Thank you @Eline for the Kofi. (1/3)
Lucky Cruise Ship
Chapter 544: That’s really toxic
“…”
Staring at the narrow, shabby cabin in front of him, Wen Jianyan swallowed down every curse word that came to mind without changing his expression.
Damn.
He took a deep breath and stepped into the cabin.
The heavy metal door closed behind him.
The room was tiny—so small it only held a single narrow hard bed, a small table, a little cabinet, and a washroom so cramped it was hard to even turn around.
There was a small round porthole in the wall, its glass shockingly thick. Outside, it was pitch‑black; nothing could be seen.
The entire room was cramped and oppressive, and there were even cracks visible in the ceiling.
Compared to the first‑class cabin he’d stayed in before, the difference was like heaven and earth.
But with every other part of the ship already occupied by corpses, he didn’t really have the right to nitpick.
Wen Jianyan sighed and opened his live room.
His gaze paused.
Even though the instance had begun, the reality show hadn’t ended.
In the time he’d been looking at the live room, the list of unopened private missions had already stretched to three pages, full of malicious choices. But, perhaps because they had only just entered the instance, the public missions showed no signs of refreshing yet.
And…
For some reason, the earlier live‑stream tier algorithm was still in place.
Even now that they were in an instance, anchors could end their stream just by completing their required broadcast time.
However, the required durations had all been extended:
Regular anchors: 24 hours of on‑air time.
Intermediate and advanced anchors: 22 hours.
Top‑ten on the Nightmare points leaderboard: 20 hours.
Top three on Nightmare: 10 hours.
Aside from the length, all other rules remained the same.
That was strange…
Wen Jianyan raised his brows in mild surprise.
Back in the Anchor Hall, the option to start and end streams made sense—Nightmare’s main goal then had been to draw Observers into the hall and facilitate the instance’s formation.
But now that the instance was fully formed, why keep using the old rules?
Still, whatever the reason, it wasn’t a bad thing for him.
Ignoring the wailing in the chat, Wen Jianyan ruthlessly shut off the stream and headed to the washroom.
Cramped as it was, at least most of the fixtures still worked. He could wash up just fine.
After leaving the washroom, Wen Jianyan threw himself onto the dry, squeaky little bed. The narrow single mattress gave an agonized creak beneath him.
In that instant, exhaustion crashed over him like a tide.
Today, he was truly spent.
Both body and mind had been pushed to their limits by the high‑stakes gamble on the second floor. A deep, heavy ache seeped up from his joints like mud, leaving him too tired to even lift a finger.
Yet his mind remained painfully clear.
Eyes open, he stared at the filthy ceiling above, faint hairline cracks just visible on its surface.
The last thing he’d wanted to happen had still come to pass.
The ship’s mileage had finally accumulated enough to fully corrupt into an instance—and all of it had happened with his help.
“…”
Wen Jianyan paused, then reached into his pocket and took out a napkin.
In the corner was a crooked little scythe scribbled in pen.
For a moment, the mysterious eyes of the prophet flashed through his mind.
“Danger is close now.”
“You can no longer stop it.”
So the real prophecy Su Cheng had made about the ship’s future was that “the opening of the instance is already a foregone conclusion.”
Everything else… wasn’t.
Staring at the napkin, Wen Jianyan’s expression turned pensive.
Up until now, one crisis had followed right on the heels of another, barely giving him time to breathe, let alone think. But once the bet on the second floor ended, he’d immediately calmed down.
In that instant, it was as if every earlier question he’d had clicked into place.
If Nightmare’s goal was to shape the instance, then Oracle’s wish naturally aligned with it.
At the banquet before, the reason the Gentleman had offered his help so proactively was most likely for this very purpose—and he’d specifically chosen Su Cheng, someone Wen Jianyan was more familiar with and subconsciously more inclined to trust, to deliver the prophecy.
More importantly, they had never lied.
