Why is My System Glitching-Chapter 100: The Gloomwater Phantom Lily Array

At the same moment, deep within the Hanz Clan Estate, the Hanz Stronghold sprawled across the Twin Peak Hill's core waist, a majestic complex of grand halls, opulent ballrooms, and guest chambers linked by winding corridors and serene courtyards. Crafted from rare, polished wood and gleaming stone, the structures towered over a dozen meters high, their intricate carvings of mythical beasts and swirling clouds still hinting at the clan's lost glory. The stronghold's vast footprint dominated the plateau, its shadowed eaves and cavernous interiors swallowing light, casting an oppressive gloom despite the midday hour.

Bang!

A deafening explosion shattered the silence as a side wall of a grand hall erupted in a blaze of blue flame and billowing mist. Three male cultivators from the GhostClaw Squad stumbled out, their faces pale with panic, robes singed and disheveled. As they fled, a faint black glow shimmered across the breached wall. Splintered wood fragments floated upward, drawn back to the gaping hole, and the ward formation hummed, seamlessly knitting the wall whole again, as if the blast had never occurred.

The trio bolted down a corridor, their footsteps echoing off the polished stone, and barreled into a cavernous guest ballroom. One slammed the heavy wooden gate shut with a backhand, the thud reverberating through the empty chamber. Ornate chandeliers hung motionless above, their crystals dulled by dust, while faded tapestries depicting the Hanz Clan's triumphs sagged on the walls, their threads unraveling like forgotten dreams.

"Damn it!" gasped the youngest cultivator, his breath ragged, his hair a wild mess. "Weren't the defensive arrays supposed to be decayed and useless? If Junior Brother Guff hadn't triggered that Thunderflame Dao Fulu to blast us out, the Soul Severing Sand trap would've swallowed us whole!"

The second man, a senior of this three men group, slightly calmer but no less uneasy, wiped his brow. "Four previous squads failed for a reason. High risk, high reward." He forced a grim smile. "Enough talk, Junior Brother Rand. Time bleeds faster than wounds. Since we're unharmed, welet's keep moving. The treasury house won't come to us by itself."

The younger cultivator, surname Rand, exhaled sharply, nodding. "Fine. Senior Brother Podes, here's the plan. you take the left wing. I'll scour the right. As for Junior Brother Guff—"

Rand's words died in his throat, his face draining of color. "What... where's Guff?"

Podes whirled around, his face draining of color. "...Junior Brother Guff?"

Guff was gone.

A chill slithered down their spines.

Just moments ago, that junior brother had been right behind them—breathing, present, alive. Now, there was nothing. No sound. No struggle. No trace.

The silence was suffocating. The two men locked eyes—a silent, chilling understanding passing between them.

In an instant, their hands flew to their weapons, blades hissing free from their sheaths, edges glinting in the murky half-light. This guest ballroom, once opulent, now felt like a mausoleum—its dust-choked chandeliers swaying ever so slightly, though no wind whispered through the stagnant air.

The ancient tapestries lining the walls—their colors long faded, their threads frayed with age—seemed to move. The embroidered figures twisted subtly, their stitched eyes glimmering with something far too aware, far too hungry.

Something was watching them. Something was in the room with them.

A faint, wet squelch beneath their boots. The wooden floorboards... were softening. Yielding.

Like rotting flesh. Like quicksand. Their feet began to sink.

——

Elsewhere in Hanz Clan Estate.

In the residence district of the rear mountain, a breathtaking scene unfolded.

A tranquil lake, its surface shimmering under warm sunlight, stretched wide, cradled by lush greenery. Willow branches swayed in a soft breeze, their delicate, emerald tendrils brushing the water, sending ripples dancing across the glassy expanse. Vibrant green lily pads dotted the lake, the air was sweet with the scent of blooming lilies, their vibrant petals—crimson and amethyst—dotted across a sea of verdant leaves.

Magnificent faux mountains, cloaked in thick moss, towered nearby, their crevices allowing slivers of sunlight to spill onto the surrounding grasslands and flowering bushes, painting an idyllic early summer tableau that seemed to hum with life.

Yet, beneath this beauty early summer dream lay an unsettling stillness. Something was wrong. No birds sang, no insects buzzed—the residence area was a silent void, devoid of any trace of living creatures.

