Yuying University
Chapter 411: “If I’m a hallucination, why are you avoiding me?”
The sky was pitch-black, without the slightest glimmer of light.
The vast playground lay in utter silence.
Wen Jianyan raised his hand to press against his brow, his complexion unusually pale.
Although his SAN value had finally stopped declining, it was still nearly impossible to restore it to a normal level by sheer willpower alone.
Hallucinations and phantom sounds tormented him.
A bone-chilling cold that seemed capable of freezing his very soul made him tremble all over. Strange, distorted figures flickered at the edges of his vision, yet whenever he turned to look, they vanished without a trace.
He could hear whispers in his ears—low and indistinct—coming from no clear direction, carrying a strange power that could drive a person insane.
Wen Jianyan took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain sane in this state, then raised his head.
On the blood-red track that glistened as though wet with fresh blood, the expressionless members of the student council had disappeared at some unknown moment.
Looking around, he realized that the entire world seemed to have only him left.
And his hallucinations.
“Why won’t you look at me?” Wu Zhu asked.
Wen Jianyan: “……”
Look at you?
But honestly, he hadn’t expected that even as a hallucination, Wu Zhu could still be so infuriating.
Wen Jianyan ignored the other’s presence, lowering his head as he tried to think of his current predicament.
He opened his backpack.
Just like during the professional course, aside from the few epic-grade items, everything else was marked as unusable.
Clearly, this was a special feature of the compulsory course within this instance. However, during the earlier professional course, all they had to do was sleep through it. Even if they couldn’t use items, there had been no real danger.
But now, it was obvious that this situation could not be resolved so simply by sleeping.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[I just came back from the stream next door… and I finally understand why someone said the anchor is in the most dangerous state so far. He’s in a compulsory course that shouldn’t pose any fatal threat, unable to use any items, yet ran into an attack meant for Hugo!]
[But isn’t the anchor technically not entirely defenseless? The epic-grade items are still usable, right?]
[Yeah, but none of his epic items are suitable for this situation. The ‘Holy Infant’s Remains’ grants invincibility buffs, but they’re time-limited—if he can’t escape in time, he’s still dead. The ‘Bronze Scissors’ are for offense, but there’s nothing physical on the track to attack. The ‘Parchment Paper’ would be perfect here, but if I recall, he already used up its three-question limit in the last instance—it’s basically useless now… Might as well call him defenseless.]
[Damn, this guy’s a veteran fan—knows everything by heart. Respect.]
[But his talent should still work.]
[True! His talent is seriously OP, and now that he’s an official member of the Secret Council, the number of times he can use his talent per instance has increased. As long as luck is on his side, he might still trick the instance into letting him off.]
[Luck… good luck…]
[Family, I actually laughed out loud.]
Suddenly, Wen Jianyan’s vision blurred, and a buzzing sound rang out sharply in his head. The distant whispers in his ears instantly grew louder, making him sway unsteadily.
At the same time, the number above his head slowly flickered, dropping by one digit.
SAN: 27
“?!”
Wen Jianyan’s heart jolted in alarm.
Only then did he realize that, without knowing when, the tips of his shoes had somehow stepped back onto the scarlet track—causing his SAN to start falling again.
His heart skipped a beat as he hurriedly took several steps back, retreating from the track before his SAN could drop to 26.
Had he unknowingly walked forward?
He didn’t remember that…
Frowning in confusion, Wen Jianyan lifted his head and scanned his surroundings.
In the darkness, the track outside the field glowed blood-red. As his SAN decreased, the previous hallucinations returned: each tiny rubber grain transformed into a needle-sized eyeball, staring at him as strange giggling echoed all around. Sharp, thin voices—like an infant’s—whispered:
Come over, come over, come over…
Their voices came from all directions.
The track stretched out like a river of blood, with shapeless shadows stirring beneath its surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
Only now did Wen Jianyan notice that compared to earlier, the track had clearly widened.
Like a noose tightening around his neck, the track outside the field was silently encroaching, steadily eroding what little was left of his safe zone.
The process seemed slow, but in truth it was frighteningly fast.
In less than half a minute after he had stepped off the track, the bloody path had already reached his toes once more.
Wen Jianyan’s heart sank.
He knew the track would soon completely spread beneath his feet, and the last remnants of safety would vanish. Time was running out.
