Shen Zhiyi stood there—not like a player running for their life, but more like a gatekeeper.
Cruel, cold. There wasn’t a trace of human emotion on his face.
The door had already been slightly opened. The patterns on it began to move, the shattered bodies of animals reassembling into a puzzle. A lifelike white dove emerged on the door panel.
Holiness and ominousness—two opposing images collided.
Shen Zhiyi reached out his hand. “Quick.”
Zhou Qi’an quickly came back to his senses and shouted for his mother to run.
At the same moment, the game issued its final instruction:
[No moving allowed~]
Almost overlapping with the voice, Shen Zhiyi yanked Zhou Qi’an to his side and completely opened the door.
The white dove came to life and flew out of the gate, as if it was the true key to unlocking the church.
The system prompt ended. A white light engulfed everything. As Zhou Qi’an passed through the door, a tearing pain ripped through his body.
The others, as if waking from a dream, gritted their teeth through the pain of being pulled apart and rushed toward the door.
It was unclear whether the moment of opening the door had weakened the death rule slightly, but at least no one died immediately from moving.
“Bertram!” came Wen Xi’s scream from behind.
Bertram didn’t look back. True, he did have some affection for the woman—and he believed it was mutual—but if the situation were reversed, Wen Xi wouldn’t have stayed behind in a life-or-death moment either.
So he ran even faster.
What was on the other side of the door?
Everyone already had a vague idea.
Leaving the world of the pocket watch, the bell chimes stopped—signifying the end of the “Red Light, Green Light” game.
The white light faded, and everyone who had dashed out collapsed onto the ground, exhausted.
In front of them was a bustling ancient city.
——
Inside the church.
Wen Xi stared at the priest before her, whose face was twisted into a wicked smile. She struggled to keep her emotions in check.
Fear, resentment, hatred—all danced in her eyes.
“There’s still a chance.”
At least the game didn’t announce her death sentence directly.
Zhou Qi’an survived two rounds of the priest’s torment. In terms of both game experience and real-life survival, Wen Xi far surpassed the young man.
The priest closed his thick Bible.
At that moment, a new door appeared behind him—a narrow one.
No longer gentle, the priest now exuded an air of superiority as he asked, “Child, which door do you want to go through?”
Of course, the one with the white dove.
But the simpler an NPC’s question, the more Wen Xi felt she couldn’t take it lightly.
The white dove’s door still bore the pattern, but it no longer looked alive. Had the path to survival changed?
She turned her gaze to the newly appeared narrow door.
It had no decorative patterns—just plain wood, different in color from the others.
The priest stood between the two doors, arms slightly outstretched.
In one hand, the Bible pointed toward the dove’s door; in the other, a cross leaned against the narrow door. His voice grew cold: “Have you decided? Which one will it be?”
The chill spread through her body. This was the game pressuring her to make a choice.
“Stay calm.”
Wen Xi repeated the words to herself, but her trembling fingers betrayed her fear.
The third time he asked, the priest seemed submerged in shadow. “Child, do you need me to choose for you?”
Wen Xi gritted her teeth. “I choose the narrow door.”
In religious language, the “narrow gate” is often symbolic of the path to heaven. The priest had also mentioned heaven’s bell chime when they first entered the church.
This was a clue she could connect.
Heaven could mean escape—or death. But compared to the dove door, it seemed to offer a better chance.
The priest smiled and slowly stepped aside.
Wen Xi nervously stepped forward and pushed open the door with closed eyes.
There was no white light beyond—only endless darkness. Wen Xi’s expression changed instantly, and she desperately tried to pull back.
The narrow door was a last-minute addition and stood close to the dove door. She quickly used a tool, trying to switch to the other door—and shockingly, it worked.
Just as joy began to rise in her heart, she saw that the other door also led into the same boundless darkness.
Vine-like tendrils burst from the ground, wrapping rapidly around her, dragging her into the void.
The priest’s voice turned malicious. “Child, why didn’t you consider the other three doors?”
He had been slightly disappointed that the one who stayed wasn’t the “wild child,” but now he felt it was the perfect outcome.
The trick with five doors might not have fooled the wild one, but it was more than enough for this believer.