Not only had the prophecies been true, but even the directions to the cockpit had been accurate. Because of that, Wen Jianyan had been able to logically piece together the true connection between the ship’s mileage and the casino.
And the “scythe” warning on the back had been even subtler—almost no one could successfully lie in front of Wen Jianyan, and Su Cheng clearly knew that well. So he had given that hint to Wen Ya, who had then passed it on to Wen Jianyan.
Wen Jianyan let out a bitter little laugh.
Who would’ve thought…
He’d been the one telling his teammates, “don’t trust too easily,” yet the one who subconsciously believed was still him.
How ironic.
He crumpled the napkin into a ball and tossed it toward the foot of the bed, exhaling slowly.
Forcing himself out of his discouragement, he dug deeper.
So what was Su Cheng really after?
Wen Jianyan didn’t think Su Cheng and Oracle were perfectly aligned—otherwise, Su Cheng wouldn’t have voluntarily forfeited in the Top‑Ten Challenge.
So what was his aim?
To help Wen Jianyan win those twelve billion? Or something else entirely?
Wen Jianyan pinched the bridge of his nose, his head throbbing faintly.
Dealing with a group of prophets was trouble of the worst kind.
They could see five, even ten steps into the future, while he, as just another human, would always be bound by incomplete information.
And Su Cheng…
Wen Jianyan frowned deeply.
Su Cheng might not count as strictly “hostile,” but the problem was how utterly uncontrollable he was.
In fact, he might be even less controllable than Oracle itself.
Nightmare’s modification of human will was irreversible, partly through innate ability corruption, partly through the influence of each instance. The moment Su Cheng left the guild and joined Oracle, he had placed himself fully under Nightmare’s control.
In some ways, prophets were the easiest to corrupt and contaminate.
They saw too much, and so were that much more vulnerable to being devoured by overload.
Even if someone’s starting intentions were good, Nightmare’s pollution could twist the end result into anything. No one could predict what would remain at the end.
Thinking back to how Chen Cheng had described Su Cheng’s behavior during the Top‑Ten Challenge, Wen Jianyan felt a strong sense of estrangement.
After everything, was the man still the person he remembered?
He wasn’t sure.
And he had no way to answer that.
Without realizing it, Wen Jianyan’s fingers had drifted to the snake‑shaped ring at the base of his finger.
The moment he noticed, he froze, then forced his hand away.
The only reason he’d been able to use that movement as bait during the gambling match was because he’d noticed he’d unconsciously picked up that habit at some point. But a trick that worked once wouldn’t work a second time.
As a seasoned gambler, he knew all too well: the more unconscious little tics you had, the easier it was for others to see through you.
Especially here, in this instance, those habits would be even more dangerous.
He lowered his gaze, meeting the blood‑red eyes of the silver snake.
…He’d have to be more restrained from now on.
Wen Jianyan thought silently.
Drip.
Suddenly, a cold droplet of water fell from above, landing squarely on the pillow beside his head.
“…”
Wen Jianyan’s eyes flew open.
He had no idea when it had started, but one corner of his pillow was already damp, and the air was full of a clammy fishy smell.
He froze, then slowly reached out to touch the wet patch.
He lifted his fingers and sniffed.
Salty, cold, faintly reeking of corpses.
—Seawater.
His movements stiff, Wen Jianyan slowly tilted his head to look at the ceiling.
Even with mental preparation, the sight still made his heart lurch to a dead stop.
The crack in the ceiling had somehow grown several times wider. The edges were wet and dark, and another droplet of water hung fat and ready to fall.
And right there in the middle of the crack was a gray‑white, lifeless eyeball—the eye of the dead.
It stared straight down at him without blinking. No one knew how long it had been watching.
“…”
Fuck!!!
Every hair on Wen Jianyan’s body stood on end. He rolled off the bed in a frantic scramble and staggered to his feet at the side, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Only then did he see that half the bed he’d been lying on was soaked through with seawater. He could no longer see the eye from that angle, but just remembering it made him shudder uncontrollably.