Like a prisoner standing on the gallows, Wen Jianyan could clearly see the dwindling time left to him.
So, was this happening to the others as well? Why had the student council members appeared in the first place?
Was it because of the earlier roll call?
No, that didn’t matter. What mattered now was figuring out how to escape this place.
Student council… roll call… escape…
…Damn it.
Wen Jianyan raised a trembling hand to press against his throbbing, aching temple.
His mind felt shrouded in fog; problems that should have been easy to solve seemed clogged up like cement in his brain.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[? What’s wrong with the anchor now?]
[What else? He’s being tortured by auditory and visual hallucinations.]
[If I remember correctly, SAN 30 is the threshold in this instance. Once SAN falls below 30, every single point becomes critical—the lower it drops, the more fragile the mind becomes. In the end, it’s hard to even form coherent thoughts. I recall that the last time this instance was open, there was a anchor who went insane when his SAN hit around 15—and that was before he even got assimilated by the instance.]
[Wonder what the anchor is seeing now… probably something really freaky, hahaha!]
Wen Jianyan felt like his thoughts were being shredded into pieces by an invisible storm. Sounds, light, shadows—everything around him seemed to turn into weapons, striking at his mental defenses as if they were real.
“……”
Familiar voices drifted from afar, born from long-forgotten memories.
Calling. Crying. Accusing. Screaming.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Someone was chanting.
“Uncomfortable?”
Wu Zhu’s voice suddenly boomed, amplified tenfold, lingering around him like a relentless ghost.
In the next moment, something cold touched his forehead.
Startled, Wen Jianyan raised his head.
—It was Wu Zhu’s fingertip.
As his SAN value dropped, some blurry boundary had broken. The phantom that should’ve only existed in his imagination now seemed to possess substance, just like the voices.
Those golden eyes were right in front of him.
“What did you see?”
Wu Zhu leaned in closer, staring curiously at Wen Jianyan’s pale face.
“……”
The cold sensation on his forehead strangely brought him a sense of calm, as if the hallucinations and phantom sounds had faded away for a moment. Wen Jianyan’s gaze flickered.
No, there was no real improvement.
Because Wu Zhu was itself a hallucination.
—The moment he started doubting his ability to distinguish reality from illusion meant that his condition had worsened.
Through his dizziness, Wen Jianyan forced his gaze upward to the right corner: SAN value had not increased. It had even dropped to 26.
Just as expected.
In the “Integrity First” live chat, the audience could only see Wen Jianyan standing pale and motionless, his eyes shifting slightly in the void. The mood in the chat also began to shift toward concern.
[The anchor’s hallucinations seem pretty severe…]
[Looks like this is different from his previous instances. Has his hallucination pattern changed?]
[But he’s handling it well. In SAN-based instances, the iron rule is to never respond to your hallucinations, or the boundary between reality and illusion collapses. Apart from saying ‘shut up’ at the start, he hasn’t spoken again. His SAN’s low, yeah, but I think there’s still hope!]
Wen Jianyan closed his eyes briefly and stepped back, moving away from Wu Zhu’s touch.
The voices and hallucinations returned once again.
“Aren’t I just a hallucination?”
Wu Zhu asked.
“If I’m a hallucination, why are you avoiding me?”
Wen Jianyan: “……”
This time, when Wu Zhu’s fingertip reached out again, he hesitated—but forced himself not to move.
Maybe there was some sort of balance at play: as Wu Zhu’s presence grew stronger, though his SAN value didn’t rise, the other distracting voices and visions began to fade away.
“……”
Wen Jianyan forced his focus away from the sensation of being touched.
Whether the hallucination was real or not wasn’t the point. The point was how to get out of here.
He really didn’t want to use his talent in this state. Its success rate depended on how believable the lie was—and in his deteriorating mental condition, the odds of success would only fall further. At worst, he’d just waste a precious chance.
So unless absolutely necessary, he’d better not use it.
His mind, fogged only moments before, began to clear bit by bit.
First, were the others facing the same situation?
Unlikely.
The appearance of the student council members earlier had given him a hint: although the time and place overlapped with the PE class, the danger he now faced likely came from the student council itself—not the class.
If that was the case, breaking the deadlock required thinking along that line.
But there was a problem.
