, "I suspect the owner of this building must be a woman. Perhaps the wife of that Monk Lei Yun."

I gave him a noncommittal glance, then looked again at the lacquered pillars and carved beams surrounding us. Indeed, most of the motifs were birds and flowers, truly resembling a place where a woman resided.

Without exchanging further words, we moved past the screen and deeper inside. Guided by the beam of the flashlight, we saw a set of wooden steps leading up to a tatami floor about half a person's height.

On the floor lay a sliding door, one of those characteristic Japanese paper screens.

The door was firmly shut and utterly spotless, as if its occupant still used it regularly, hence the absence of dust.

The floorboards and the stairs, too, were free of dust, meticulously swept clean.

Someone definitely lived here, and someone kept it regularly cleaned; they were clearly very fastidious.

But who exactly resided in this place? How were they surviving in these desolate mountains?

With these questions swirling, we pushed open the sliding door and entered a spacious hall.

The first thing that greeted our eyes was a neatly arranged bedding set on the floor: white futon, white quilt, and white pillows, folded with precise neatness. Beside the bedding stood a large flower vase, nearly as tall as a person, holding early plum blossoms just beginning to bloom this season, emitting a subtle, delicate fragrance.

On the walls lining the hall, one on each side, hung ink wash paintings. The left depicted a cluster of blooming roses, while the right wall featured a pair of playing cuckoo birds.

Although the furnishings in the room were sparse, they nevertheless conveyed a feeling of freshness and tranquility.

We walked over to examine the bedding and discovered a pair of geta sandals placed near it. Picking them up, we noticed soil clinging to the soles—it seemed someone had worn them recently.

Aside from these, the hall was bare, forcing us to proceed further in.

Japanese loft architecture is structured this way, with numerous rooms on one floor, each separated by sliding doors. So, after passing through this room, we found another sliding door on the opposite side leading onward.

Pulling that door open, we found ourselves in a corridor.

At the far end of the corridor was another hall identical to the one we had just left, and on our left and right sides were two smaller rooms.

Calculating the area, I realized this entire floor comprised six symmetrically arranged rooms, with the corridor running through the middle. The stairs leading to the floor above must be located on either side of this corridor.

We inspected the six rooms on the first floor one by one, discovering that aside from the initial room we entered, the others were almost entirely empty. Only one room held a pile of miscellaneous items, mostly shredded paper and some rotting tables and chairs.

It appeared this loft had undergone a relocation at some point, with many paintings and pieces of furniture having been moved out.

Having checked all six rooms without finding anything unusual, we arrived at the far end of the corridor and, just as expected, found the staircase leading to the second floor.

Carefully climbing the stairs, the first to ascend, Da Xiong suddenly cried out and stumbled backward.

We quickly asked what was wrong, and he exclaimed with shock and alarm, "It's that strange woman with eight eyes!"

Hearing this, a cold sweat immediately broke out on my forehead. I thought, could that creature still be alive and waiting here to ambush us?

Yet, we stood on the stairs, waiting for a long time, but there was no reaction from above. Logically, the creature should have immediately pounced upon Da Xiong upon seeing him.

After another moment, I slowly said, "You two wait here for me; I'll check it out first."

They both nodded, looking at me with anticipation.

I swallowed hard, gripping my dagger tightly. Switching on my flashlight, I bolted up to the second floor in one quick movement.

My flashlight immediately illuminated a deathly pale face—that mass of flesh, eight eyes, and the tattered kimono I knew so well, plus her strange duck-toed stance and hands covered in black hair.

The only difference was that this figure appeared listless, almost two-dimensional.

Shining the light closer, I realized it was merely a painting. Beneath the strange woman's lower left, a line of small script read: Kyokotsu-no-Jokan, Ubume.

"So this yōkai is called Ubume?" I murmured to myself. "And she seems to hold some sort of official title."

Thinking this over, I glanced sideways and spotted a portrait of a beautiful woman holding a human skull.

The woman in this portrait was exquisitely beautiful, but her eyes were deeply shadowed, and blue veins showed faintly beneath her skin, lending her an aura of sinister allure.

The inscription below read: "Divine Priestess of Male Conquest, En'enma."

I might not have known Ubume, but I was quite familiar with En'enma, as this yōkai was more renowned.

It was said this creature possessed breathtaking beauty and often wandered the streets late at night, seducing men into bed. Once embraced, she would use her tongue to drain the vital essence from the body, leaving the man a desiccated corpse.

During a period in Japan's Edo period, the continuous appearance of male mummies on the streets caused a sensation; it was all attributed to En'enma.

China also has creatures like En'enma; Nie Xiaoqian, for instance, was one such entity, though Chinese ghosts and monsters were sometimes depicted as possessing genuine emotion.

Looking further along, I saw more illustrations of yōkai, each bearing a title—always an official rank like 'Minister' or 'General,' always formalized with a title.

It finally dawned on me: the second floor of this loft was, in fact, a gallery cataloging various yōkai.

The gallery was arranged in a U-shape; the inner wall facing me must conceal another room.

Seeing no immediate danger around, I called Da Xiong and Nie Chuan up.

As Da Xiong saw Ubume again, he nearly retreated down the stairs, but I quickly assured them it was just a painting.

Da Xiong stared at it for a long time before accepting my words, and then muttered, "Who painted this? It’s so lifelike, damn it, absolutely spot-on."

In truth, I harbored the same question: who painted these works, and why did they confer official titles upon these yōkai? Was this person simply bored out of their mind?

With these doubts, we examined the paintings one by one, searching for the entrance to the central room.

Although we understood the layout of the second floor, the entrance we sought was clearly not easy to find.

After circling around and viewing over two hundred types of yōkai, we still hadn't located the entrance, nor had we found any stairs leading to the third floor.

At this point, we all understood: there must be a secret door somewhere within this gallery, one that not only connected to the inner room but also housed the staircase to the third floor.

However, in a corridor displaying over two hundred paintings, finding that secret door wasn't something we could achieve quickly.

The only solution was to tap every single painting, checking if there was a hollow space or false backing behind them.

This was incredibly tedious, but in order to discover who occupied the third floor, we split up to begin searching for the hidden panel.

After about ten minutes of searching, Nie Chuan called out to me from a spot not far from where I was: "Ge, ge, come look, this painting seems different."

I hurried over, and saw that Nie Chuan was pointing at the inscription beneath the painting.

This particular artwork depicted the Nine-Tailed Fox, a famous entity in the Japanese yōkai world.

The style of the painting followed the established realism, rendering the fox’s fur and gaze with startling vitality.

The only difference was that beneath the inscription of this painting, there was a tiny square seal.

This red seal was small; one would miss it without careful inspection.

I crouched down, examining the seal closely, and saw several Katakana Japanese characters inscribed within, characters I couldn't read.

But as my hand pressed down on that square seal, the section suddenly depressed inward.

Then, the entire painting retracted upward, revealing a dark, gaping doorway.

Nie Chuan and I exchanged a look of joy and quickly called for Da Xiong.

When Da Xiong saw the door, he too broke into a relieved smile.

Then, the three of us filed inside, one after the other.

Entering this hidden room, we found it stacked high with numerous scrolls. In the very center of the room was a desk, upon which rested brushes, an inkstone, and other painting implements. The inkstone still held damp ink.