Three GhostClaw Squad cultivators—two men and a woman—descended from the faux mountain, their steps cautious, blades and swords gripped tightly. The woman, clad in a flowing red skirt, twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she scanned the serene yet unnatural surroundings. "Senior Brother," she said, her voice low, "The rumors claimed the Hanz Clan was slaughtered to the last soul. So where are the dead? We've walked through this place for a while now, but there's not a single corpse, not even a drop of blood on the ground."

The older male cultivator, his brow furrowed, shook his head. "I'm not sure. Perhaps the sect elders sent enforcers to clean up after the massacre was discovered?"

The female cultivator's eyes narrowed, unconvinced. "But we're here to investigate the annihilation of the entire clan. Wouldn't the enforcers preserve the bodies for us to examine? And what about the four squads before us? They vanished here, trapped or worse. How is it we've sensed no trace of them—no aura, no remnants—along the way?"

The older cultivator's expression grew pensive. "You're right, it's strange. When we regroup with Senior Brother Langley, we should ask him. He might—" His words halted as he felt a tug on his sleeve. Turning, he saw his younger junior brother, sword in hand, his face ashen, eyes wide with dread. The young man pointed wordlessly toward the lake.

Moments ago, the lake had been a vibrant mosaic of green lily pads and blooming water lilies, their red and violet petals glowing like jewels. Now, the scene had transformed into a nightmare.

The double-petaled flowers withered in an instant, their delicate forms crumbling to dust. In their place, severed human heads sprouted from the lily pads—Men, women, the young, the old—their lifeless eyes wide open, dark sockets weeping streams of blood that trickled into the water. One by one, more flowers wilted, replaced by grotesque, bleeding heads, their expressions frozen in silent agony.

Another soft breeze stirred the lily pads, parting them to reveal the lake's surface.

The lake was no longer clear. It was a pool of thick, crimson mire.

The sun hung bright overhead, its golden light painting the lake in shimmering warmth—yet a creeping cold slithered down the spines of the three cultivators. The breeze, soft and fragrant just moments before, now carried a thick, metallic stench, like blood pooling in the throat.

Their breath hitched. Their fingers clenched around their swords, knuckles whitening as the breeze stirred the lily pads.

A slow, unnatural ripple stirred the lake's surface, sending the lily pads into a languid, eerie dance, their broad leaves spinning as if caught in an unseen current.

Next moment, every severed human head—pale, bloated, their skin sickly green from the lake's decay—jerked its lifeless, blood-weeping eyes toward them. The hollow gazes bore into the trio with unnatural malice, as if the crimson lake pulsed with a ravenous hunger for their souls.

——

While in the meantime, deep within the rear mountain of the Twin Peak Hill in Hanz Clan Estate. A stone courtyard.

Soren Langley stood in the shadow of a giant sycamore, its trunk so vast that ten grown men linking hands could not encircle it. Its gnarled branches clawing at the sky, casting jagged shadows across the cracked stone courtyard. His robes—white as bone, embroidered with celestial sigils of sun and moon—rippled in a wind that carried no warmth, untouched by the eerie silence that smothered the area.

The Venomflame Blood Wyrm Staff in his grip pulsed with malevolent energy, its blood-red shaft writhing as it transformed.

A monstrous shape tore through the air—a spectral wyrm of living nightmare, its translucent scales rippling like blood under moonlight. Crimson energy pulsed through its serpentine form as it solidified before the ancient well, its massive coils casting writhing shadows across the courtyard stones.

The creature's eyes burned with primal malice, slit pupils contracting as it reared back—then struck.

A torrent of corrupted flame erupted from its maw, not fire but something far worse—a swirling storm of bloodflame, viscous and seething, each droplet burning with toxic, soul-scorching venom. The foul stream crashed against the well's stone rim, sending up plumes of acrid smoke as the ancient carvings blackened and cracked under the assault.

From the well's depths came a sound—not a scream, not a roar, not the gentle trickle of a spring, but a thick, wet churning noise, something infinitely malice, as though a thousand drowning voices bubbling up through stagnant water.

