Thank you @LimWC for the Kofi~
Yuying University
Chapter 436: All previous efforts wasted?
Third Floor of the Administration Building.
The corridor was pitch-black, not a shred of light in sight.
Looking ahead, only two tightly shut office doors stood before them. The words on the iron plaques were blurred by the darkness, but under the faint glow, two lines of text were still barely visible.
To the left was the Principal’s Office—their ultimate destination.
To the right was the Vice Principal’s Office—a place that seemed to have little to do with the main storyline of the instance, or with their true purpose for entering it.
Yes, compared to the Principal’s Office, it should be significantly less dangerous.
But everyone knew all too well: it’s often these seemingly safe options that are the real traps. If they let down their guard and were fooled by its harmless appearance, they might all end up dead.
Hugo was certain Wen Jianyan could see this too—so why had he still made such a suggestion?
“……”
Standing still, Hugo stared intently at the young man before him, doubt and hesitation flickering across his usually composed face.
Wen Jianyan met his gaze. His complexion was frighteningly pale, but his eyes glinted sharply, the gleam within them enough to send a jolt down one’s spine.
“Have you made your decision yet?!”
Under the crushing pressure, Wei Cheng’s voice had become distorted.
He kept his eyes fixed on the seemingly empty stairwell behind them, his face ashen, forehead drenched in sweat. His powerful spiritual sensitivity as a medium made his entire body tremble—it was as if he could see a terrifying presence climbing the stairs step by step, drawing closer at an alarming pace.
“If not, we won’t make it!!”
He couldn’t hold back anymore and screamed.
—Time was running out. A decision had to be made.
Hugo’s brows furrowed deeply.
This was not an easy decision for him.
Although Wen Jianyan had been the core of their team thus far, and it was thanks to him they had survived multiple crises…
Even so, they couldn’t ignore how low sanity points could affect someone’s mind. After all, even the brightest minds could fall into madness within a nightmare instance.
And this was a particularly critical moment.
But after a brief internal struggle, Hugo finally made up his mind.
“Alright. Right side.”
He chose to trust Wen Jianyan.
After all, up until now, hadn’t he always been right?
With no time to hesitate, the group sprang into action.
They sprinted toward the Vice Principal’s Office at full speed.
Their hurried footsteps echoed through the dark corridor.
Behind them, a chilling, invisible presence seemed to be closing in. They could almost hear its stiff, rhythmic steps—a deadly pressure weighing down on them with every second.
“The door’s unlocked!”
Wei Cheng grasped the handle and pressed down. “Quick!”
Without time to think, the four of them rushed into the open room.
Su Cheng, the last to enter, shoved the door shut with all his strength.
Just as it closed, something slammed into it with a resounding bang, nearly knocking Su Cheng off balance. A cold aura seeped through the gap, making it unmistakably clear: danger was right outside.
Another bang followed.
It was deafening. The hinges groaned under the strain, as though the door would collapse at any moment.
“Get back!” Hugo barked.
Su Cheng let go and leapt back. In that instant, Hugo lunged forward and dumped all the remaining gray-white cigarette ash from his bag, forming a thick barrier behind the door.
This time, he spared no effort.
The ashes formed a peak-like mound, sealing the doorway tightly without a single gap.
Once the ashes formed a continuous line, the noise outside finally ceased.
The corridor returned to dead silence.
The banging had stopped.
“……”
Inside the dark Vice Principal’s Office, no one spoke. Only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the room. Each of them knew just how close to death they had come in those last few seconds.
“…Did it leave?”
Su Cheng stared at the tightly shut door, panting as he asked.
“No.” Wei Cheng replied immediately.
His eyes were still locked on the door. His face remained ghastly pale—perhaps even worse than before. “It’s still out there.”
His voice was low, but hearing it sent a chill down everyone’s spine.
In the dark corridor, a faceless “gatekeeper” stood silently outside the door, motionless, waiting—just as it had at the student council office on the second floor.
But this time, there was no red light to block their presence. So even though things had quieted down, Wei Cheng could still clearly sense the terrifying threat just beyond the door.
It hadn’t vanished. It wasn’t leaving.
