Free Web NovelAfter Bai Six was baptized, several more children followed. Then it was Liu Huai’s turn to step forward and baptize Liu Jiayi.
Liu Huai’s movements were incredibly gentle during the baptism. He couldn’t bear to keep Liu Jiayi submerged for long and quickly lifted her back out of the water. Liu Jiayi herself was unusually obedient. She even rolled up her sleeve on her own initiative, stretching out her arm so the staff member could draw blood. Liu Huai stopped her at once, caught somewhere between helpless amusement and heartache.
In the end, he pressed a lingering kiss to Liu Jiayi’s forehead and refused to let them take her blood. Amid Liu Jiayi’s slightly bewildered expression, he silently returned to the investor seats below.
Liu Huai sat rather far from Bai Liu and the others, toward the back. He hadn’t heard the exchange between Miao Feichi and Miao Gaojiang about making a move on Liu Jiayi, but he could more or less guess what methods those two veteran players would use. His expression remained taut as he looked toward Bai Liu from afar.
“Today’s baptism ceremony concludes here. Investors, please proceed to the welfare home cafeteria to dine and rest for a short while.”
The Dean smiled warmly as he spoke, like a shopping mall manager opening the doors for business.
“This afternoon, the newly baptized children will present pure and heartfelt songs—a choir performance celebrating our meeting. The performance will be held in front of the church from three to seven in the afternoon. Investors, please arrive on time to enjoy the children’s joyful singing.”
Bai Liu lowered his eyes to check the time.
It was currently 11:40 AM.
***
Mu Ke, sprawled on the straw mattress, abruptly snapped awake.
He shot upright and checked the time. 11:40 AM.
He had slept from the moment Bai Liu left until now.
Mu Ke clenched his teeth in frustration, genuinely feeling as though he was wasting precious time. Half a day might not even be enough for him to memorize the contents of a single archive room, and he had no idea when Miao Feichi would return. The sooner he could sneak into the records room and start memorizing files, the better.
Still, the effects of the sleep Bai Liu had forced him to take were obvious. Mu Ke’s mental state was visibly improved.
A peaceful, uninterrupted morning of sleep had allowed his mind to relax completely.
Mu Ke headed downstairs to the first floor. As expected, most of the patients and nurses were gathered in the cafeteria eating lunch.
The only patients who hadn’t come out were those who had received medicine from the nurses that morning. Their doors were tightly shut, and as Mu Ke passed by, he could hear faint, rhythmic crunching noises coming from inside.
The sound immediately reminded him of the monster patient devouring Blood Lingzhi that night.
Mu Ke silently edged farther away from those doors.
He remembered the layout of the entire first floor clearly. The medical archives were located behind the nurses’ station. If he wanted to sneak inside, he needed a moment when the station was unattended—like now, during lunchtime, or during the shift changes in the morning and evening.
After confirming that no one was around, Mu Ke took a deep breath and slipped into the archives room.
The moment he entered, he froze.
“So many...” Mu Ke stared blankly at the dust-covered folders piled everywhere, looking close to tears. “Why are there this many? There are even more than the books yesterday...”
For the first time in ages, he experienced that familiar sensation of cramming frantically before an exam—racing against time, desperately forcing information into his brain.
Mu Ke slapped both cheeks hard to steady himself, pulled out a file at random, and began memorizing.
“Name: Wang Guoqiang. Donated 1.7 million to Love Welfare Home in 200X. The child he [Adopted] was...”
***
3:00 PM.
The children stood clustered together in front of the church, while the investors sat in rows of chairs arranged across the lawn. The Dean had even prepared printed programs for the investors. Every child in the welfare home would perform in batches. All of the acts were choir performances, with some groups singing multiple songs before taking group photographs afterward.
That was why the event would continue for four full hours.
Bai Liu was no stranger to this sort of performance designed to please “investors.”
Back at the welfare home where he had grown up, whenever officials or leaders came to visit, the teachers would gather a group of children and push them out to perform. The teachers would rack their brains trying to make the children appear cheerful and affectionate toward the visiting dignitaries, wishing they could sing from beginning to end because singing sounded better than speaking.
There was nothing inherently wrong with it. It was simply one of the ways welfare homes fought for additional funding and support.
But Bai Liu himself had rarely benefited from any of it.
Most of the time, he felt like a circus monkey dragged out to perform tricks for spectators.
A monkey that didn’t even get paid.
Still, Bai Liu had never expected that one day there would be children in a welfare home singing to please him instead.
It was... a strangely novel experience.
He casually flipped through the program resting on his lap.
Happy Day — Performed by the Newly Baptized Children.
Bai Six stood near the edge of the group. He had changed clothes, and heavy, gaudy makeup had been painted onto his face—bright red cheeks and a red dot centered on his forehead. Water still dripped from the ends of his hair after the baptism.