Wen Xi gasped desperately.
She had been unconsciously guided to choose between two doors, forgetting that there were five total.
Not long ago, the players’ first task upon entering the church was to confirm whether the scenes behind each door would change. The first-round winners had already left. The game had restarted, and scene updates were perfectly normal.
Wen Xi’s mind had never been clearer—but it was too late.
“No—!”
There were no ghosts or monsters in the darkness—only a fading consciousness. Her sixth sense screamed that this was worse than being devoured by monsters or ending her own life.
The vines increased in number. Her limbs wouldn’t move. She could only watch as she was dragged toward the edge of the void.
Flowers. Soil. A strange scent.
Sweetness mixed with rot.
Her final living thought was:
This place… it feels like a garden.
Inside the church, the two open doors shut by themselves. All was silent again.
Having retained at least one believer, the priest wiped away his gloom, touched up his makeup, and once again wore his hypocritical smile.
A shadow drifted past the candle stand.
The priest paused, looked up, thought he imagined it, and resumed applying powder—when the shadow appeared again.
Putting away his makeup mirror, the priest cautiously approached where the shadow had been.
The candle stand was empty.
He hesitated, then rotated the stand. The baptism mural flipped, revealing a hidden room. He stepped inside.
The holy water font seemed normal. Seeing no one, he let out a breath—just as a powerful force shoved his head into the water.
He thrashed wildly. “You…”
Who are you?
Everyone had left the church!
“St—” gurgle gurgle “Stop…”
His hand gripped the edge of the font—but the pressure on his head only increased. He shattered the mirror he’d used for makeup, trying to stab behind him with a sharp shard.
The blade sliced the air—but struck nothing.
What?!
His expression twisted in panic. The hand holding him down hadn’t moved, which meant the attacker didn’t dodge.
Then how could he have missed?
Unless it has no physical form!
The water had already risen past his neck. The priest realized this assailant was neither speaking nor breathing—purely attacking.
The church’s story arc was over. The game’s will no longer watched over this drama. As long as the NPC didn’t die, anything else went.
A bit of water inhalation wasn’t lethal.
Just as the priest regained some strength, the shadowy figure dragged him to the strongest whirlpool again—over and over. Each time he surfaced for air, he was pulled back under, screaming, coughing blood, and choking.
·
No one outside knew what horrors were unfolding in the church.
In the ancient city, the players who escaped now heard a system prompt in their ears:
[“Red Light, Green Light” has ended. No performance score this round.]
[Congratulations on reaching the Ancient City.]
[Participation reward granted.]
[Reward: Clue about the King of Drama.]
**[Clue 4: The King of Drama has grown increasingly dissatisfied with his recent works and even more discontent with the actors. He yearns to create a perfect performance with a distinct personal style.
A good story must have an unexpected ending.]**
Zhou Qi’an let out a cold chuckle, unfazed.
With this level of plot design, the so-called King of Drama wouldn’t even qualify as a junior script planner in his company.
[Please proceed to the filming location immediately.]
[Special Notice: You’ve completed more than half of your performance and interacted with people from many professions.]
[Upon obtaining your Actor’s Certificate, you’ll be able to converse equally with other actors in the Ancient City.]
[You have one chance to consult an experienced actor.]
That finally sparked some emotion in Zhou Qi’an. His eyes lit up. There was a perk.
After the prompt ended, he glanced at the others. Having just survived a deadly game, everyone was in rough shape, but clearly more relaxed now.
Everyone must’ve received some form of system reward.
If everyone could successfully consult an old actor, the collective information gained would be huge—maybe even enough to clear the game.
That didn’t feel like the game’s usual style.
[Ah.]
Zhou Qi’an looked around. “Did any of you hear something?”
The players immediately tensed. At first, they hadn’t noticed. But listening carefully—it did sound like agonized wailing. Faint, muffled, almost like an illusion.
Tracing the sound’s source, everyone’s gaze landed on Shen Zhiyi.
Shen Zhiyi paused in thought for a few seconds, then slowly pulled a pocket watch from his coat.
The church engraved on its face was now unusually vivid. The white dove still clutched the flower in its beak. The church door was tightly shut. Muffled screams echoed faintly from within—eerie and bone-chilling.
