★ Author Cai Bigui (Ghost Uncle) is a bestselling author in the Chinese mystery and sci-fi genre. He boasts over 4.76 million loyal followers on Weibo and more than 6 million fans across all platforms. He was awarded the "2019 Top Ten Most Influential Bookish KOLs" prize, and his published works have sold over 1 million copies in total.

★ This series originates from the author's legendary serialized work posted on the Tianya Forum (a highly influential early Chinese online community). The story's overly bold concepts and explosive plotlines once sparked heated discussions and faced restrictions. Now finally published in its complete form, it is sparking immense anticipation.

★ This series masterfully blends suspense, folklore horror, and sci-fi speculation. Each novel features an independent bizarre incident and adventure story, yet they are all interconnected.

★ The work has garnered praise from numerous renowned Chinese mystery writers, who acclaim its perfect fusion of strange horror, honkaku-style reasoning, and science fiction elements, calling it immensely creative!

★ All fear stems from the unknown. Our dilemma is this: do we return to our original world and continue our mundane lives, or do we bravely step into a completely unknown forbidden zone?

This series consists of 8 volumes:
The Ghost Uncle and the Meili Snow Mountain
The Ghost Uncle and the Basement Prison
The Ghost Uncle and the Isle of Illusions
The Ghost Uncle and the Shadow Game
The Ghost Uncle and the Reality's Delusion
The Ghost Uncle and the Death in Limbo
The Ghost Uncle and the Time Prisoner
The Ghost Uncle and the Assassination Cycle

I (Ghost Uncle) and Shui Ge traveled to the intersection of two dimensions—Herupu Island in the Maldives. Due to the island’s quirky rules, we recruited two women to join: heiress Tang Shuang and the "princess-like" Sweetie. En route to Herupu on a seaplane, I hallucinated a commercial airliner flying underwater. On the island, more strangeness emerged—but even more suspicious was Tang Shuang’s true purpose for being there...
Mysterious objects moving at terrifying speeds in the ocean, the resort owner’s secrets, deadly traps beneath the lagoon, and Tang Shuang’s enigmatic past... The mind-bending revelations will leave you craving more!

Cai Bigui (Pen Name: Ghost Uncle)

A prominent Chinese mystery and science fiction novelist, and screenwriter.

Since beginning his writing career in 2009, his works have sold over 1 million copies in total. His representative works include the long-form mystery series The Long Haul, the sci-fi novel The Hyperbrain, and BBQ Strange Tales, which won the "Most Popular Short Story Collection Award" at the 5th Chinese Original Novel Awards. His cross-over screenwriting work Memory Reconstruction received the 2019 Golden Feather Award.

As a major online influencer with over 6 million followers across platforms, Cai Bigui commands significant reader appeal and interactivity on Weibo and other social media, having been recognized as one of the "2019 Top Ten Most Influential Bookish KOLs". His "The Ghost Uncle's Strange Case Files" series builds a "Geek Universe" that merges urban legends with sci-fi suspense. Its initial serialization on the Tianya Forum caused a sensation due to its astonishing concepts and gripping plotlines, amassing a solid reader foundation.

Chapter 1　　 Herupu Island 　　　　　　001
Chapter 2　　 All Preparations Set 　　　015
Chapter 3　　 On the Journey 　　　　　　031
Chapter 4　　 The Underwater Plane 　　　041
Chapter 5　　 The Red Swimsuit 　　　　　054
Chapter 6　　 A False Alarm 　　　　　　　069
Chapter 7　　 Confessions of Intent 　　　081
Chapter 8　　 The Devil Ray 　　　　　　　093
Chapter 9　　 MH370 　　　　　　　　　　111
Chapter 10　　Wine Cellar or Tiger’s Den? 130
Chapter 11　　A Cunning Scheme 　　　　　153
Chapter 12　　Conspiracy in the Bathroom 　166
Chapter 13　　The Quartet 　　　　　　　　178
Chapter 14　　A Narrow Escape 　　　　　　198
Chapter 15　　Airbus A310 　　　　　　　　216
Chapter 16　　Hero Saves the Beauty 　　　230
Chapter 17　　The Truth Revealed 　　　　　243

Chapter 1
Herupu Island

A white passenger jet soared through the pitch-black depths of the ocean. The cabin lights were on, but peering through the windows revealed row after row of empty seats — not a single soul aboard.
Suspended in the abyssal darkness, I watched as the plane roared past me. The left wingtip flashed red, the right one green. Seawater surged into the cylindrical engines, only to be expelled in transparent whirlpools. Suddenly, a hand slammed against the acrylic window, followed by the face of a woman with disheveled hair.
"Ghost Uncle, save me!" A once-familiar voice.