Standing in the back row, he hummed lazily along with the others, clearly putting in minimal effort.
“Happy day, happy day,
God saved me and filled me with joy.
The precious blood of atonement washed away my sins,
The living water of life quenched my thirst.
Happy day, happy day,
God saved me and filled me with joy.”
The performance’s intention to please the “investors” was painfully obvious.
This “happy day” belonged to the investors.
Not to the children singing.
After listening for a while, Bai Liu quickly lost interest.
Miao Feichi and Miao Gaojiang, seated in the front row, had their arms crossed as they dozed openly. Even so, Miao Feichi still held his blades in hand, while Miao Gaojiang never fully relaxed. The two veteran players maintained the minimum level of vigilance required.
Still, the performance was undeniably long and tedious.
Only Liu Huai, seated in the back row, watched without blinking once.
His gaze never left Liu Jiayi for even a second.
There was a sorrowful desperation in his eyes, as though every glance he took might become the last.
During those four hours, Miao Feichi complained repeatedly about how long the performance was dragging on and asked more than once whether they could simply start slaughtering the children already.
But to Liu Huai, four hours was nowhere near enough.
He looked up at Liu Jiayi, the small red dot painted on her forehead as she swayed gently with the music while singing. Suddenly, he lowered his head and wiped at his eyes, only to lift his gaze again a second later.
Liu Huai didn’t want to waste even a single moment he still had left to look at Liu Jiayi.
Perhaps Liu Jiayi would never know he had watched her this way.
After all, she still could not see.
Once Bai Six and the others finished their song and stepped down from the stage area, there were still fifteen minutes left before the next scheduled performance.
Bai Liu rose from his seat, circled around the chairs, and headed toward the church.
Miao Gaojiang immediately opened his eyes at the movement and shot Bai Liu a sidelong glance.
“Where are you going? The performance’s barely started.”
“I’m going to see my kid,” Bai Liu replied calmly. “Maybe I can teach him how to escape.”
Miao Feichi let out a vague, mocking laugh.
“Let him go. It’s probably his only chance to clear the game.”
Miao Gaojiang hesitated briefly before ultimately allowing Bai Liu to leave.
They were directly in front of the church. Even if Bai Liu intended to attack the child they had chosen in advance, he wouldn’t be able to. The church prohibited the slaughter of children.
That was also the reason they themselves had yet to act.
Of course, another reason was that Miao Feichi’s stamina bar still hadn’t fully recovered.
Bai Liu gave the two of them a slight nod before walking toward the church entrance the children had exited through.
Miao Gaojiang stared at Bai Liu’s retreating back, his eyes dark and brooding.
“I still think there’s something off about this Mu Ke.”
“You’re getting paranoid, Dad.” Miao Feichi lounged bonelessly against his chair before turning to look at him. “You already checked his player panel and his phone. Mu Ke’s obviously just an ordinary player. His stats aren’t even Rank B, and he’s only cleared two games. He’s a complete rookie. He probably just had terrible luck and got controlled by Bai Liu the moment he entered the instance. Once we kill Bai Liu, the control effect should disappear. So what exactly are you suspicious of?”
“There’s a broken keyboard in his item slot.”
Miao Gaojiang’s brow ridge was low and heavy, making his eyes appear especially sinister whenever he frowned.
“The two times I checked his system warehouse, the missing keys on that keyboard were different.”
That immediately made Miao Feichi sit up straighter.
Miao Gaojiang was meticulous to a frightening degree. He always noticed details other people overlooked, and he was exceptionally skilled at exploiting those details once he became suspicious. After working together with him for so many years, Miao Feichi knew very well that Miao Gaojiang’s instincts were rarely baseless.
After a brief pause, Miao Feichi raised a brow.
“Dad, are you saying someone’s using the keyboard to communicate with Mu Ke? Do you remember which keys were missing?”
“That’s the issue.” Miao Gaojiang’s frown deepened. “I’m not familiar with keyboard layouts. I only noticed that the empty spots had changed. As for the exact positions or which keys they corresponded to... I only glanced at it briefly, so I can’t remember clearly.”
“Normally, only the player themselves can access their system backpack. Mu Ke’s been with us the entire time. It’s unlikely he had an opportunity to hand the keyboard to someone else and retrieve it afterward. Besides, that method of communication would be far too risky.”
Miao Gaojiang’s voice sank lower.
“I think it’s more likely that someone can share a system backpack with him. If a player possesses a skill that allows shared access to a system warehouse, then this method of communication becomes both possible and extremely difficult to detect.”
Miao Feichi fell silent for a moment.
There was only one player in this instance whose personal skill remained unknown to them.