He looked at the early‑warning item he’d placed at his bedside the night before.
It hadn’t triggered.
Which meant that… even though he’d been watched all night, in a technical sense, he hadn’t been attacked.
Right then, his phone buzzed twice.
A message from Chen Mo. He’d sent the rendezvous location.
Wen Jianyan glanced back once at the damp bed, then picked up his item and fled the cabin without a shred of regret.
The corridor was even wider than the night before.
The anchors didn’t talk much to one another, each maintaining a healthy level of wariness.
“How were your rooms last night? Anything happen?”
Chen Mo asked.
Even though Eaton Ethan had promised that the million‑points‑per‑night cabins were safe, no one dared assume there wouldn’t be accidents.
“Nothing happened,” Maggie piped up eagerly, raising her hand. “As for the room… well, it doesn’t compare to first‑class, but the bed was really spacious!”
She’d drawn an A‑zone cabin.
“Same with B‑zone,” Chang Feiyu nodded with a smile. “Very safe, just a bit small. About the same as a second‑class cabin upstairs.”
Blond scratched his head. “Mine was safe too. A bit damp, but compared to outside, it wasn’t that bad…”
The only one in D‑zone, Wen Jianyan: “…”
Comparisons really were lethal.
Seriously, this differential treatment was a bit much.
But before he could mention the strange incident in his room, a soft ding sounded from up ahead.
Every anchor in the corridor fell silent at once and turned toward the source.
With a clatter of metal, the elevator gate slid open, and Eaton Ethan stepped out of the blood‑red car.
The corridor went dead silent.
The anchors stared at him without a word, alert and wary.
“Good morning, everyone,” Eaton Ethan said, utterly unfazed by the hostility. “I trust you all slept well?”
No one replied. Eaton Ethan didn’t seem to mind.
“Although the upper decks of the ship are no longer habitable, we remain committed to the principle of customer first. This cruise will continue to provide high‑quality service.”
“Decks -1 to -6 are recreation and casino areas, which you may visit freely. Decks -8 to -18 are lodging areas and can only be accessed with a room key.”
“If you require a loan, you may go to the first‑floor casino.”
“If you wish to draw tonight’s cabin number, you may also go to the first‑floor casino—the price remains one million per night.”
“Finally, the cabins on deck -9 will be open to you tonight at a price of five million per night.”
What?
At that number, everyone froze. A few sharp intakes of breath sounded in the otherwise silent corridor.
Five million a night?!
The million‑point rooms had already pushed almost everyone to the brink of bankruptcy, and now the next level of cabins would cost five times that?
Having said his piece, Eaton Ethan didn’t linger. He turned and re‑entered the elevator, disappearing quickly from view.
Only after he left did the tension in the corridor ease slightly.
“Five million. That’s insane, right?” Blond muttered under his breath. “Who’s going to pay that?”
But Wen Jianyan couldn’t laugh.
Because he knew the answer all too well.
In the “Integrity First” live room chat:
[Hahahahahahahahaha!!]
[Who’s the poor sucker that’s going to blow five million on a night on B‑9? Oh! It’s you!!]
[I can’t breathe!]
Wen Jianyan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily.
He turned to Chen Mo. “You asked about last night’s rooms earlier, right?”
Chen Mo: “Yeah.”
“Mine was terrible,” Wen Jianyan said with a tight smile. “Tiny and filthy, you couldn’t even turn around in the washroom. The faucet was always stuck, the drain was absolute trash, and most importantly…”
He drew in a breath.
“The ceiling cracked.”
Some stared, not quite understanding what he meant, but others suddenly went grim, clearly catching on.
Wen Jianyan continued,
“Seawater was leaking through, and there was a dead person’s eye staring down at me from the crack.”
At that, everyone sucked in a sharp breath.
Chen Mo’s face darkened. “Wait, are you saying…”
“Yes.” Wen Jianyan nodded, confirming his guess and voicing the ugly truth.
