The passenger’s eyes widened, seemingly unable to believe someone had dared to treat them like this.
Time was running out, and Zhou Qi’an’s expression darkened.
So what exactly was he supposed to find? He lightly rubbed his hair in frustration.
It was already 6:18 PM.
Around him, passengers began blasting public announcements, chatting loudly, and playing music. The entire second floor became a cacophony, severely disrupting his concentration.
Zhou Qi’an stood still, water dripping from his clothes and pooling beneath his feet.
The most critical element in this hide-and-seek game… was the phone.
He couldn’t get rid of his own phone, and it wasn’t feasible to stop all the passengers from receiving calls. That left him with only one option: stop the person making the calls.
“The game won’t leave you without a way out.”
The caller was most likely hiding somewhere inside the terminal—and this person probably wasn’t the King of Drama.
If he could actually find the King of Drama here, he might be able to leave the instance with a single tap.
Surrounded by the infinite malice of the passengers, Zhou Qi’an tried to recall the voice from the phone.
This copy of the world wouldn’t give him a sense of déjà vu for no reason. That voice—so twisted, yet strangely familiar—he must have heard it somewhere before.
The fact that he hadn’t immediately recognized it suggested two things: one, the voice had been altered; two, he wasn’t very familiar with the person behind it.
Faces flashed rapidly through his mind—first those of people close to him, then various NPCs. Eventually, Zhou Qi’an locked onto one.
“It was a player!”
A member of the steady, composed man’s team.
Zhou Qi’an bit his tongue to stay calm.
If that player had been forced to make the calls, then they’d probably already… met their end.
“Returned to the homeland of souls?”
Their soul now drifting through the terminal, making calls in this warped instance?
It was a dark joke he told himself when facing near-certain doom, but before he could even smirk, a thought struck him.
“Maybe… it’s not impossible.”
If the fallen player had been taken over by the King of Drama, then in some sense, the two were now together.
And there was only one place where both of them could appear at once.
Without a second thought, Zhou Qi’an dashed toward the darkened corner of the second floor, hoping to test his luck.
Unlike the calm journey he’d made earlier with Miss Qi leading the way, the air was now thick with moisture—so dense it felt like a wall trying to keep him out.
Ironically, this resistance gave him hope. It meant he was on the right track.
Ring ring.
Behind him, a passenger’s phone rang.
Ring ring.
Another passenger’s phone rang.
The laughter continued downstairs, while upstairs, the sharp tones of classic ringtones echoed through the space.
Zhou Qi’an turned around—and saw a chilling sight.
Every seated passenger had stood up, phone in hand. Not just one or two—all of them. These NPCs had now become the “ghosts” sent to catch him in this game of hide-and-seek.
Their footsteps followed in perfect unison—one after the other. Zhou Qi’an cursed and pushed against the thick, suffocating resistance in the air.
Tap tap.
Their synchronized steps echoed behind him, like marionettes moving in unison, every footfall falling in perfect rhythm.
Tap tap tap.
The footsteps grew faster.
“Just a bit more.”
Zhou Qi’an gritted his teeth. Under normal circumstances, he could reach the office in under a minute from here.
The problem was the drag created by the dense air—it was drastically slowing him down.
Too many people. His sacred artifact wouldn’t help. And money?
These passengers were like empty shells—soulless. Tossing money at them likely wouldn’t work.
The lead passengers were almost on him.
As the light dimmed and half his body slipped into shadow, Zhou Qi’an suddenly spun around. Facing the lead passenger just a meter away, he swung his cane directly at them.
The strike didn’t do much damage—but it did slow him down.
The struck passenger grunted, but more surged forward from behind.
Their faces were twisted with excitement and hatred as they tried to press their phones against Zhou Qi’an’s face. But just then, a white silk ribbon slithered in from the side, wrapping around one passenger’s neck—not to strangle, but to pull something free.
Zhou Qi’an let out a soft breath. The ribbon’s movement in the darkness was still a bit too eye-catching. Would dyeing it black help?
It would be like wearing night ops gear.
White Silk: ?
Thankfully, he didn’t dwell on that. He focused instead on the passengers’ reactions.
These people weren’t all just penny-pinchers. Some might not care about money—but none of them would want to lose their precious credentials.
Right now, someone’s actor qualification certificate had just been yanked off and flung to the floor. The moment it landed, the trailing passengers stomped all over it.
“My actor license!”
Seeing their most prized possession destroyed, the passenger flew into a frenzy, violently shoving people aside.
Several were knocked over, their falling bodies tripping up the others behind them.
The scene instantly descended into chaos.
Zhou Qi’an seized the opportunity, pushing with all his strength. For a moment, it felt like he was tearing through barbed wire—his body coming apart at the seams.