Wen Jianyan realized he knew nothing about the student council.
After all, they had only shown up on the first day to register the freshmen at the school gate, and had never appeared again since. He never had the chance to learn anything about that overly mysterious organization…
At his side, Wu Zhu greedily took his wrist, lightly rubbing the skin on its inner side.
Wen Jianyan: “……”
It was a hallucination.
Endure it.
He took a deep breath and refocused his thoughts.
No… it wasn’t that he knew nothing at all.
Judging by the current situation, the only person besides himself who’d had contact with the student council after registration was Hugo—otherwise Hugo wouldn’t have that student council armband—
Wait.
Armband?
Wen Jianyan froze, then suddenly lifted his gaze and scanned his surroundings.
While he’d been thinking, the track had already swallowed most of the field. Judging by its pace, in less than five minutes, the so-called safe zone would be gone completely.
However…
Wen Jianyan’s gaze fell beyond the grayish field, onto the crimson track that circled all the way around. Now that he looked at it carefully, it really did resemble…
An armband.
His eyes flickered, and his breathing unconsciously quickened.
If that was the case, everything made sense.
Why the track had first appeared as a dull, faded red, but now looked like fresh blood—that was the color of the student council armband.
Unlike the track, which was a complete ring, the armband when worn on the arm was a strip fastened at both ends. Meaning—even when looped into a circle—there should still be a small gap.
That might be the way out.
But the question was—where exactly was this gap?
Wen Jianyan quickly swept his gaze around and focused on the spot where the student council members had first appeared at the edge of the track.
Could it be there?
Thinking so, he hurried toward that direction.
Wu Zhu stuck close behind him.
“You’ve figured it out?”
His voice sounded approving.
Wen Jianyan ignored him.
He skillfully shut out the annoying phantom beside him, quickening his pace.
But Wu Zhu didn’t seem to mind Wen Jianyan’s cold shoulder at all and kept pestering him relentlessly:
“Too bad. It’s useless.”
Wen Jianyan arrived at the place where the student council members had appeared. Breathing heavily, he anxiously searched the ground—and soon, his gaze halted.
He noticed that from this exact spot, if he looked across the track into the darkness beyond, there seemed to be a tiny, nearly imperceptible gap.
A faint glimmer of light seeped through from the other side.
This was it!
Wen Jianyan’s eyes lit up.
That was why the student council members had appeared here. And this was also why his “teammates” had suddenly spoken up earlier—to confuse his judgment and keep him lingering on the track.
This was the exit!
Wen Jianyan felt a rush of excitement and prepared to step toward the gap—but in the next second, a bucket of cold water seemed to drench him from head to toe.
No good.
He took a deep breath and glanced to the top-right corner of his vision.
His SAN value was dangerously low, the number displayed in ominous red.
25.
Wen Jianyan judged the track’s width again—even though only a few minutes had passed, the track had expanded nearly tenfold. It now looked like a blood river that could not be crossed.
If his SAN were above 60, he might’ve been able to force his way through.
But before gym class even started, Wen Jianyan’s SAN had already been lowered for various reasons.
It was far too low.
Based on how quickly he lost SAN just by stepping on the track earlier, he estimated he’d hit zero halfway across—and then he’d completely fuse with the instance.
The ‘Holy Infant’s Remains’ might help here, but he wasn’t sure its invincibility duration would last long enough…
Wen Jianyan stood frozen, his expression flickering.
“I told you already.”
At some point, Wu Zhu tilted his head, resting his chin on Wen Jianyan’s shoulder.
“The offer still stands. So? Consider it.”
“Kiss me, and I’ll take you out.”
Wen Jianyan: “…”
Shut up, you bastard.
Just as he made up his mind to take a desperate gamble, the gap across the track suddenly widened by an inch.
Wen Jianyan stiffened.
A hallucination? Or…?
As if answering his doubt, the next second, a worn rope—frayed in the middle—was tossed through the gap from the other side. A distorted, faintly familiar voice rang out:
“…Grab… hold…!”
Hugo?!
Wen Jianyan gasped in shock, recognizing the voice.
“Hurry!”
Clenching his teeth, he finally made his decision and grabbed the rope.
Wu Zhu: “…”
The light in his golden eyes flickered strangely.
“You trust him more?”