“You think Bai Liu isn’t dead?” Miao Feichi’s expression darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing into thin slits. “And that his personal skill isn’t just control—but also the ability to share a system warehouse?”
He slowly curled his fingers around the handle of his blade.
“Mu Ke is a pawn Bai Liu planted beside us from the very beginning... and he’s been using the keyboard to communicate with him this entire time?”
“But that’s only my speculation.”
Miao Gaojiang looked toward Miao Feichi again. Murderous intent had already surfaced on the latter’s face.
“Mu Ke is only a C-rank panel player. You can kill him whenever you want. But it’s best not to act recklessly right now. You’re currently in the Support Season. Killing an ordinary player who has already surrendered to you without sufficient reason won’t look good and will affect your support rate.”
He paused briefly before continuing.
“And there’s another very important point.”
“A skill that allows people to share a system backpack falls under the category of [Rule Skills]. To achieve something like that, the player has to interfere with the system’s authority itself.”
Miao Gaojiang rested both hands on his knees, lowering his eyes in thought.
“At present, there are only a handful of players in the entire game whose personal skills qualify as [Rule Skills]. I don’t think it’s very likely that Bai Liu possesses one. If he truly had a bug-level ability like that, then like the Queen of Hearts, he could simply use it to suppress us directly. He wouldn’t need to remain this passive.”
“But the possibility can’t be ruled out completely.” Miao Gaojiang narrowed his eyes. “Bai Liu is still a newcomer. It’s possible he simply doesn’t know how to properly use his personal skill yet. Let’s wait and see.”
His venomous gaze fixed itself on the church Bai Liu had entered.
“Once you recover, and once he reveals his hand, it won’t be too late to kill him.”
At that moment, Bai Liu walked backstage.
Xiao Mu Ke and Bai Six were sitting face-to-face, using wet tissues to wipe the makeup from their faces. The instant Xiao Mu Ke saw Bai Liu enter, he recoiled several steps in alarm and fear. He didn’t recognize this as the same Bai Liu who had baptized him earlier.
By contrast, Bai Six merely glanced at him indifferently. Then he stood up and spoke softly.
“This isn’t a good place to talk. Let’s go somewhere else.”
Xiao Mu Ke immediately realized this was Bai Six’s “investor.” He gave an awkward nod of greeting before Bai Six grabbed Bai Liu’s hand and led him away.
Bai Six brought Bai Liu to a small grove overgrown with weeds behind the church.
Leaning casually against the wall, Bai Liu lowered his gaze toward Bai Six, who was still stubbornly trying to scrub the rouge from his face. The child wiped hard and methodically, clearly disliking the scent of the cosmetics. He frowned so intensely that his features were nearly twisted out of shape from the effort.
Naturally, Bai Liu took the wet tissue from Bai Six’s hand and crouched down in front of him.
“You can’t wipe it off like that.”
He dabbed gently at the center of Bai Six’s forehead several times.
“If you rub lipstick around carelessly, you’ll only smear it everywhere.”
Bai Six allowed Bai Liu to hold his shoulder while cleaning his forehead. His expression remained blank.
“You seem pretty experienced with lipstick. Do you wear it often yourself?”
Bai Liu pretended not to hear the sarcasm in the child’s voice.
“I’ve had makeup like this put on before. In circumstances pretty similar to yours.” He paused. “Are you angry because I didn’t baptize you and caused you to be punished by the Dean?”
“I wouldn’t call # Nоvеlight # it anger.” Bai Six looked at him calmly. “More like feeling tricked.”
His lips pressed thin for a moment before he lifted his eyes again.
“But because of that, you owe me—”
“Alright, I know.” Bai Liu interrupted smoothly. “You want more money. Fine. Name your price.”
He leaned closer and carefully wiped away the lipstick Bai Six had accidentally smeared near the corner of his eye.
They were standing extremely close.
Bai Liu’s steady breathing brushed lightly against Bai Six’s skin. With his eyes lowered in concentration, he carried the strange illusion of someone tenderly cherishing another person.
“Don’t move. There’s still some here.” Bai Liu’s tone was calm. “The Dean said all those things about you earlier... are you really not angry? A child abandoned by his parents, abandoned by God, even abandoned by an investor like me?”
Bai Six held his breath for several silent seconds.
Then he quickly looked away.
“I’m not angry,” he answered evenly. “The Dean wasn’t entirely wrong.”
“True.”
Bai Liu finished wiping away the makeup and stood up.
In this investor body, he was tall and unnaturally thin. Looking down at Bai Six from above felt almost like a bird’s-eye view.
“God really never favored you.” Bai Liu smiled faintly. “Because you’re a bad child who never believed in God.”
Bai Six looked up at him with an expression that plainly said:
So what?
Yes.
He was born a bad child.
He simply didn’t believe in God.
So what?
“I’m the same.”
