WTNL Chapter 345

Xingwang Hotel
Chapter 345: This Bastard

Upon receiving a definitive confirmation, the “Integrity First” live room chat exploded:

[Holy shit!!!]

“I knew it! Back when they were escaping the framing shop, why did that corpse suddenly start moving—right in the anchor’s path? So it was this guy’s doing!]

[Argh, this is infuriating! If not for that unexpected bug, the anchor would have died there for sure!]

Yet, in stark contrast to the outraged reactions in the chat, the room itself was unnervingly silent.

In the dimly lit hotel room, a neatly stacked pile of playing cards rested on the table near the window.

The two sat across from each other, enveloped in an air of absolute stillness, so oppressive it seemed to suffocate the space.

Wen Jianyan scrutinized Bai Xue, who sat directly opposite him.

Under the glow of the lamp, the boy’s pale complexion and white hair exuded an almost decayed hue. His jet-black eyes—so dark that they absorbed all light—remained fixated on Wen Jianyan, unblinking.

Even after being exposed on the spot—not only acknowledging but outright confirming that he had attempted to sabotage his own teammate—Bai Xue’s expression remained unchanged.

There was no remorse, nor did he seem to care that his actions had been revealed.

But that was enough.

The two questions Bai Xue had just admitted to were sufficient.

For Wen Jianyan, they provided the final missing link in his logical chain—the last crucial piece guiding him toward the ultimate conclusion.

His hypothesis was correct.

And Bai Xue knew it, too.

Both of them were well aware of what the next question would be.

Wen Jianyan raised his third finger.

“Third question.”

His voice remained calm and rational, resonating through the oppressively silent room—a stillness so thick it made hearts instinctively tighten.

“Your ability… is to perceive and manipulate the probability of events occurring, isn’t it?”

The moment the words left his mouth—

The viewership count in both Wen Jianyan and Bai Xue’s live streams spiked to a new peak. At the same time, the chat activity skyrocketed.

This time, Bai Xue’s lips curled into a visible smile.

He nodded. “Yes.”

As expected.

Wen Jianyan’s heart skipped a beat.

He wasn’t sure if it was relief, or something far more complex.

The title “strongest medium” had been attributed to Bai Xue because he could “observe” the probability of certain events occurring.

Within the instance, this ability mimicked that of a true medium—allowing him to seemingly “foresee” danger, leading others to misinterpret his nature.

This misconception was why he had been given that title.

But in truth—

Bai Xue’s ability could not be so simply categorized.

It was far more terrifying than that.

A true medium could perceive impending death, approaching danger, and the presence of malevolent spirits.

But Bai Xue—

He could see the exact probability of an event occurring.

He could determine precise timing, location, and numerical values.

Even at the final moment, his ability allowed him to modify these probabilities at will.

Throughout the instance, Bai Xue’s actions and insights could have been easily dismissed as those of a highly skilled medium.

But Wen Jianyan had noticed inconsistencies—subtle but undeniable logical gaps.

A powerful medium could indeed accurately determine a human’s survival time in the rain.

But how could one pinpoint the exact locations of multiple cursed paintings hidden within a town riddled with supernatural disturbances?

And how could one precisely calculate the distance between them and their targets?

At first, Wen Jianyan overlooked these anomalies.

But as more details surfaced, they became impossible to ignore.

The crucial turning point was that one sentence Bai Xue had uttered in the inescapable hallway of the framing shop:

“There is no probability of escape.”

That—

Was not something a medium would say.

A true medium could sense the severity of danger, the number of lurking spirits, and the presence of supernatural threats.

But they could not quantify such an outcome in probabilistic terms.

“There is no probability of escape.”

Even more significantly—

Right after saying that, Bai Xue’s gaze had shifted directly to Wen Jianyan.

For someone who rarely lifted his eyes to meet others, this was not a coincidence.

Nor was it an accident.

It was deliberate.

Because Bai Xue, too, had realized—

The crisis they faced centered around Wen Jianyan, and the key to breaking the loop also lay with him.

This—

Was no longer the realm of a medium’s abilities.

It was something far more intricate—something deeply entwined with the very fabric of causality itself.

And—

Wu Zhu’s existence had further cemented Wen Jianyan’s hypothesis.

As a system bug, Wu Zhu possessed the ability to render himself completely invisible to all beings.

Even the most sensitive mediums would fail to detect his presence.

But Bai Xue had seen him.

After his initial shock and mortification, Wen Jianyan had calmed down—and quickly realized something crucial.

“See”—was not the right word.

Wen Jianyan was keenly attuned to the sensation of being watched.

Every time Bai Xue’s gaze had shifted in his direction—

It always landed on him.

Not once had Bai Xue glanced toward Wu Zhu’s actual location.

He completely ignored it, as though there was nothing there at all.

And then there was one more thing.

Although Wen Jianyan would rather not admit it—

If Bai Xue had truly seen Wu Zhu and everything Wu Zhu had done while remaining “invisible”…

Even Bai Xue would have struggled to maintain such a composed, emotionless demeanor.

From the moment Wen Jianyan realized this—

The previously ignored yet never forgotten clues and details resurfaced—

And together, they pointed directly to the final conclusion.

First, Bai Xue is not a medium.

Second, his true ability is likely related to probability.

Third, Bai Xue cannot actually see Wu Zhu. Instead, it was because Wen Jianyan and Wu Zhu acted together, altering a certain “probability” tied to himself, which in turn caught Bai Xue’s attention—thus prompting him to intervene.

“Your guess is correct.”

The boy’s voice was hoarse and unwavering.

“Truly impressive.”