The buzzcut guy instinctively stepped back, tongue barely regrown by a healing item. The scream stirred terrible memories.
Shen Zhiyi remained calm. “Probably the scream of someone who didn’t make it out.”
Makes sense.
But the logic lasted less than three seconds.
Dong Li frowned. “If it’s Wen Xi, then it should be a woman’s voice.”
This twisted, warped scream clearly belonged to a man. Aside from Wen Xi, the only one left inside was the priest. It couldn’t be the priest screaming… right?
Just as he was about to ask more, his eyes met Shen Zhiyi’s icy gaze—and his curiosity turned into dread.
Everyone had been so relieved to escape that they hadn’t fully processed it: in the final moments before exiting the church, they’d all been compelled to target Wen Xi.
[Focus fire on her.]
The command still echoed faintly in their minds, driving them to use their tools to divert monsters onto her.
Bertram recalled Wen Xi once theorized that Shen Zhiyi’s ability involved mental manipulation. Maybe she’d been right.
“The stronger the power… the greater the side effects.”
Thinking about this game rule, Bertram’s anxious heart eased a little.
Time flows differently inside and outside the set.
It was already 6 a.m. in the ancient city, and the sky was still gray.
Overcast skies, humid air, and strangely, there were more pedestrians than usual on the streets this morning. The copy world was subtly mutating—in later stages of the progress bar, the weather and NPC behaviors often became more bizarre.
Everyone was used to it.
More pedestrians meant they didn’t have to wait hours like usual just to interact with NPCs.
The system notification showed that asking the veteran actor for advice was, without a doubt, a chance to ask a question.
The city was full of actors—they could ask anyone.
“Let’s split up,” Zhou Qi’an said. “And look for the filming location—if anyone finds it, post it in the group chat.”
After speaking, he carefully changed the group name from [Not One Less] to [Missing Two].
One was Yuma, and one was Wen Xi. The Lord did not bless them.
“……”
Even though Zhou Qi’an took the initiative to make a suggestion, it felt strange to the others. Still, they had the same idea in mind—splitting up to search would be more efficient.
Everyone dispersed.
Zhou Qi’an shifted his gaze and deliberately slowed his pace, just enough to follow Xia Zhi’s team from behind.
Usually wary of being followed, he had now willingly embarked on the path of a copycat.
Left at the original spot were Zhou’s mother and two others.
The college student had already figured out Zhou Qi’an’s working style. When there were no specific instructions, he would follow Shen Zhiyi by default.
Shen Zhiyi didn’t seem to be thinking—he already had someone in mind to question. Just as he was about to move, Zhou’s mother stopped him.
“Almost forgot—take this to my son.”
It was the [Newbie Protection Period] item that Zhou Qi’an had handed off in the church earlier.
Shen Zhiyi nodded.
Zhou’s mother headed off in the opposite direction, planning to jog a few laps, take a bath, and treat her hair afterward.
The college student didn’t dare act alone and quickly caught up with Shen Zhiyi. For once, he learned a little from Zhou Qi’an’s professionalism and said, “Handing off such an important item—Auntie must really trust you.”
Shen Zhiyi didn’t reply, but the scornful look he usually gave the college student was slightly softened.
So this was the benefit of high emotional intelligence.
The college student thought: Brilliant!
…
Elsewhere, Zhou Qi’an had already followed Xia Zhi’s team to the second street.
To be fair, Shen Zhiyi’s last-minute action in the church had improved Zhou’s mother’s impression of him. Even Zhou Qi’an remembered the image of him standing under the Dove Gate—it was, from an artistic perspective, a perfect composition.
So perfect that it left a faint imprint in his mind.
“Hero saving the beauty never goes out of style.”
Zhou Qi’an’s eyelashes fluttered at the sound and looked up. Xia Zhi had stopped beside a billboard, looking at the night’s various performances.
The City of Flowers was a world of drama.
Like hotels and mealtimes, performances were held almost every day. Several today were themed around the “hero saves the beauty” trope.
Xia Zhi said, “I wonder if we’ll be performing a similar script.”
Zhou Qi’an casually replied, “Extreme joy or sorrow. Maybe when it’s our turn, it’ll be a tragedy.”