Bai Liu chuckled softly.
As though teasing him casually, he rubbed Bai Six’s head.
“Do you want to change your name? Maybe if you changed it, God might start favoring you.” Bai Liu tilted his head slightly. “After I changed my own name, my luck really did improve a little. Though it’s still pretty terrible.”
“Does God judge people by their names?” Bai Six deadpanned. “Then God sounds incredibly stupid.”
Bai Liu removed the pendant hanging from his neck.
It was a coin wrapped in bandages and shattered fish scales.
Bending down, Bai Liu hung the coin around Bai Six’s neck.
“This is everything I own here. My property, my skills, all of it.” Bai Liu’s voice was quiet. “You could say it’s the result of selling my soul. The most valuable and precious thing I possess.”
“Now I’m giving it to you.”
“From this moment onward, you are me.”
“You possess my skills. My money. Everything.”
Bai Liu lowered his gaze briefly.
“And... I’m sorry for making you go through the baptism alone earlier.”
[System Notification: Does player Bai Liu wish to transfer the system authority to the secondary identity line?
After transfer, the player will no longer be able to use any panel abilities or points and will become effectively no different from an NPC within the game. Survival rate will decrease significantly.]
Bai Liu: [Confirm.]
Bai Liu closed his eyes and bent down to embrace the stunned Bai Six.
His body was thin to the point of eeriness, folding into a slight curve as he hugged the child—like an old man holding a loved one close.
He smiled softly.
“But I think... from now on, you can probably be considered someone favored by God.”
The one favoring Bai Six—the bad child—was not some immobile God nailed to an inverted cross.
It was this strange investor who had appeared out of nowhere.
(T/N: ...the foreshadowing here is insane.)
If God truly existed—
then it was himself.
Bai Six opened his mouth slightly within Bai Liu’s embrace, as if he wanted to say something.
But in the end, nothing came out.
He simply accepted the hug in silence.
Even though he personally found this sort of sentimental physical contact rather disgusting.
Still, his investor gentleman had paid him.
So Bai Six decided he could tolerate this somewhat disgusting investor gentleman for the time being.
“The coin I gave you is extremely important.” Bai Liu eventually released him. “You absolutely must keep it safe.”
“If you die, the coin will drop and someone else might pick it up.” Bai Liu smiled faintly and tapped the coin hanging against Bai Six’s chest with one long finger. “That would become something very terrifying.”
“Because all my unspeakable secrets... and my soul... are hidden inside it.”
Bai Six gripped the coin against his chest.
“You asked me earlier if I wanted to change my name.”
He spoke abruptly.
“Let me make this clear first. I don’t like major changes.” He looked at Bai Liu expressionlessly. “But as repayment for your generous financial support, I’m willing to indulge your strange personal hobby, Mr. Investor.”
[Lu Yizhan, I can change my name, but I don’t like drastic changes. Do you have any suggestions?]
Bai Liu’s eyes flickered faintly.
Then he answered softly:
“How about Bai Liu?”
“Bai Liu?” Bai Six repeated in confusion. “Which ‘Bai’? Which ‘Liu’? That sounds basically identical to my current name. Isn’t changing it pointless?”
Ten years ago, Lu Yizhan had once smiled at Bai Liu and asked the exact same thing.
How about calling you Bai Liu?
Back then, Bai Liu had replied expressionlessly that it sounded no different at all, so what was the point?
And Lu Yizhan had said there was a point.
It was a very good name.
Both characters were good characters.
Bai Liu had asked why.
Lu Yizhan had ruffled his hair with a bright, innocent smile.
“Because it’s the ‘Bai’ from daytime and the ‘Liu’ from finding a way out.” He smiled warmly. “From now on, you’re stepping into the daylight of a new future. Bai Liu—you’ll definitely live better than before.”
Ten years ago, Bai Liu had fallen silent for a moment before replying:
“You’re seriously boring, Lu Yizhan. Playing word games like this.”
Now, Bai Liu rubbed Bai Six’s head in exactly the same way Lu Yizhan once had.
His eyes carried that same flourishing innocence and irrational confidence. Behind the church, children’s singing drifted through the air while the summer wind swept across the wild grass with the scent of growing things.
And on that strange face—thin and eerie like the Slender Man—Bai Six saw an unexpectedly sincere smile, almost like a prayer.
Softly, Bai Liu said:
“Your name is the ‘Bai’ of daytime, and the ‘Liu’ of finding a way out.”
Bai Six fell silent for a long time.
Then he turned his face away.
“What a boring word game.”
“So?” Bai Liu asked with a smile. “Will you change it?”
“I’ll change it.” Bai Six answered flatly. “You paid for it.”
“From now on, your name is Bai Liu.”