It was simply waiting.
The group exchanged a grave look.
This was why they hadn’t considered entering the Vice Principal’s Office in the first place: they weren’t sure if the gatekeeper would leave once they got inside.
If it blocked the exit, escaping this room—let alone reaching the Principal’s Office—would become exponentially more difficult.
Then Hugo spoke, his voice hammering a grim realization into their already sinking hearts:
“And… I don’t think this door will hold for long.”
He nodded toward it.
Everyone followed his gaze.
Before the door was a thick line of grayish-white cigarette ash. Everything looked normal at first glance—but upon closer inspection, they saw something disturbing: the edge of the ash nearest the door had started to blacken, as if being scorched.
At first it was just a narrow fringe, but as they watched, that charred edge began to spread, inching toward the rest of the ash.
Some invisible force was fighting back—and eventually, that door would fail.
All eyes turned toward the back of the room.
There, Wen Jianyan leaned limply against the wall, head bowed. His black hair clung to his deathly pale face, soaked with sweat. He was gasping for breath, clearly at his limit.
“So,” Wei Cheng looked at Wen Jianyan, finally voicing the doubt that had plagued them, “why did you insist we come to the Vice Principal’s Office?”
Was it because he sensed some deadly threat in the Principal’s Office? Or was there a more specific reason?
“I’m not sure yet.”
Wen Jianyan looked up, replying calmly.
“…?!”
The others were stunned.
They had assumed he had some solid reason for making that call—perhaps he simply hadn’t had time to explain. None of them expected this answer.
“Not sure yet”???
What did that even mean?
Wen Jianyan didn’t meet their bewildered gazes. Instead, he braced himself against the wall and staggered to his feet.
“Where’s the light switch? Can someone turn it on?”
Hugo paused, then reached out to fumble along the wall. After a moment, there was a soft click, and dim white light flooded the Vice Principal’s Office.
It wasn’t a large space—perhaps a quarter of the size of the offices downstairs.
The furnishings were simple, seemingly no different from those in the real world.
Mahogany desks and chairs sat at the far end of the room. There were two wilted potted plants. The walls were lined with bookshelves, each one crammed with countless unidentified books.
Wen Jianyan nodded in thanks, then quickly stepped inside, his eyes sweeping the room in search of clues—any hint or piece of evidence.
He hadn’t lied.
Aside from the vague tip from Bai Xue before entering the instance, he truly had no particularly convincing reason for choosing this path.
Especially since Bai Xue’s tip was incredibly vague:
“Right.”
Just one word.
Blunt and without context.
Especially in such a large, open-style instance, a clue like that could apply to almost any situation.
But Wen Jianyan understood how Bai Xue’s ability worked.
Despite being hailed as the most powerful medium, Bai Xue’s ability had nothing to do with spiritual perception. What it truly connected to was fate.
An overpowered and terrifying ability.
And because of that, it was guaranteed to be precise.
Within the instance, each of them would make countless logic-based decisions—“left or right” moments. Fate would never offer guidance for something trivial. It would only intervene at the most critical, most central turning point of the entire instance.
So when Wen Jianyan suddenly recalled Bai Xue’s warning, he’d felt his skin crawl and his blood run cold.
—There could be no more fitting moment than this.
Their only objective for entering Yuying University was to retrieve an item. Once they had it, they had no reason to linger here.
The Vice Principal’s Office looked safer—but after enduring so many crises in various instances, they’d learned one vital lesson: in a nightmare world, seeking comfort over the bigger picture would get you killed.
The gatekeeper closing in from behind.
The ever-ticking countdown.
Their teammates still scattered and out of reach.
From the moment they split up with Orange Candy, this operation became a death mission. With only four members, their goal was clear: retrieve the item. To hesitate now—to choose the safer path—would be suicide.
One factor after another stacked up.
So much so that even Wen Jianyan, in that moment, would never have considered turning right.
It was against reason, against logic.
And that’s exactly why Bai Xue’s clue hit like a thunderclap.
It was a terrifying period at the end of a sentence.
And so, even though “right” went against every judgment he could make…
Wen Jianyan still chose to trust his instinct in that instant.