As the force on the rope yanked him forward, Wen Jianyan’s foot stepped onto the track. The next second, he lost balance and fell into the river of blood shaped like the track.
Countless shadows swam in the bloody river, surging toward him—but were blocked by some invisible barrier.
Wen Jianyan stared upward, heart pounding.
His SAN hadn’t dropped.
At that moment, the cold, ominous student council members reappeared, standing on the track and peering down at him expressionlessly.
Wen Jianyan gripped the rope tightly as a chill ran up his spine, making him tremble.
The already-frayed rope began to fray further, as if some invisible force gnawed at it. It creaked under the strain.
…Not good.
A strong, nearly fatal sense of danger rushed over him. Wen Jianyan shuddered and tried to pull himself forward along the rope—but his body felt frozen, impossible to move.
The student council members bent lower and lower, closer and closer.
They reached out pale hands toward him.
Wen Jianyan watched those deathly white hands approach, but his mind stayed clear, already prepared to activate his item.
‘Holy Infant’s Remains’—this was the perfect moment.
After all, he’d made it halfway. The duration should definitely be enough this time.
Three.
Two.
—
His mental countdown suddenly halted.
Wen Jianyan felt a soft, cold touch on his lips—something gently brushed past and quickly withdrew.
In his muddled, hallucination-blurred vision, those golden eyes loomed close.
“Fine, I’ll kiss you instead.”
Wu Zhu said, as if conceding.
The next second, Wen Jianyan’s body hit the ground hard, his cheek pressing against the rough, faded track. The rubber grains scraped his skin, leaving it red.
“He’s out!”
Through his ringing ears, he vaguely caught familiar voices, distant yet near.
“Thank God!”
“Is he hurt?”
“Tsk… plenty… but looks like he did that to himself. Should be okay.”
“Quick, help him up.”
As the hallucinated “Wu Zhu” vanished, the maddening visions and whispers surged back. Wen Jianyan lay dazed on the ground, then felt strong hands lift him up. His arms were slung over two shoulders, his legs limp like noodles as they dragged him forward.
Looking at the unconscious, pale-faced Wen Jianyan, Orange Candy wiped the sweat from her forehead and stretched her arms as if a heavy burden had finally been lifted from her shoulders. She let out a long breath of relief.
Hugo asked, “Satisfied now?”
Orange Candy tossed the rope in her hand back to Hugo and snorted reluctantly.
“…It’s okay, I guess.”
Hugo lowered his head and looked at the rope in his hand.
The middle part was already worn down to the point where only a few thin threads kept it from snapping completely, yet it still maintained its original shape and length.
He had to admit—even his heart felt relieved.
This tool had reached the limit of its usage. Honestly speaking, even Hugo himself wasn’t sure if it could hold out one more time. But props that could transcend rules and dimensions were far too rare. Other than this rope, he had no other option, so he could only gamble and hope for the best.
Unexpectedly, not only had the rope held out—it looked like it could even be used once more…
This was truly beyond his expectations.
Yun Bilan touched Wen Jianyan’s cheek, her brows furrowing.
“So cold.”
Not the temperature of a normal human body, but like frozen, solid ice.
“His SAN value is probably too low,” Orange Candy said as she walked over. “But honestly, being able to escape from danger of this level with SAN that low… that’s already pretty impressive.”
Tian Ye, holding up one of Wen Jianyan’s arms, asked anxiously:
“Then… what do we do now?”
His eyes suddenly lit up, as if remembering something. “Ah! The noodles from the cafeteria!”
Orange Candy rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Setting aside whether or not it’s a good idea to experiment with unknown items on someone with such low SAN, let’s not forget—it’s not even meal time now. Maybe think a little before speaking, huh?”
Tian Ye’s face turned red, and he mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Then what… are we supposed to just wait for his SAN to recover?” Wei Cheng frowned deeply.
“It won’t recover,” Hugo said, walking over.
He had already put the prop away and regained his usual calm.
“If I’m not mistaken, his SAN has already fallen below the critical threshold.”
Yun Bilan frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Hugo glanced at her and continued, “his SAN can no longer recover naturally over time. On the contrary, there’s a chance it’ll keep falling.”