Ding-dong.
"Sir, please fasten your seatbelt."
Blinking groggily, I saw a flight attendant in a red cap leaning over me, her heavily powdered face fixed in a professional smile. The cabin announcement droned on: "This flight will arrive at Beijing Capital International Airport in approximately thirty minutes. We are now beginning our descent. Please fasten your seatbelts, return your seatbacks to the upright position, stow your tray tables, and open the window shades. All electronic devices must —"
I flashed the attendant a tired grin and complied.
Once she left, I took a deep breath and surveyed my surroundings. I was on a flight from Shenzhen to Beijing, thousands of meters above the ground. Outside the window, the inky night sky blurred into gray mist as we descended through the clouds.
My mouth felt parched. Scratching my head, I recalled the dream.
Dreams reflect our waking thoughts. A psychologist might dissect every element:
The plane? Obvious — I was on one.
The ocean depths? I’d swum 2,000 meters that morning and was headed to a tropical island. Also, that Malaysia Airlines flight vanishing six months ago — it had to be at the bottom of some sea.
The girl — Xiao Xi? Pure wishful thinking.
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Two months ago, atop Kawagarbo Peak in Yunnan, I’d watched Xiao Xi ascend into the sky, vanishing into an inverted crimson mountain floating midair. She’d disappeared from my world.
If my theory held, the island I was planning to visit—like Kawagarbo—was a junction between parallel worlds. Mountain and ocean, both fissures in spacetime… Maybe, just maybe, Xiao Xi would reappear there.
I exhaled sharply. Overthinking was pointless ("rán bìng luǎn" — "all bark, no bite"). My immediate task? Convincing Shui Ge, my companion from the snow mountain expedition, to join me on this suicidal quest.
Which was why I’d flown to Beijing.

"Two dudes. In the Maldives." Shui Ge nearly choked on his beer-and-lamb-kebab slurry, his bullfrog eyes bulging.
I nodded. "Yep."
We were at a lu chuànr joint near Gulou, huddled over a rickety plastic table. December in Beijing was brutal, but Shui Ge had insisted this place served the freshest lamb kidneys — sliced thin, layered with fat, charred to perfection. Paired with "Niú Èr" (cheap but potent baijiu), it was heaven.
Not that I’d flown here just for skewers.
After Kawagarbo, Shui Ge had returned to Beijing. His parents—owners of a roast duck shop — wanted him to settle down, take over the family business. But twenty years of duck fumes had left him allergic to the idea. His old man kicked him out, forcing him to rent a dingy apartment in Hepingli.
Jobless, single, and estranged from old friends, Shui Ge was at rock bottom.
Enter: me.
When I first floated the Maldives idea, he’d been thrilled. "Bigui, you do remember who carried your ass down that mountain."
True. Without him — and the reality-devouring red Pixiu parasite inside him — we’d all have died in that avalanche. That was precisely why I needed him for this trip.
But now, realizing I meant just us two, his expression curdled.
"You. Me. Maldives. Alone." He repeated slowly, his half-eaten kidney skewer forgotten, cooling in the wind.
I sipped my baijiu. "Straight men don’t fear gay rumors."
Shui Ge shuddered. "Easy for you to say. I’m still single!"
He flagged down the vendor to reheat his skewers, then squinted at me. "Why the hell Maldives? And why this island — what’s it called again?"
Progress. I kept my voice casual. "Herupu Island."
"The fuck kind of name is that?"
"He Pu — ‘Crane’ and ‘Uncut Jade’. Fancy new resort, pricier than Cheval Blanc. Look." I pulled up an aerial photo. "See? The island’s shaped like a harp’s soundbox. The lagoon forms the strings, the outer reef the frame."
Shui Ge’s eyes gleamed. "Harp… crane… East-meets-West. Not bad."
I bit back a smirk. What I didn’t mention was the idiom the name evoked: burning a crane and smashing a harp — a metaphor for destroying beauty.
In my mind’s eye, the harp-shaped island burned against turquoise waters, white cranes fleeing the flames. Tragic. Romantic. Ominous.
And utterly irresistible.
Two bottles of baijiu later, we staggered our separate ways — Shui Ge to his hovel, me to my hotel. He’d promised to "think it over."
Knowing him, that meant yes.
As for why Herupu Island?
That story began two months ago...