Go right. Enter the Vice Principal’s Office.
Maybe that’s the key to breaking the cycle.
Ignoring the others’ confused stares, Wen Jianyan began scouring the room.
What he needed now was a reason—
A reason why he absolutely had to come here.
“Is it because there’s something here?”
“Or is there an even more terrifying crisis waiting in the principal’s office?”
Wen Jianyan wasn’t sure.
He walked over to the desk and began bending down to rummage through the drawers beneath. His fingers were steady, but his heart was pounding wildly. Cold sweat streamed down his temples, and his vision blurred and swayed due to anxiety and his low sanity level.
A voice came from behind — Su Cheng:
“Looking for something? Need my help?”
Wen Jianyan didn’t even lift his head:
“Not for now.”
Truthfully… if he could, he would want Su Cheng’s help. But unfortunately, Su Cheng’s ability wasn’t useful in this situation — because even Wen Jianyan didn’t know what question he needed to ask.
To attempt a prophecy without even knowing what question to ask would do nothing but waste one of Su Cheng’s limited ability uses.
As Wen Jianyan frantically searched every nook and cranny, suddenly, the phone in Hugo’s pocket vibrated twice. In the deadly silence of the vice principal’s office, the buzzing was incredibly loud. Instantly, everyone turned their heads.
Hugo paused, then pulled the phone from his pocket.
The screen lit up — it was a message from Orange Candy.
The content was simple, just a short line:
[Can’t hold on. Get out. Quickly.]
What…?!
When Hugo calmly read the message out loud, everyone’s pupils shrank.
Given Orange Candy’s personality, she would never send a message like this unless things had truly reached a desperate point.
It seemed that — just like them — things on her side had reached a dangerous standstill.
Everyone’s heart sank.
Indeed, the worst-case scenario had arrived.
They had only managed to obtain the key and reach the third floor because Orange Candy’s group had diverted most of the threats. Which meant, if Orange Candy’s side could no longer hold on… this side would be overwhelmed too.
And in the end, it would all fall apart.
Hugo raised a hand to rub his temples and typed a reply:
“How much longer can you hold out?”
No one knew what exactly she was facing. After a long delay, Orange Candy finally replied:
[Seven minutes].
A non-rounded number.
Clearly, it was a time estimate squeezed out through sheer willpower.
At the same time, the protective ashes on the ground had already been half-consumed — they probably wouldn’t last much longer either.
Wei Cheng wiped the cold sweat from his brow:
“What do we do now?”
Obviously, they didn’t have many choices left.
Either abandon all the progress they’d made and escape immediately… or risk their lives and gamble on finding a useful item in the principal’s office.
Hugo bit down on an unlit cigarette, his iron-grey eyes flickering under his prominent brow. Though they were cornered, he didn’t look flustered like Wei Cheng — in fact, he looked like he still had cards left to play.
He said:
“Wait.”
“Wait?” Wei Cheng was stunned.
“Don’t doubt the people you use, and don’t use people you doubt.” Hugo calmly fiddled with his lighter, the flickering flame illuminating the side of his face.
He glanced toward Wen Jianyan, still searching in the distance. “Give him five minutes.”
“Worst case, if time runs out, I’ll burn my trump card and get us all out of here.”
—
Meanwhile.
Wen Jianyan was searching as fast as possible.
He was a true expert at finding hidden things — but unfortunately, he soon realized the vice principal’s office held far fewer useful items than he’d expected.
The guiding hand had pointed toward the door — clearly indicating that the item was in the principal’s office across the hallway.
Most drawers were empty, filled only with scattered school guidelines from ethics class and a few new student handbooks handed out at admission.
Beyond that, the entire office had no hidden panels, no compartments — nothing.
It was like a hollow show home — filled with expected decor but completely devoid of personal or meaningful content, or any clues related to the instance.
Like a tomb.
Even the books on the shelves were the same.
Just like the professional books he’d found in the luggage earlier, the text was indecipherable gibberish — no readable information at all.
Frustrated, Wen Jianyan flung one of the books back onto the desk.