A tide of black hair erupted from the well, surging like a living wall of cockroach antennae. It writhed, knotting and twisting, forming a grotesque barrier against the venomflame serpent's assault. The air filled with the stench of burning hairs.

"Cunning parasite," Soren's voice cut through the choking smoke, cold as steel sliding from its sheath. "You've entwined yourself with the estate's dying earth veins, sucking at its fading pulse like a leech. But look around you—the grand array lies in ruins, its protective energies scattered to the winds."

The serpent above him hissed, its bloodflame dripping onto cracked stones that sizzled and blackened.

"How much strength can those withering earth veins still give you?" He took a step forward, his shadow stretching long and terrible across the courtyard. "The Venomflame Wyrm was forged to dominate creatures like you. Every thrash of resistance only tightens its grip."

"Surrender the stone well. Let me pass. If the Treasury House isn't below..." His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "...I might just let you keep rotting here in peace."

The hair shuddered, as if in pain.

From within the black, hair-like mass, a pair of eyes emerged—pale, hate-filled, human yet not. They locked onto Soren's own with searing intensity.

For a moment, the air grew heavier, charged with malice. Then, as swiftly as they appeared, the eyes and tendrils receded, retreating into the well's depths like a tide, leaving only the gurgling echo behind.

Soren sneered, his staff dimming as the serpent shadow coiled back into its staff form. He stepped toward the well, confidence in his stride—but a sudden, nauseating unease gripped him with a prickle ran down his spine, raising goosebumps across his skin.

The air had changed. The wind had died. Even the distant sounds of the forest had gone silent.

His instincts screamed danger. Whirling around, he froze, his breath catching in horror.

The giant sycamore tree was no longer just wood and bark.

Malice eyes, clustered densely across the trunk and branches

Hundreds. Thousands. Countless.

Pale, lidless orbs bulging from the bark, their pupils dilated, unblinking. They covered every inch of the tree, clustered like tumors, each one fixed on him with unnatural focus.

And worst of all—

They had not been there before. The realization cut like a blade to his courage. Soren had not sensed them. Had not seen them. They just simply... appeared.

Then, as one, the eyes blinked.

——

Eight hours later, at the grand array's breach point on the outskirts of the Hanz Clan Estate.

A blood-soaked figure erupted from the shadows, moving with the desperate speed of a hunted beast. It was Soren Langley, his once-pristine white robes, now drenched crimson, clinging to his battered frame. His face was corpse-pale, lips and jaw flecked with dark clots, one arm hanging in tattered ribbons of flesh that exposed bone, the other gone—severed near the shoulder, weeping crimson. The Venomflame Blood Wyrm Staff, his fearsome weapon, was nowhere to be seen.

Despite his grievous wounds, the Captain of GhostClaw Squad didn't dare any pause. His remaining hand slapped against his chest, channeling the last of his spirit energy into the Blood-Burning Technique once again. Muscles screamed, veins blackened his aura flared briefly, and his very life force ignited to fuel a burst of unnatural speed. With a trembling hand, he summoned the Ebony Spirit Canoe, its obsidian form materializing in a flicker. He spared less than a heartbeat to locate himself, then hurled his body into the canoe and fled, the Dao Artifact streaking away from the Hanz Clan Estate like a comet.

Minutes into his escape, a sharp jolt rocked his dantian. The Blood-Burning Technique's fiery surge guttered out like a dying candle, leaving an overwhelming wave of weakness that drowned his senses. Soren's vision blurred, his grip faltered, and he crumpled, unable to steer. The canoe shuddered, its spirit-light fading, then plummeted, spiraling toward the earth below.

THUD! CRACK! BANG!

The Dao Artifact crashed through a dreamlike grove of cherry blossoms, snapping five or six thick trunks in a shower of pink petals and splintered wood. It gouged a deep furrow in the soft earth before grinding to a halt, half-buried, its sleek form now a twisted wreck.

Soren Langley, coughing up blood, dragged himself from the wreckage, his remaining hand clawing at the dirt. Petals drifted around him, their delicate beauty mocking his broken state. Gasping in agony but relief flickered in Soren's chest., he thought, "The Ebony Spirit Canoe's speed must have carried me dozen miles from the Hanz Clan Estate by now. This place should be safe."

He spat a mouthful of clotted blood, wiped his lips with a trembling sleeve—

—and froze.