Bai Liu paused briefly before continuing:
“My deception will probably be exposed soon. There’s a high chance I’ll die at my opponents’ hands tonight.” His gaze rested quietly on Bai Six. “You’re my only remaining hope now, so I’m entrusting everything to you.”
“You have to survive, Bai Liu.”
Bai Liu understood very clearly what kind of enemies he was facing.
Two veteran players who had once competed in the League.
Miao Feichi was impulsive, but Miao Gaojiang was frighteningly cautious. That was precisely why Bai Liu had created the [Three-layered Paper Cup].
But paper cups were still only paper cups.
Paper could never completely contain fire.
Once a large-scale conflict between players broke out, it would become impossible for Mu Ke to remain hidden forever. And the moment Mu Ke surfaced, the plan Bai Liu had arranged—switching identities with Mu Ke—would almost certainly reveal flaws.
At that point, Miao Gaojiang and Miao Feichi would realize that he and Mu Ke had been collaborators all along.
And judging from Miao Gaojiang’s behavior today, he had probably already sensed something wrong.
For example—
the keyboard in Mu Ke’s backpack.
Bai Liu had anticipated this possibility from the very beginning.
Once Mu Ke’s panel became exposed, the communication item inside the shared system backpack would naturally attract suspicion as well. That was why Bai Liu had deliberately chosen a keyboard as their communication tool: inconspicuous, unintuitive, easy to overlook.
By using missing keycaps to exchange information, Bai Liu had intentionally exploited a knowledge gap. Someone like Miao Gaojiang—a highly intelligent middle-aged man but one likely unfamiliar with modern digital habits—might notice the changes without fully understanding their meaning.
Still, Miao Gaojiang was far too sharp not to become suspicious.
He had inspected Mu Ke’s panel twice, and each time the missing keycaps were different. That was because those empty spaces represented moments where one side was waiting for the other’s reply—an unavoidable flaw in communication through shared inventory items.
Miao Gaojiang had probably already noticed that the keys kept changing positions.
But even if he obtained the keyboard itself, he likely still wouldn’t understand what information Bai Liu and Mu Ke were exchanging.
That, too, was one of the reasons Bai Liu had selected the keyboard.
Which meant one thing was obvious:
To Miao Gaojiang and Miao Feichi, Bai Liu had already become an unstable variable before the upcoming conflict.
And in a dangerous Level 2 game that consumed massive amounts of health points, the safest solution for dealing with an unstable variable was always simple—
kill it.
So Bai Liu had already concluded long ago that his death was approaching.
And before that happened, he wanted to hand over the most valuable thing he possessed to Bai Six.
The damaged, hollowed-out coin-shaped game manager.
***
Bai Liu carefully taught Bai Six how to use the game manager and explained the mechanics of his personal skill.
The child was confused at first, but he learned quickly.
Remarkably quickly.
He accepted the fact that reality itself was merely a giant multiplayer game with almost no resistance at all, to the point where Bai Liu barely needed to explain further before Bai Six began browsing the system shop independently.
Before Bai Liu left, Bai Six suddenly looked up at him.
“The reason you told me all the details about those two games earlier...” His face remained expressionless. “Was so I could adapt to this so-called game manager faster, wasn’t it?”
“It was never some ‘friends sharing games together.’”
Bai Six stared directly at him.
“You liar.”
“Everything you said to me. Everything you did.” His tone remained flat and emotionless. “Every word had a purpose behind it.”
“That only makes it harder for me to understand.”
Bai Six gripped the coin hanging from his chest.
“Why would someone like you choose to give up taking my blood and instead die for me?”
“That’s fundamentally not something you’re capable of doing.”
He paused briefly.
“Of course, I’d never do something that stupid either.”
“Speak.” Bai Six looked straight into Bai Liu’s eyes. “What else do you want me to do for you? The amount of money you gave me is enough to buy a lot of things.”
“I only want you to survive.”
Bai Liu turned back toward him with a faint smile.
“Really. That’s all.”
When Bai Liu walked out from behind the church, he happened to see Liu Huai talking endlessly to Liu Jiayi nearby.
In truth, Liu Huai wanted to do exactly what Bai Liu had done—transfer everything directly to Liu Jiayi.
But Liu Jiayi was blind.
It was too dangerous for her to carry so many things herself.
Although Liu Huai didn’t fully trust Bai Liu, he trusted Bai Liu’s professionalism when it came to transactions.
Left with no better choice, he said quietly:
“If I die, I’ll transfer everything to you beforehand. Then you can pass it to my sister.”
In exchange, Liu Huai would pay Bai Liu four hundred points.
Bai Liu agreed.
Soon afterward, the choir performance reached its final stage—the group photograph.
Bai Six, who had only just managed to remove most of his makeup, was dragged back by a teacher for the photo. Another bright red dot was jabbed onto the center of his forehead with lipstick.