The book hit the messy desk with a “thud.” Wen Jianyan’s eyes followed the motion, falling aimlessly on the surface.
The pale pages were filled with bizarre, unreadable characters.
“….”
Suddenly, Wen Jianyan paused, as if something had clicked in his mind.
He darted forward and swept aside the books cluttering the desk, rummaging through them with urgency.
Very quickly, he pulled out a thin booklet from the bottom of the pile—
It was a new student handbook.
…He’d been looking in the wrong direction.
What he needed wasn’t a hidden item — it was hidden information.
And he had already realized where that information was when he first entered the instance… he just hadn’t known the content.
Wen Jianyan pulled his own handbook from his pocket and placed it side by side with the one from the office, flipping through both at the same time.
The sound of flipping pages echoed through the dead-silent room.
His eyes darted between the two books, his finger tracing along the lines, comparing them closely.
Soon, Wen Jianyan’s breath hitched.
Goosebumps rose across his back, and the hair on his arms stood up — he wasn’t sure if it was from fear or excitement.
…He was right.
Indeed, the principal’s version of the handbook had much more content.
His copy only had one page of the map — but in the office’s version, there was a blank page after the map.
Some chapters also ended abruptly in the student version, but in the office version, they had long empty sections afterward.
Even sections that were unreadable gibberish showed subtle differences.
For example, this line:
“For your comprehensive development, the school adopts a credit system, ■■■■■■.”
That was in the student version.
But in the office’s version, although the legible text was the same, the unreadable gibberish took up nearly two full lines.
And this part too:
“Your credits will be insufficient to support your late-stage development, ■■■■■■, leading to irreversible damage to your future planning.” Same situation — same legible text, but clearly more corrupted information in the longer version.
—
In the “Integrity First” livestream chat:
[Damn, I really didn’t expect there to be TWO versions of the handbook!]
[That’s wild — this instance is such bullshit. They gave players the redacted one and hid the real one in the vice principal’s office??]
[Honestly though, it’s not like there’s much difference. The longer version just has blank pages or unreadable print. Doesn’t seem to affect his clearance much.]
[…Yeah, true.]
—
The others stood silently at the door, waiting.
The office door was tightly shut.
The corridor outside was silent — no sound at all. But unlike the dead stillness in the hallway, the ash barrier inside the office had already turned half-black and filthy, as if corroded by something.
A chill hung in the air — dark and ominous.
Half of Orange Candy’s seven promised minutes had already passed. Time had never felt as excruciating as it did now.
Each second felt like a century — yet also seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. It was nerve-wracking.
Hugo stood against the door, his face hidden in shadow, unreadable.
Su Cheng sat on the floor, idly playing with a tarot card that glimmered faintly under the dim light — though his eyes were locked on Wen Jianyan.
As the most spiritually sensitive one, Wei Cheng glanced between the blackening ashes on the ground and Wen Jianyan, growing more and more anxious.
Suddenly, Wei Cheng froze — as if sensing something:
“…Wait a minute.”
Hugo opened his eyes and looked at him. “What is it?”
“That thing outside the door,” Wei Cheng swallowed hard, unsure, “I think it’s gone?”
Su Cheng stopped fiddling with the card and looked up:
“Gone?”
“Yeah.” Wei Cheng nodded slowly, placing a hand on the door, sensing the cold aura receding. “Just now, the death premonition I’d been feeling suddenly vanished.”
Hugo stepped forward.
He knelt down and pinched some ash from the ground:
“You’re right.”
Since they entered the office, the creeping corruption of the ashes had never stopped — until now.
It was like “it” was no longer trying to come in.
“Hatred transferred?” Su Cheng speculated.
“I’m not sure,” Wei Cheng shook his head, confused. “But logically, there shouldn’t be anyone else on the third floor. I don’t know why this would happen…”
—
Not far away, Wen Jianyan remained oblivious to everything happening on the other side.
He leaned over the desk, staring intently at the two handbooks spread open in front of him, eyes darting between them.
Why?
He couldn’t figure it out.
Even though the principal’s version clearly had more content — those extra parts were either blank or illegible. If even the stream audience couldn’t read the true content… then why go through all the trouble to make two versions? What was the point?