But he made it.
Zhou Qi’an burst into the office ahead.
Miss Qi was nowhere to be found. The office had returned to its default empty state.
With his entrance, the chasing passengers became more frantic, scrambling to get up and charge after him.
Zhou Qi’an immediately switched on his flashlight and aimed it at the painting on the wall. Aside from the King of Drama, all the background faces were twisted into grotesque, exaggerated expressions—like masks stretched over human skin, their original features lost.
His artistic eye kicked in. Despite the distortion, he began reconstructing each face’s original features in his mind.
Footsteps reached the hallway just outside.
Zhou Qi’an scanned the painting at lightning speed.
The first passenger to enter—still bitter about the earlier slap—lunged forward, phone outstretched, trying to press it against Zhou Qi’an’s ear.
“Knew it.”
Zhou Qi’an’s gaze locked onto the second-to-last row in the painting. “It’s him.”
It was a male player from the composed man’s team. His neck looked as if something had strangled it. His eyes bulged, and a phone was pressed to his ear. In the dim light, with so many heads packed together, it could easily be mistaken for just hair.
“I found you.”
A fraction of a second ahead, Zhou Qi’an thrust his cane into the face in the painting.
The phone in the painting shattered.
At the same time, the phone hovering near his own ear suddenly went silent—reduced to a dull beep beep beep.
The player’s face in the painting twisted even more—finally freezing in a moment of pure despair.
Zhou Qi’an had no doubt: that player would be trapped in the painting forever.
A fate worse than death.
The passengers chasing him looked furious, their eyes screaming hatred. But ultimately, they could only turn and leave, retreating in mechanical unison.
But the one who hated him most was the player in the painting. That face, frozen in torment and rage, seemed to accuse Zhou Qi’an of stealing his last chance at life.
“I won’t let you go—”
“Never—”
The shrieking voice faded… eventually silenced inside the frame.
Buzz.
This time, it was Zhou Qi’an’s phone.
The voice on the line had changed—gentle, elegant, pleasant to the ear.
But whether it was really the King of Drama, no one could be sure.
“Wisdom: 8 points. Strength: 9 points. Adaptability: 10 points.”
“Congratulations. You have passed the actor’s qualification test. Your certificate will be issued shortly.”
Zhou Qi’an let out a long breath. But after only two, his muscles tensed again, his gaze snapping sideways.
Miss Qi had reappeared without a sound. She kindly handed him a towel and smiled, “I’ve always believed in you, Mr. Zhou.”
“Welcome to the acting family.”
Zhou Qi’an gave a cold laugh as he wiped the water from his face. He glanced at the painting, which now featured one more face—and said nothing.
Miss Qi said, “Please come with me to the departure hall.”
Zhou Qi’an couldn’t wait to leave this creepy place. Without hesitation, he followed her out.
The two descended the stairs. Miss Qi asked him to wait in the lounge while she stepped into the torrential downpour outside.
Yet no rain touched her.
It was as if she existed on a different layer altogether.
Could Miss Qi be the King of Drama?
Zhou Qi’an narrowed his eyes—or rather, maybe Miss Qi was just a smokescreen created by the King of Drama to mislead players.
The more blatant something is, the harder it is to see through.
When Miss Qi returned again, the rain had stopped.
She handed him a small laminated card.
Zhou Qi’an stared at it—not because of the card itself, but because the diamond on her ring sparkled brilliantly. Miss Qi is seriously rich.
[Actor Qualification Certificate]
Holders of this certificate may freely enter and exit live filming sets and the Actor Incubation Base—Huagu Bus Terminal.During performances, the holder has one opportunity to receive a relaxed evaluation standard.
Note: Real-name registration required. Non-transferable.
Zhou Qi’an pondered. So that meant the Huagu Bus Terminal wasn’t really a bus station—it was an actor training facility.
Everything returned to how it was before.
Vehicles and people began moving around the terminal again, repeating their routines as if nothing had happened.
Zhou Qi’an walked out and stood at the entrance, looking up at the sky. The sun had come out after the rain—but unfortunately, it was setting, and not strong enough to dry his wet clothes.
He really wished for some fire right now.
If only a fire could dry his clothes…
Maybe it was because of the damp air inside the terminal, but the matchmaking corner now seemed much busier than before.
Zhou Qi’an strolled over uninvited:
“Hello there.”
A familiar opening line—and several of the people at the matchmaking corner visibly twitched at the temples.
He quickly zeroed in on the uncle who had mocked him earlier for being unprofessional. Zhou Qi’an smugly showed off his certificate:
“Thanks to your reminder, I’m a certified actor now.”
The uncle, who had been in the station, of course knew Zhou Qi’an had passed. His smile was forced:
“Congratulations.”