Before breaking the threshold, even while burdened with a debuff, a person’s state was still considered ‘normal.’ As long as they stayed away from contamination sources, their SAN could slowly recover. But once below the critical threshold, the mind permanently deviated from normalcy. Even if they avoided contamination, without item assistance—or unless their willpower was exceptionally strong—recovery was nearly impossible. Worse still, hallucinations and auditory distortions would destabilize their mind further, causing SAN to keep dropping even without encountering danger… until they completely lost sanity.
As soon as he finished speaking, the atmosphere grew heavy.
“Then… what do we do?” Tian Ye asked helplessly.
At that moment, a calm voice interrupted from the side.
“This is when a Prophet becomes useful… isn’t it?”
Everyone turned.
Su Cheng stood there, his irises darkened further by the instance’s influence. He held a stack of Tarot cards in his hand. Judging by his demeanor, he had completed his divination even before they’d started discussing.
His eyes glowed with an eerie, mesmerizing light, and his voice was faint:
“Follow me. I know where to go.”
“Wow,” Orange Candy tilted her head with a playful grin and spoke in a meaningful tone, “you seem… different from before.”
Back in “Changsheng Building” during their last temporary team-up, Su Cheng had already shown the calmness and posture of a senior anchor—but he’d still appeared somewhat green and inexperienced. It hadn’t been that long since then, yet his aura had changed dramatically.
More importantly…
Orange Candy narrowed her eyes, her gaze falling on the Tarot cards in Su Cheng’s hand.
If she remembered correctly, Su Cheng’s ability couldn’t manifest physically before. Yet now, even outsiders like them could clearly see the cards’ shape.
This not only revealed the terrifying speed of Su Cheng’s growth—but also hinted at something ominous.
Even Orange Candy couldn’t help but feel a chill.
After all… how much time had really passed?
And during this entire instance, before Wen Jianyan fainted, Su Cheng had never shown any sign of this change. Was he hiding his power?
Or maybe…
Orange Candy glanced at the unconscious Wen Jianyan, her expression thoughtful.
—Did he not want his captain to find out?
As the twenty-minute run had ended, the rest of the time was free period—even leaving early wasn’t a problem.
So the group smoothly left the sports field without encountering any obstacles.
However, the P.E. teacher’s gaze lingered on Wen Jianyan’s back for a long time, only looking away after he completely disappeared from sight.
After all, Wen Jianyan now radiated an intense presence. If not for the strict rules in place, no existence within the instance would have let him go so easily.
After leaving the sports field, Su Cheng led the way, the others carrying Wen Jianyan and following behind.
He didn’t walk fast, but also not too slow. He was calm and certain, as if he knew exactly where to go—with no hesitation at all.
They passed the artificial lake, walked through the teaching buildings, heading toward the dorm area.
But before reaching the dorms, Su Cheng suddenly turned and walked in another direction.
As they walked, Orange Candy flipped through the freshman handbook, comparing it to the surrounding paths.
She frowned slightly.
The path they were now taking wasn’t marked on the map at all.
But what was strange was that—even though they’d passed this intersection many times before—they’d never noticed that there was another path if you turned left.
It was as if their awareness had been blocked.
After pushing through a patch of wild grass, a low, vermilion building soon appeared before them.
Su Cheng stopped.
“This is the place.”
Orange Candy stepped forward and saw the old sign hanging above the building:
■■ Supermarket.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[A supermarket?]
[A supermarket?!]
[This instance has something like that? All this time I’ve watched and never knew…]
[Think about it. Which anchor ever unlocked so many side missions in Yuying Comprehensive University? Most just rushed credits and got out. No wonder this instance had such low entertainment value.]
[Wait… wasn’t this supermarket mentioned before? I feel like I’ve heard of it…]
[! Oh! I remember! During the movie ‘Brave Richard,’ didn’t the protagonist talk to Chu Chu about this? After Richard came back from the gym, he stopped drinking tap water and started buying bottled water from the little supermarket!]
[Damn, you’re right! I remember wondering back then—what supermarket in Yuying University? Turns out there really is one!]
The group exchanged looks.
In a normal university campus, a supermarket next to the cafeteria made sense.
But none of them expected that the Yuying Comprehensive University’s supermarket wouldn’t even be in the official campus area—nor marked on the map.
What kind of creepy supermarket was this?
“Well, what are you all standing around for?” Orange Candy shrugged carelessly.
“Let’s go in.”