The words fell, and everyone—including Zhou Qi’an—went silent.
That actually seemed likely.
Dong Li and his team had gone to a daycare school. During the first mission, Xia Zhi had briefly been a teacher there.
Naturally, if you’re going to ask someone, you should ask someone familiar.
At the school, a teacher on duty was watching the kids play on the equipment.
Xia Zhi suddenly turned to Zhou Qi’an and said, “I’m going to ask a question.”
Zhou Qi’an replied, “Then ask.”
“…Shouldn’t you step aside or something?”
Zhou Qi’an stood firm like a rock.
In the end, it was Dong Li who spoke to Xia Zhi, “Go ahead and ask.”
Consider it returning the favor for the church incident.
Unless the guy kept following them around—then it was a different story.
Xia Zhi walked over to chat casually with the teacher. They had once taught the same class, so the conversation was natural. In the middle of it, Xia Zhi said with admiration, “He’s my idol…”
Carefully avoiding specifics, she probed: “Mr. Chen, do you know anything about the King of Drama?”
The teacher shook his head: “How could I use my own limited understanding to pry into the private life of the great King of Drama?”
“?”
After the chat, the system chimed:
[You have successfully used a chance to ask an actor about acting.]
Xia Zhi’s smile didn’t waver, but she walked back with a dark expression.
Everyone had heard the conversation. Zhou Qi’an looked unsurprised and turned to leave.
Xia Zhi couldn’t hold back, “You knew it would turn out like that?”
Zhou Qi’an hadn’t been certain. But such a valuable opportunity—even if the success rate was low—he couldn’t resist trying to ask something about the King of Drama.
Zhou Qi’an looked at her sincerely and said, “Some things… someone has to do.”
You did it, so I didn’t.
“!!!”
Zhou Qi’an walked away, leaving behind a cold and heartless silhouette.
Behind him, Xia Zhi’s face went through an entire range of expressions: “You…”
Are you even human?
Yes, I’m talking about him and his mom.
The buzzcut guy tugged Xia Zhi and gestured: Chill.
Xia Zhi took a deep breath. One wasn’t enough, so she took three more. Then she said, “You’re right. Finding the filming site is more important.”
Dong Li squinted at Zhou Qi’an’s back. Compared to petty interpersonal friction, something deeper was more concerning.
Some things can’t be faked—it was now clear that Zhou Qi’an had a different purpose for entering this copy. If Wen Xi had succeeded, fine. But now that they’d failed, he’d definitely start suspecting something.
·
Technically, it was still not fully daylight in the ancient city.
Zhou Qi’an walked alone down the street: “Wen Xi was so eager to kill…”
It might not just be to reduce game difficulty. He used to think these people fought over treasure, but now there were other possibilities.
“Maybe there’s some exclusive reward involved.”
Otherwise, why would Bertram bring two mercenaries—who knew if they’d turn on each other?
Zhou Qi’an was suddenly intrigued by the hidden perks of this copy. Since he was already here, might as well make the most of it.
While thinking about possible rewards, he considered his next move.
Two choices: either act in another scene to narrow down the questions before asking NPCs about the King of Drama again—or switch topics and directly ask the old actor something else.
Along the way, he looked for the filming site. Midway, Zhou Qi’an stopped abruptly.
On the roadside were help-wanted ads, flashy headlines—many players had browsed them on Day 1 for money.
“The Qingyi Temple Seeks Taoist Priest”, “Magician’s Guild Seeks Apprentice, Meals and Lodging Included,” “Vegetarian Restaurant Urgently Needs Assistant Chef”…
Again?
Zhou Qi’an squinted. A déjà vu sensation from the baptism scene flashed in his mind. He felt like he was just one step away from a big discovery.
On Day 1, making money was partly to facilitate NPC interactions—but mostly a distraction to trap players. After striking it rich in Fengshui Village, Zhou Qi’an no longer cared about menial jobs.
He paused, then went into the nearest vegetarian restaurant.
The pickle jar was clearly suspicious—a massive stone on top was pressing down on a human hand bone.
Someone came to greet him as he entered.
“Hi there! Are you here to apply or to eat?”