“Actually, you all have great qualifications.” Zhou Qi’an didn’t continue with the sarcasm. Instead, he said with genuine confusion,
“The King of Drama should appreciate seasoned actors, right?”
If he had complimented them at the start, they would’ve dismissed it as flattery. But by first mocking, then succeeding, then recognizing their value—it hit differently.
The NPCs in the matchmaking area started feeling like he really had an eye for talent.
Zhou Qi’an casually tried to dig for more information about the King of Drama:
“What’s his criteria for casting? Why are there so many undiscovered talents at the station?”
The uncle couldn’t help grumbling:
“Mr. King of Drama prefers using newcomers.”
“Because they’re fresh and inspired?”
“No. Because they’re cheap.”
“…”
Zhou Qi’an almost lost it.
So it’s just labor exploitation now?
“Sigh, looks like I’ll never be in a blockbuster again.”
The uncle’s face powder started falling off from frustration, prompting others to chime in with their own grievances.
Someone suddenly asked Zhou Qi’an:
“What play were you in? Was the script any good?”
Zhou Qi’an didn’t name the title, just said:
“Trash. Cliché garbage.”
Once he gave that harsh review, the NPCs—especially the ones with flaking makeup—gradually returned to normal.
If the script was that bad, it didn’t seem like a production that would make someone famous. That calmed their resentment.
After chatting a bit longer, Zhou Qi’an used their mutual dislike for the King of Drama’s work to bridge the gap between them.
Around 7:30 p.m., the sunset faded into twilight, and he finally returned to the terminal.
What he’d gathered so far:
The King of Drama was greedy, budget-limited, and liked splitting a play into seven parts for one production. That much confirmed what Zhou Qi’an had guessed earlier—each act gave a clue, and completing the whole play would reveal the director’s identity.
Another tidbit from the NPCs:
If your performance is really bad, the scene would be reshot.
In other words, players couldn’t survive just by hiding. They had to fit their character. Going OOC was unacceptable.
“Liar!”
A furious shout from inside the terminal pulled Zhou Qi’an out of his thoughts.
He looked up and saw the boy with the dark blotch on his face—Black-Spot Kid—arguing with an old man.
The old man’s face was half-peeled, exposing his gums. He smacked his lips and looked down at the child.
Zhou Qi’an listened in and quickly pieced together the situation:
The kid had loaned some spare change he got from Zhou Qi’an to this old man—at a high interest rate. He’d chosen a senior citizen thinking it would be easy, but ended up on the losing side.
The old man lowered his head, exuding a strong stench:
“Kids shouldn’t bite off more than they can chew. Otherwise—”
He didn’t finish his sentence.
Because he was now hanging mid-air, wrapped up by White Silk.
The old man’s feet fluttered like a duck’s, kicking in mid-air.
Zhou Qi’an calmly rummaged through the man’s pockets.
By logic, the security guards should’ve intervened—but one had been scalded earlier, and the others were still at the entrance. Zhou Qi’an easily pulled out a few bills—the amount matched what he’d originally given the boy.
Noting the nearby onlookers, Zhou Qi’an promptly let the old man down.
Then, he handed half of the cash to the Black-Spot Kid.
Payment for services rendered.
Just as Zhou Qi’an was about to return to his seat, his clothes were tugged from behind.
He frowned and looked down:
“What?”
Facing a kid who once tried to kill him, giving half the money was already more than generous—mostly because the boy shared his love of money.
But the Black-Spot Kid just stared at him, his black-and-white eyes wide and unmoving.
“Big brother,” the kid said. “You smell like flowers.”
Then he ran off.
Zhou Qi’an didn’t think much of it at first.
But a few seconds later, his body tensed.
He’d just come out of a tub of hot water. Where the hell would a scent come from?
As if realizing something, Zhou Qi’an ran out again.
The matchmaking area was empty.
He turned to the security guard and asked,
“Where did everyone go?”
“Just took a bus and left,” the guard replied.
Delays due to fuel and rain had pushed back departure. The driver had only now started driving the culprit to the security booth.
Zhou Qi’an took a slow, deep breath.
The clue from Act One was: The King of Drama is obsessed with fresh flowers.
In the office painting, the long-haired man had a rose pinned to his chest.
The fact that Zhou Qi’an couldn’t identify the scent indicated that many smells in this instance couldn’t be sensed directly. Evidence or external methods were needed.
The game wouldn’t restrict scent detection for no reason.
Which meant—anyone who had interacted with the King of Drama might carry traces of floral scent on them.
Zhou Qi’an stared at the matchmaking area—and realized something terrifying.
The memories of those people’s faces and voices were being wiped from his mind.
If the King of Drama had memory-altering powers, why bother taking them away?
“Was it because I insulted his work?”