The air turned frigid, an unnatural silence swallowing the grove's faint rustle.

No birdsong. No wind. Just... silence.

Slowly, dread coiling in his gut, he lifted his gaze.

Through the veil of blooming cherry branches, a familiar gatehouse loomed, its weathered plaque glinting faintly in the dim light.

Familiar. Too familiar.

His guts twisted—a molten knot of agony searing through his core. Coppery dread surged up his throat, thick and cloying, forcing him to gag on his own blood. Cold sweat slithered down his brow, tracing the ragged edges of a bleeding gash, the salt-sting making his skin prickle with phantom itches beneath the drying gore.

He's completely drained—overcome by exhaustion and weakness.

Every muscle trembled. His vision swam, his eyelids spasmed—unnatural, jerking twitches.

And there, on the weathered plaque, two Ancient Cloud calligraphy words glinted in the fading light:

"Hanz Estate."

——

Two nights had passed when the Blood Puppet Floats finally reached its destination—a sea of cherry blossoms stretching endlessly under the moonlight.

It's a sprawling cherry blossom grove that stretched for dozens of miles. The grove was a vision of ethereal beauty, its pink and white blossoms in full bloom, cascading like delicate snowflakes. Bathed in the moon's glow, the petals shimmered like clouds of spun silk, transforming the landscape into a dreamlike fairyland, where every breeze sent a flurry of blossoms dancing through the air. The faint scent of flowers mingled with the crisp night, casting an almost otherworldly spell over the scene.

Through the dense, blooming branches, a towering gatehouse flickered into view, half-hidden under the starry sky, its silhouette majestic yet elusive, its edges blurred as if half-submerged in mist. With a closer look revealed the truth: no gatehouse stood there. Instead, a vast water marsh sprawled beneath the moonlight, its surface gleaming like a silver mirror. Tiny fish occasionally broke the stillness surface, their ripples fracturing the reflected stars into a shimmering painting.

"That water marsh is where the Hanz Clan Estate lies," someone murmured, voice low as the Thorn Squad members peered through the lattice windows of the Blood Puppet Floats. No one stirred from their seats, their eyes fixed on the distant, phantom gatehouse that seemed to hover above the water.

Lordi Payne sensed the weight in the air. Though there was no visible threat—no monsters, no blood, nothing but the eerie serenity of the grove and the marsh beyond. And the cherry bloom grove's beauty far outshining the grim, hell-like aura of the Blood Puppet Floats itself—the Thorn Squad's faces were tight with tension.

Noticing Lordi's thoughtful glance, Carl Murphy leaned closer, his mustache twitching as he explained. "The grand defensive array shielding the Hanz Clan Estate was crafted a century ago by their legendary chief. It's called the Gloomwater Phantom Lily Array. When fully active, it cloaks the entire estate and its hill, rendering them invisible. Without an invitation from the clan leader, no outsider—no matter how skilled—can find the entrance. You could wade through that marsh, dive to its depths, and still see nothing but water."

He gestured toward the flickering gatehouse. "But the Hanz Clan's decline has left the array neglected, riddled with cracks. That's why we can glimpse the gatehouse now, like a mirage. Still, getting in isn't as simple as walking up. We have to wait for a breach."

"Wait until when?" Lordi Payne asked, his voice steady despite the unease creeping into his gut.

Carl Murphy turned to Drake Riggs, who cradled a chilling artifact: a ghost-hand array compass. Its surface was gripped by a spectral green hand with long, jagged nails, and its pointers were two slender, blind emerald venom snakes, writhing faintly as they aligned. Drake studied it intently, his dark fingers tracing its edges. "Tomorrow, three-quarters past noon," the dark skin man said after a moment. "The Hanz Clan Estate's defense array will falter for fifteen minutes, tearing a breach near the main gatehouse. That's our window."

Garrick Blackthorn's voice cut through the murmurs in cabin, firm and commanding. "Four squads before us entered this estate and failed—wiped out or worse. We're still outside, but that's no excuse for carelessness. Thorn Squad, stay inside the Blood Puppet Floats unless absolutely necessary. Junior Sister Janiyah Sullivon, bring out the cartographic map of the estate. Everyone studies it—now."