Wearing an expression that looked thoroughly done with life, he stood in the back row.
His hair was still damp from baptism.
From where he stood, he could vaguely see several investors gathered in front.
Bai Liu stood among the newly arrived investors at the very front.
The Dean adjusted the camera and announced:
“Group photo for the 200X Love Welfare Home Arts Performance!”
Click.
The camera captured Bai Six’s indifferent face forever inside the colorful photograph.
Bai Liu had always wondered how Bai Six managed to single him out from among so many investors.
But he had never asked.
Because if he had asked, Bai Six probably would have pointed at the Bai Liu standing in the photograph and answered:
—Because only your gaze lacked greed.
Only you looked at us without the desire to take something away.
You looked at us calmly.
As though you were looking at your own past.
“The choir performance has officially ended.” The Dean clapped his hands lightly. “Children, please give the gifts you prepared to the investors as thanks for their support.”
“This was the assignment I gave you yesterday. You all completed it, correct?”
A scattered chorus of replies rose from the children.
“Yes, Dean.”
The children lined up one by one to hand over their handmade gifts.
Bai Six walked silently along with the line.
When he passed Bai Liu, he gave him nothing.
After all, his investor was already “dead.” There was no need—and no way—for him to present a gift.
Of course, Bai Liu had already shamelessly demanded the gift earlier while they were behind the church.
Bai Six had been reluctant to hand it over, but Bai Liu kept insisting that he had already paid for it.
In the end, Bai Six yielded to the overwhelming charm of money and reluctantly gave him the present.
It consisted of two drawings.
One depicted a small fish trapped inside a glass jar.
The other showed a shattered mirror burning apart inside a train.
They were scenes from the two games Bai Liu had described during their conversation the previous night.
At the bottom corner of both drawings was a signature:
[w]
Looking down at the drawings, Bai Liu finally understood where the two pictures he had once seen in reality had come from.
And why the scenes inside them had always felt subtly wrong.
He lifted his gaze toward Bai Six.
There was still a trace of lipstick left at the corner of the child’s eye.
The moment Bai Six noticed Bai Liu looking directly at him, he immediately turned his face away.
He disliked being looked at directly.
Ah, right.
Bai Liu remembered now.
At this age, he had still hated direct eye contact.
The current Bai Liu, however, had long since become accustomed to looking people straight in the eye in every situation. It was a habit he had developed through work.
Bai Six was far too different from him now.
He was no longer that child trapped within the narrow confines of this welfare home—
the child who liked flamboyant colors, sharp things, and intensely saturated shades.
And yet—
he truly had once been exactly that kind of child.
7:30 PM.
The choir performance finally came to an end.
The Dean personally escorted all the investors back to the hospital. Before leaving, Miao Gaojiang gave Bai Liu a long, meaningful look. Bai Liu merely replied with an unconcerned “Goodnight” before calmly returning to Mu Ke’s room.
The room was empty.
Mu Ke was still downstairs in the archives.
Bai Liu lowered his eyes to check the time.
According to the schedule he had designed for Mu Ke, he would begin memorizing files at noon and continue until 9:15 PM. Nine hours and fifteen minutes.
Based on Mu Ke’s memorization speed, Bai Liu estimated he could memorize roughly three to five hundred medical records before the nurses’ shift change. The estimate came from the number of children recorded in the welfare home documents Bai Liu had found in reality.
There was still about an hour and a half left.
At a time like this, Mu Ke should have been contacting him through the keyboard.
But—
Bai Liu touched the now-empty space at his neck.
He had already given the game manager to Bai Six.
That meant he could no longer contact Mu Ke. Nor could he go downstairs himself to check Mu Ke’s condition or relay any useful information.
Meanwhile, deep inside the medical archives—
Mu Ke covered his mouth as he searched through the dust-filled room, memorizing file after file.
He had no idea how long he had been trapped in this dark place.
Unlike the hospital rooms, there were no clocks here. The only way Mu Ke could judge the passage of time was by occasionally catching sight of nurses walking past outside during their patrols.
When he saw a nurse heading toward the cafeteria, his nerves tightened slightly.
Dinner time.
Which meant Miao Feichi and the others had probably already returned.
Mu Ke immediately opened his system backpack.
Just as he reached toward the keyboard to contact Bai Liu, one of the keys moved on its own.
[enter]
Meaning:
Entering.
We’re back.
Mu Ke quickly removed the [backspace] and [?] keycaps.
That was his way of asking:
[Should I return now?]
Then he placed the keycaps back into position.
Bai Liu’s response arrived almost immediately.
[end][?]
Mu Ke froze briefly before helplessly replying:
[N][O]
There were far more files here than he had expected.
He skimmed through the names rapidly. Memorizing countless irregular names was difficult enough already, not to mention matching each child to their corresponding illnesses, treatment timelines, and detailed case histories.