“This level won’t stay safe for long.”
“The D‑class rooms will be the first to fall.”
“Once it starts, the other rooms won’t last much longer either. It’s just a matter of order,” he added, looking at Blond. “You just asked who on earth would pay five million a night for a room on B‑9.”
Wen Jianyan sighed.
“I’m afraid the answer is: everyone.”
The mood immediately turned heavy and oppressive.
Even though Wen Jianyan had spoken in broad strokes, as veterans of multiple instances, the others understood his unspoken meaning right away.
The horror from above would keep seeping downward. If they stayed too long on any one deck—even in an A‑class room—they would eventually end up trapped in a death zone, surrounded by the dead.
As passengers on this ship, they only had one way to survive: spend a fortune to buy the right to move to the next deck down.
And based on what Eaton Ethan had just said, the cost of lodging would only climb with each level.
To live, you had to pay.
If you didn’t have enough money, you had to borrow.
But the interest rate on those loans was outrageous. To pay them back, you could only go to the casinos on decks -1 through -7 and gamble in death games with unknown rules.
One rule after another meshed together into a terrifying killing machine, and no one caught in it could dodge or escape.
“…Holy shit. That’s brutal.”
After holding it in for a long time, Ji Guan finally managed five words.
Wen Jianyan’s lips twitched. He didn’t answer.
But his instincts told him…
This was probably only the beginning.
“My room’s already in bad shape. I’ll probably have to move to B‑9 tonight,” Wen Jianyan said.
As the occupant of a D‑class cabin, he didn’t have many options. Even if nothing had attacked him last night, the state of the room suggested it wouldn’t hold out for another.
He glanced at the others and paused. “You’re coming with me.”
Although the immediate danger of staying another night on B‑8 wasn’t huge—and it would be cheaper—Wen Jianyan had other concerns. Nightmare had already used his teammates to threaten him before.
He now suspected that the reason he’d been the only D‑zone guest was that Nightmare wanted to separate him from the others.
Whether the goal of divide‑and‑conquer was to target him or everyone else didn’t matter—they were both bad outcomes.
Better to strangle that danger in the cradle.
The others all stared at him.
“But…” Chen Mo frowned.
“What’s there to worry about?”
Wen Jianyan cut him off, shoving his hands into his pockets with all the lazy arrogance of a prodigal son.
“Your president is loaded.”
Fourteen billion. Why not spend it however he liked?
In the “Integrity First” live room chat:
[…]
[If anyone ever embodied “the power of cold hard cash,” it’s him.]
[Damn it!! You’re way too cocky! The casino never should’ve let you win in the first place!!]
Leaning against the wall, Chen Cheng watched their conversation with cool detachment, then suddenly let out a short, derisive laugh.
Wen Ya looked over. “What?”
“Nothing,” Chen Cheng straightened, sounding bored. “Just wanted to tell you I won’t be joining your little slumber party.”
He waved a hand. “See you around.”
With that, he turned and walked away without looking back.
Wen Jianyan watched his retreating figure for a while, then pulled his gaze back. “You guys go check out the casinos on decks -1 to -6.”
Chen Mo: “What about you?”
“I’m going to -7,” Wen Jianyan said.
According to the countdown on his invitation, the auction would start at 8 p.m. the following night.
Back when he’d first visited deck -7, Carl Bell had told him the auction items and rules would be announced there.
Which meant today.
Even though the Lucky had turned into an instance, the auction would clearly still be held—Wen Jianyan hadn’t forgotten that the reason he’d boarded this time was to buy one particular item at the auction.
‘Dead Sea Scrolls’.
If he wanted to decode the human‑skin book he’d brought out of the Yuying Comprehensive University instance, he needed it.
Wen Jianyan rubbed his wrist; there was a faint ache there.
“See you later,” he said.
__
Author’s Note:
Wen Jianyan, a brand‑new, freshly minted nouveau riche.