Unless—
Suddenly, the office’s silence was interrupted by two buzzes. Wen Jianyan’s thoughts were cut off as Hugo checked his phone again — another message from Orange Candy.
Only two words:
[GET OUT.]
But the promised seven minutes hadn’t even passed — not even halfway.
Hugo’s pupils shrank — as if he suddenly realized something.
He pocketed the phone and quickly strode to the vice principal’s window.
The window was shut.
Through the fogged-up glass, he could see the outside: pitch black, a campus so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
On the road in front of the administrative building, a single dim streetlight glowed. Beneath its faint light, a few figures could be vaguely seen, slowly approaching this direction.
“…That side just finished class.”
Hugo lowered his voice.
At those words, everyone froze.
…No wonder the “guard” who had just been stationed at their door had disappeared.
Now, everything strange finally had an explanation—because what would replace it was an even worse situation.
Every time things seemed like they might take a turn for the better, a new crisis would strike in the next second, throwing them into even greater danger.
“We have to leave.”
Hugo slowly stepped back from the window, speaking gravely.
The end of the Ideological and Moral Education class, and the return of the vice-principal along with more student council members, would completely shatter the fragile balance that had barely been holding. Orange Candy was already short on manpower; there was no way she could maintain order under these circumstances. Those who remained on the third floor would be caught like fish in a barrel.
He turned his head toward Wen Jianyan. “You—”
But Hugo had only just opened his mouth when Wen Jianyan interrupted him:
“Where’s the food?”
“…What?”
Hugo frowned.
“The props we bought from the cafeteria?” Wen Jianyan stepped forward. His face, already pale, now seemed completely bloodless, making his eyes shine even more sharply. He spoke in a low voice, “Who has them?”
Wei Cheng blinked and said:
“I’ve got some.”
Since they couldn’t predict what might happen once they split up, Orange Candy had distributed the cafeteria-bought props to each person before separating.
Not far away, Su Cheng watched Wen Jianyan’s face, frowning:
“But your condition right now—”
“No time to explain,” Wen Jianyan’s gaze was burning, and his words urgent and clear. “Hurry.”
Wei Cheng also hesitated.
No one knew better than them the side effects of those cafeteria props. And Wen Jianyan’s SAN value was already dangerously low. In this state, eating something…
Was basically suicide.
Hugo glanced at him, then gave Wei Cheng a nod.
Since even Hugo approved, Wei Cheng no longer had a reason to object. He sighed, took out half a steamed bun he had bought from the cafeteria, and tossed it to Wen Jianyan.
Su Cheng stepped forward, seemingly to stop him, but he was one step too late.
He lowered his gaze, his expression turning slightly colder.
Wen Jianyan walked quickly back to the desk and shoved the bun into his mouth, taking a quick bite.
The cold bun was warmed and moistened by saliva, the starch releasing a faint sweetness when chewed. However, as the seemingly ordinary food slid down his throat, a loud “buzz” exploded in Wen Jianyan’s ears. His already shaky vision became even more chaotic and blurry, and he had to press a hand to the desk to stop himself from collapsing.
Wen Jianyan shook his head, straining to glance up at the corner of his vision.
Before his eyes, the number behind the SAN value slowly began to fall, dropping from a shaky 16 down to 10.
He lowered his gaze to the cluttered surface of the desk.
On the cold white paper lay rows of neatly printed black text—exactly the manifesto they had been forced to read earlier during the Ideological and Moral Education class.
Not enough.
Wen Jianyan took a deep breath and, with trembling fingers, raised the bun to his lips again and carefully bit off another corner.
The SAN value started to drop again from 10.
Soon, it fell into single digits.
In that instant, the hallucinations and auditory illusions he had previously been able to control suddenly surged in full volume, flooding in from all directions. His sense of direction vanished, and reason began to collapse… It was all horribly familiar.
Wen Jianyan trembled uncontrollably from head to toe. His bloodless lips trembled slightly, and his eyes began to lose focus. He had to drop what was in his hands and brace himself on the desk with both arms just to remain standing.
Hold on.
Just one more step.