Did he massacre everyone over one rude comment?
That would go way beyond “petty revenge.”
Now what exactly did I call his play again… Right—
Trash.
…
The qualification certificate around his neck flapped in the wind—just like Zhou Qi’an’s mood.
Looking back, everything felt off.
Miss Qi hadn’t been gone long enough to get to the old city. So where did she get the certificate?
Chances were, the King of Drama had already shown up by then.
In the cold night wind, Zhou Qi’an summarized:
The King of Drama might be able to freely move between the old city and the bus terminal.
“Not good.”
This instance’s boss had powers that were frankly absurd.
The sky turned completely dark.
The post-storm calm melted into the night. The road nearby looked like a lurking python, ready to devour anything.
Shen Zhiyi and the others hadn’t returned. The college student hadn’t replied either.
“Still no sign of them.”
Miss Qi’s warm voice drifted over, but it lacked any real concern.
“Night roads are dangerous. People get lost.”
More importantly, on a long night road—you eventually meet a ghost.
Zhou Qi’an thought back to that endless highway from the start of the instance. Just thinking about it gave him chills. Despair seeped from the asphalt. Even the guardrails seemed haunted.
Then he laughed.
With him around, how could anyone get lost?
Old City
At 9 PM sharp, the city fell silent. All the tourists had returned to their hotels. Only players remained on the streets.
The entire ancient town felt… dead.
Everyone regrouped. The silence was so deep they could hear each other’s breathing.
The composed man looked grim. Beside him, the buzzcut player still looked terrified. That afternoon, they’d just finished the lion dance money task when his teammate vanished.
What scared him most was—he couldn’t explain how it happened.
“Why would someone die after completing a money task?”
They had been heading to regroup—and the next moment, he was alone.
“Boss, should we go look—”
“He’s already dead,” the composed man interrupted flatly.
Buzzcut was still trying to figure out what had triggered the death rule. But the composed man sneered:
“Just bad luck.”
He’d figured it out: immersion was key. Making money only helped survival.
If you didn’t immerse within a set time, someone would die.
The game didn’t randomly wipe out players for just anything. The selection was random—but death would come.
The composed man looked at Shen Zhiyi’s group. Foreigners were also watching them.
Zhou Mu still looked energetic, though a few strands of her hair had fallen loose. The college student was panting and pale, as if something horrible had just happened.
As for Shen Zhiyi, aside from a faint cut on his hand, he looked more or less normal.
Overall, the three looked more worn than the rest—which meant they’d likely just survived a dangerous performance.
Aside from the roller-skating player, the rest had split into three groups. Each had used their earnings to secure transportation.
Shen Zhiyi had rented an e-scooter even before starting his role.
The composed man finally spoke again:
“Transport alone won’t get you out. Let’s go together. I can ensure we make it to the terminal.”
The short-haired girl with the foreigners sneered:
“You’ve got a way? You think we don’t?”
Zhou Qi’an had once asked them how they found the terminal. So the newcomer likely used some one-time method that couldn’t be reused.
Their bickering finally snapped the college student out of it. He reflexively checked the time—then froze.
“Brother Zhou just messaged.”
He quickly replied, saying they were almost done on their end.
A few minutes later, Zhou Qi’an called.
The student stepped aside and spoke softly.
But without any sound-blocking tools, several players still perked up to eavesdrop.
“We’re all fine. Yeah, one player died… Auntie Zhou is great. All the rice cookers in town are sold out…”
Half a minute later, the college student turned to the others:
“Brother Zhou said he left a light on for us. We should hurry.”
Light? At first, no one understood.
Then they stepped out of the old city—
—and saw a bright beacon glowing in the darkness.
It stood tall, illuminating the path like a lantern for night-shift travelers. Strange, but oddly heartwarming.
__
And the one who lit it?
Zhou Qi’an.
Huagu Bus Terminal.
Zhou Qi’an leaned lazily against a pillar, his skin glowing under the beacon light as he yawned.
He hadn’t gone out to meet anyone.
First off, there was no guarantee he’d find them. Second—why waste his fuel?
__
[Beacon]
His payment from that shady deal with Han Li.
The system called it the moonlight on the sea, the guiding light in the mist. Most importantly—it was a perfect coordinate marker.
Zhou Qi’an had never found the right moment to use it—until now.
Sure, his mom could always find him, but this instance was different. It blocked scent-based tracking. Just to be safe, it was better to light the way.
In the beacon’s glow, his phoenix eyes looked gentle. Zhou Qi’an, with his beautiful face, glanced at Miss Qi:
“See? Night roads are easier now.”
Author’s Note:
Zhou Qi’an:
I didn’t choose to go head-to-head with the boss.
He’s the one who stuck his face in my face.
You get what you ask for.