At that moment, Mu Ke genuinely appreciated Bai Liu’s foresight.
After sleeping, his efficiency at memorizing this kind of tedious, detail-heavy information had indeed improved dramatically.
But even so—
he still couldn’t finish within a single afternoon.
Because the files here were simply too extensive.
Every patient record contained detailed diagnostic histories from other hospitals as well. Each case was absurdly complicated. Most of these children had already been declared incurable after being transferred through countless doctors and institutions.
The medical files were thick enough to resemble miniature books.
Another message arrived from Bai Liu:
[9][1][5]
Mu Ke understood immediately.
Wait until the 9:15 PM shift change before returning.
But there was one serious problem.
Miao Feichi and Miao Gaojiang had already come back.
If he encountered them on the way—
Mu Ke hesitated briefly before typing again:
[v][p][?]
He had intended to type PVP, but since the keyboard only had one [p] key, he used the lower half of the letter instead. He assumed Bai Liu, as a game developer, would understand.
PVP—player versus player.
Mu Ke was asking what he should do if he encountered hostile players like Miao Feichi.
This time, the response took longer.
Apparently, Bai Liu was deciphering what Mu Ke meant.
Finally, three letters appeared:
[L][F][G]
Mu Ke sucked in a sharp breath.
He didn’t understand. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ
After thinking for a while, he finally dragged the meaning out from memory.
LFG.
Looking for group.
An old online gaming term.
It was rarely used anymore. Modern players usually invited people directly through voice chat or team functions. But because Mu Ke had researched gaming terminology before—and because his memory was excellent—he barely managed to recall its meaning.
After pondering for a moment, he understood Bai Liu’s intention.
Don’t panic.
Don’t act hostile.
If he encountered Miao Feichi, pretend to casually seek cooperation.
In simpler terms:
Pretend to just be Mu Ke.
Although phrased that way, it sounded strangely ridiculous.
Still, Bai Liu had already warned him last night that Miao Gaojiang would likely begin suspecting their identities today. The identity of “Mu Ke” was no longer completely safe.
But if Miao Feichi wanted to attack them, he would have to wait until after 9:15 PM, when his stamina bar recovered enough to use high-level skills again.
Without a primary damage dealer like Miao Feichi cooperating with him, Miao Gaojiang wouldn’t act rashly for now.
After all, the previous night, Bai Liu and Mu Ke had forced their way into the ICU at exactly 9:15 PM. That confrontation had forced Miao Feichi to unleash a powerful high-level skill, draining his stamina bar completely. Since stamina consumed by such skills couldn’t be instantly restored through potions, Miao Feichi had effectively been benched all day, forced to recover naturally.
And now, Mu Ke’s infiltration into the archives happened to line up perfectly with the 9:15 PM shift change.
If he encountered Miao Feichi now, it would be precisely during the final minute before his cooldown fully ended.
Meaning:
Before 9:15 PM—
Mu Ke was safe.
Everything had been calculated with terrifying precision.
Not even a second of deviation.
Mu Ke slowly let out a breath.
Under Bai Liu’s arrangements, every step somehow aligned with impossible exactness.
At this point, Mu Ke genuinely couldn’t tell when Bai Liu had started planning all of this.
He even began suspecting that Miao Feichi’s violent outburst the previous night—and the subsequent exhaustion of his stamina bar through the use of an S-rank skill—had also been anticipated by Bai Liu from the start.
Even though the two of them had nearly died because of it.
That S-rank attack could have instantly wiped out fifty percent of both their health bars.
If Miao Feichi’s attack had succeeded, they would have been instantly GG.
And yet—
Bai Liu had won the gamble.
Which bought them their “Silent Night.”
At 9:10 PM, the keyboard moved again.
Mu Ke immediately opened the backpack.
[G][O]
Leave now.
Mu Ke inhaled deeply.
He scanned the entire archives room one final time, mentally reviewing everything he had memorized before quietly pushing open the door and peering outside through the narrow crack.
The nurses’ station lights were still on.
But the corridor itself was empty.
Dark.
Silent.
The patients had already been locked back inside their rooms.
Slowly exhaling, Mu Ke stepped out cautiously.
Under the dim corridor lighting and the constantly operating humidifiers, the entire hallway was shrouded in damp white mist. Everything felt wet, greasy, and eerily oppressive.
The only source of light came from the weak yellow glow spilling through the half-open door of the nurses’ station.
In the silence, Mu Ke could hear only two things:
The sound of his own footsteps.
And the strange noises drifting from the patient rooms on both sides of the corridor.
They were subtle sounds—
like the noise plants might make if growth footage were accelerated thirty-two times.
From the cracks beneath several hospital doors, red fluorescent light flickered faintly.