He lowered his quivering lashes and stared at the paper.
Sometime during all this, the black characters on the icy white paper had vanished. In their place was a frenzied scrawl of red symbols—sharp, wild strokes like graffiti stabbing at his retinas, almost physically painful to see.
Memories of the words returned, repeating like a curse.
[I I pledge, I willingly offer my flesh and blood..]
[I pledge, I willingly offer my mind and spirit.]
[I pledge, I willingly offer everything I have.]
Wen Jianyan clenched his fingers, nails digging deep into his palm, yet he didn’t seem to feel any pain.
He reached with difficulty for the nearby freshman handbook.
In his wavering vision, the previously blank pages now began to display blood-red characters. As the chaos and pain intensified—as if his mind were being corrupted—the once-garbled, unreadable text slowly became comprehensible.
Just as he suspected.
Even though the readable content remained the same, they still refused to give freshmen the full version of the handbook. Why?
…Because under specific conditions, the full content could be read.
While waiting, Hugo kept glancing out the window.
The dim streetlight flickered in the darkness. The vice-principal and student council members drew closer and closer to the administrative building.
His body gradually tensed, clearly entering battle-ready mode.
The moment those people entered the building, Hugo’s patience ran out. He sprang to his feet:
“We have to go.”
“Breaking through the front entrance is too risky,” he said quickly, sharp eyes glinting in the darkness—clearly he’d already planned a route. “So we’ll go out the window.”
The third floor wasn’t high—jumping wouldn’t be fatal.
What was truly dangerous wasn’t the height, but the unknown threats—just like at the school gate earlier, when anchors who broke the rules vanished the moment they stepped onto campus, as if swallowed into another dimension.
Hugo stared into the darkness outside, face grim.
“Everyone, gather around. Stay close to me.”
Clearly, he was prepared to burn through his resources and brute-force their way out.
“No need.”
At that moment, Wen Jianyan raised his eyes.
Under the dim, pale light, his eye sockets were bloodshot. His gaze, however, was disturbingly calm—so calm it was terrifying.
He placed a hand on the cold sheets of white paper on the table and said slowly:
“Go to the second floor.”
“Message Orange Candy and ask where she is. If she’s already left, tell her not to come near the admin building. But if she hasn’t, tell her to bring people to the second floor.”
But this time, Hugo shook his head.
“Sorry,” he stepped forward and firmly grabbed Wen Jianyan’s shoulder. His face was stern, brooking no argument. “This time, you listen to me.”
Wen Jianyan stared at him and said coldly, “Then everything we’ve done will be for nothing.”
All the dangers they’d survived, all the challenges they’d overcome in the admin building—wasted. If they wanted to come back, they’d have to wait a week and start from scratch, but on a harder difficulty.
“So what?”
Hugo lowered his eyes, his tone cold and almost heartless:
“In my judgment, surviving if we go downstairs now is nearly impossible.
And right now, I trust my own judgment—based on my skills—more than I trust your decisions in your current mental state. At least this way, we’ll all survive.”
He kept a firm grip on Wen Jianyan’s shoulder and gestured for the others to approach, preparing to force his plan into action.
No front door. Window escape.
Wen Jianyan stared at him and suddenly laughed coldly:
“Really? You trust your judgment?”
He stepped forward. Compared to Hugo, who was in peak condition, Wen Jianyan looked like a corpse—pale, frail, like he’d snap in the wind. But somehow, he radiated danger.
The young man fixed his unfocused yet sharp eyes on Hugo. His pale pupils burned with a ghostly flame, like a will-o’-the-wisp flaring inside a skull.
The polite mask shattered. For once, he bared his sharp, pale teeth.
“Including the Xingwang Hotel?”
“…”
Hugo’s pupils shrank.
“What—”
“Who do you think led you to the framing shop?” Wen Jianyan grabbed his arm, sneering. “Who do you think made your blood flow into the painting? Who saved you in that instance?”
“It wasn’t the nightmare.”
“It was me.”
“If you want to clear this game, don’t trust yourself.”
Wen Jianyan’s expression was cold and arrogant.
“Go to the second floor.”
badass