Zhou Qi’an, still in fortune-teller garb, said: “I already have a job.”
The clerk touched the jar and smiled kindly: “In the ancient city, everyone works side jobs. As long as you pass the skills test, you’re in.”
Zhou Qi’an hesitated: “I’ll think about it.”
Leaving the restaurant, he headed quickly toward the city gate—like he was trying to confirm something. Wandering around his old stall site, he muttered, “Where is he?”
Just then, a familiar figure appeared.
At the same time each day, the spotted kid still loitered near the city.
Zhou Qi’an smiled and waved.
The kid ignored him.
Zhou Qi’an waved money—the kid came over.
He directly stuffed money into the kid’s pocket and leaned down: “Let me ask you a question. Where do actors go to perform after finishing training?”
The ancient city was indeed a massive performance base, but actors couldn’t just keep performing for fellow residents.
Waiting for a big show? Unlikely. NPCs clearly said the King of Drama prefers newcomers.
The spotted kid checked the bill and replied: “Due to confidentiality agreements, I can’t answer that.”
Afraid Zhou Qi’an might take the money back, he clutched it tightly.
[You have successfully used a chance to ask an actor about acting.]
Seeing this, Zhou Qi’an’s smile deepened.
The NPCs weren’t just murder-hungry monsters.
He reached out to ruffle the kid’s hair. The kid bristled and ran off.
Zhou Qi’an didn’t chase. His smiling eyes grew cold.
He turned to look back at the lively ancient city.
The native NPCs walked back and forth, repeating their routines. A street vendor was shouting, “Want a discount? Play rock-paper-scissors! Win and it’s half off!”
Even farther away, where the job ads were posted, someone was hiring a rat exterminator.
As he subconsciously walked that way, a vagrant on the roadside called out to him: “Rat catching? That’s nothing. I see potential in you. Agree to two conditions and I’ll teach you to control rats.”
The vagrant smacked his lips. “Shop owners will pay more to hire you to sabotage rival stores.”
He talked like the buzzcut guy—half his tongue was missing.
The vagrant claimed he lost it from gambling, and now needed an apprentice to speak for him.
Zhou Qi’an ignored him.
On Day 1, he only focused on his own class. Now, he realized: every location in this city could be used for skill training.
Even player immersion and de-immersion could be seen as training.
“Actors clearly don’t only work in the ancient city.”
Otherwise, his question wouldn’t be classified as confidential.
But if not here—then where?
The rigorous training and classified post-graduation careers gave him a strong sense of déjà vu.
“The transport hub wasn’t an actor training center…” Zhou Qi’an closed his eyes, heart thumping. “It was another staff training facility.”
It’s basically a school copy in a different skin.
Players keep solving plays, finding killers, surviving deadly games… They’re being forged—mass-produced—and the ones who survive are high-quality future NPCs.
No wonder this copy had no staff hosts—because it doesn’t need them.
Compared to the school, this one was more advanced.
It didn’t just train staff—it also produced a variety of future NPCs for other copies: thieves, merchants, patrolmen… all kinds of roles.
[You have discovered the secret of the City of Flowers.]
A sudden notification made Zhou Qi’an stiffen.
[Please note:]
[You may now leave the instance immediately. If you do, you’ll receive 30% experience and points as your final reward.]
[But if you choose to stay and survive to the end, you’ll have the chance to unlock a mysterious grand prize.]
“……”
Isn’t this just early reality show prize bait?
Leave now and get a little. Stay, and you might get nothing.
Zhou Qi’an frowned.
What “grand prize”? Until you get it, it’s just vaporware.
“Damn it.”
He really falls for this kind of thing.
If he died in the end, he could already imagine himself full of regret, thinking he shouldn’t have been greedy—and that would become a poetic, tragic ending.
“I’ll stay.” Zhou Qi’an’s face was grim. “Some things… someone has to do.”
[…]
__
Author’s note:
Zhou Qi’an: As the saying goes, “Heaven gives and you don’t take, you’ll be punished.” In this game, “Heaven” represents the system—I have no choice but to seize this heaven-sent opportunity. (rubs hands) So, dear game, where’s the treasure?
Game: …