Mu Ke immediately recognized it.
The strange fungal growths attached to the Blood Lingzhi from last night.
They emitted light while growing.
A heavy scent of blood drifted through the air.
Mu Ke unconsciously quickened his pace.
He avoided the emergency staircase entirely. Too many Deformed Children had gathered there the previous night. Compared to that, taking the elevator before the nurses returned was safer.
He stepped inside and pressed [7].
The elevator doors began closing slowly with an uneven mechanical jerk.
At the same time, the red fluorescence beneath the hospital room doors intensified.
Mu Ke heard wet popping noises—
like mushrooms splitting open to release spores.
At the far end of the hallway, one hospital room door slowly creaked open.
The ICU room.
The one Mu Ke had broken into the previous night.
A shadow crawled out from inside.
No—
“crawled” wasn’t the right word.
The thing was too long.
Its spine arched grotesquely as it emerged. Its head tilted sideways while it pushed itself into the corridor, sniffing the air as though searching for the scent of blood it had once tasted.
[System Warning: Newbie player Mu Ke currently possesses only 6 HP. Two monsters have detected your presence. Please evacuate immediately.]
Mu Ke’s breathing instantly quickened.
Two?!
There had only been one patient here before!
Where was the second one?!
But aside from the creature slowly approaching him from the end of the corridor, he couldn’t see anything else.
The monster continued advancing.
Every time Mu Ke blinked, it seemed several steps closer.
Its elongated limbs moved spider-like across the blood-red glow spilling from beneath the doors. Its body twisted unnaturally as it crept toward him, head tilted sharply to one side, eyes fixed on him without blinking.
But the elevator doors behind Mu Ke still refused to close.
He repeatedly slammed the button until sweat formed on his forehead, yet the doors remained stubbornly open.
During the day, he had clearly seen the nurses using the elevator normally.
This private hospital was lavishly decorated.
There was no way it actually used an elevator so broken that the doors couldn’t close properly.
Unless—
Mu Ke froze.
If the elevator itself wasn’t malfunctioning, then there was only one explanation.
Someone outside was pressing the “open” button.
His entire body stiffened.
Slowly, he leaned his head out to look.
Beside the elevator crouched a child whose body was riddled with syringes.
Her legs were twisted together in a horrifying deformity. She knelt on the ground with her head tilted back, repeatedly pressing the elevator button.
Because she was so tiny and hidden against the wall, Mu Ke hadn’t noticed her earlier.
Several fingers on one of her hands had been cleanly sliced off.
The cut surface was unnaturally smooth.
The moment her hollow eyes met Mu Ke’s terrified gaze, the child grinned.
An innocent, bizarre little smile.
Then she giggled.
“Don’t go up. Go down.”
“You need to go downstairs.”
“There’s someone upstairs waiting to catch you~”
Mu Ke’s legs nearly gave out from fear.
But the monster in the hallway was almost upon him.
Without hesitation, Mu Ke shoved the syringe-covered child aside and stumbled backward into the elevator, frantically hammering the close button.
At the very last second—
just before the spider-limbed patient reached the elevator—
the doors finally slammed shut.
The elevator jolted violently before slowly beginning to rise.
Mu Ke collapsed against the wall inside, utterly drained.
His gaze drifted toward the digital clock above the panel.
9:14 PM.
One minute left.
As long as he didn’t encounter Miao Feichi within this final minute—
he would survive.
The elevator suddenly stopped at the fifth floor.
The doors slowly opened.
Mu Ke looked up stiffly.
Outside stood Miao Feichi.
Crouching lazily in front of the elevator, he smiled and waved two fingers toward Mu Ke.
“Good evening, Mu Ke.”
His smile widened.
“You’re coming back pretty late. Where’d you go?” Miao Feichi tilted his head. “Did you go see Bai Liu?”
The digital clock changed.
[9:15:00]
Miao Feichi followed Mu Ke’s gaze toward the time display.
His grin immediately turned colder.
“Oh?” he drawled softly. “Looks like my stamina bar has finally recovered.”
With a smooth motion, he drew both blades and slid one beneath Mu Ke’s chin.
A flick of his wrist forced Mu Ke to raise his head.
Miao Feichi bent lower, staring into Mu Ke’s trembling eyes while speaking in an almost playful tone.
“Didn’t you say these knives of mine are pig-slaughtering blades?”
He chuckled quietly.
“But these blades have never touched something as filthy as a pig.”
The twin blades slid outward with a metallic clack, tapping lightly against both sides of Mu Ke’s body.
The cold reflection along the steel made Mu Ke shiver violently.
He instinctively tried to retreat deeper into the elevator—
only to realize someone had already appeared behind him at some point.
Miao Gaojiang looked down at him expressionlessly.
There was nowhere left to run.