Bai Xue’s pitch-black eyes landed on Wen Jianyan. However, his gaze did not linger on him; instead, it settled on the empty space above his head.

“My ability is called the ‘Spindle of Fate.’ “

“This world is constructed from an endless web of unknowns and probabilities.”

He lifted a pale, bloodless finger and pointed into the air:

“Every person is bound by countless invisible threads. Each thread carries a numerical value. Everyone is merely a marionette suspended by these numbers.”

“The higher my ability level, the more threads I can see.”

“By asking questions, I can locate the corresponding thread and observe the number written on it.”

“And if I wish—”

“I can pluck that thread.”

His fingertips moved ever so slightly.

For some reason, a sudden chill surged through Wen Jianyan, sending an unmistakable sense of danger coursing through his body.

But before he could react, Bai Xue withdrew his hand.

The icy sensation vanished.

Nothing had happened.

Yet Wen Jianyan still felt a lingering unease.

Although he had spent a considerable amount of time in the Nightmare Live Room, encountering numerous exceptionally powerful abilities that transcended human comprehension, this was the first time he had witnessed a gift so intrinsically tied to causality and the unknown.

How terrifying.

How formidable.

Is this the level of power possessed by a top-ten-ranked anchor?

“What is the cost of your ability?”

Almost instinctively, the question slipped from Wen Jianyan’s lips.

Bai Xue hesitated, as if caught off guard by Wen Jianyan’s line of inquiry.

“What?”

“The stronger an ability, the greater its price and toll—isn’t that right?”

Wen Jianyan met Bai Xue’s gaze directly. “What about yours?”

This time, the silence stretched even longer.

Bai Xue studied Wen Jianyan for a long while before finally responding, albeit sparingly:

“Color.”

Wen Jianyan paused.

“Color?”

“Each time I use my ability, a portion of my color fades away.”

As he spoke, Bai Xue extended his hand.

Under the dim light, his skin appeared almost translucent—so starkly devoid of pigment that it was impossible to discern veins or bone structure beneath.

It no longer resembled human flesh at all.

It was thinner than paper. Whiter than paper.

“Once I am completely devoid of color… I will disappear.”

The word he chose was “disappear,” not “die.”

Wen Jianyan’s gaze fell upon Bai Xue’s fingertips, his expression slipping into pensive silence.

Bai Xue withdrew his hand.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I tried to harm you?”

“Do I need to?”

Wen Jianyan shrugged, his expression relaxed—completely unlike someone who had narrowly escaped being killed by his own teammate.

It was a test.

But Wen Jianyan was fully aware—

It was a fatal test.

Perhaps Bai Xue had not intended to outright kill him, but in Bai Xue’s worldview, the lives of others held no inherent value.

Even if he had miscalculated, even if Wen Jianyan had actually died—Bai Xue would not have felt a shred of guilt.

Because to him, life itself was insignificant.

Perhaps—

Wen Jianyan had the premonition that even his own life was not particularly important to Bai Xue.

“Indeed, you don’t need to.”

Bai Xue said.

Once again, he studied the young man sitting across from him.

For the first time—

In the depths of his doll-like, expressionless eyes, a faint flicker of curiosity emerged.

This guy had surprised him yet again.

Ever since entering this instance, how many times had that happened?

He had lost count.

Every human being is ensnared by the threads spun by the Fates, manipulated, made to dance, trapped within a web of numbers and strings.

He believed in probability.

He worshipped numbers.

But—

The person sitting across from him seemed to possess a strange anomaly, a shroud of mystery.

He defied probability.

Time and time again, he escaped the clutches of death, defying the odds and emerging unscathed.

And now—

He had deduced Bai Xue’s true ability.

Curiosity swelled within Bai Xue’s chest.

How long can he keep jumping… before fate catches up to him?

“Now, answer my question.”

Bai Xue leaned forward slightly, his pitch-black eyes locked onto Wen Jianyan.

“How did you do it?”

He could see probability.

Which meant—

He knew exactly which card would win.

It was merely a simple game of higher-value wins—

Yet somehow, the person with no abilities whatsoever had emerged victorious.

It didn’t make sense.

“In a single instance, the probability of winning or losing is absolute.”

Wen Jianyan leaned back in his chair lazily.

He reached for the deck of cards on the table, his slender fingers dexterously shuffling through them.

Then, he pulled out a card, its face turned toward Bai Xue.

Seven of Diamonds.

Leaning forward slightly, Wen Jianyan’s light-colored irises locked onto Bai Xue’s gaze.

Then, he spoke:

“However, if one’s vision is confined to the probability of an individual card, they will inevitably lose sight of the overall game.”

“Don’t forget—our victory or defeat isn’t determined solely by numbers; suits matter as well,” Wen Jianyan said. “To beat this card, you need a number higher than 7, but also the correct suit among the remaining two possibilities. Even with just a small additional variable, the complexity of the outcome increases significantly.”

As he spoke, Wen Jianyan laid out the clubs, hearts, and spades sevens before Bai Xue.

“This is a simple mathematical problem.”

“Before the game started, I had already formed a hypothesis about your ability. Since the deck is finite and evenly split between two players, it wasn’t difficult to deduce which cards you were holding. Given that, I could control the cards I played to narrow the possible range of your available choices.”

Wen Jianyan blinked playfully at him.

“More importantly, to make the game appear fair—and to avoid exposing your passive ability—you wouldn’t win every round. You had to deliberately lose a few hands to me.”

Thus, in the end, their “victory and defeat” had come down to the finest of margins.

And that margin… was simply the number of times Bai Xue had let him win.

Wen Jianyan picked up the seven of diamonds and handed it to Bai Xue.

Bai Xue accepted the card.

He lowered his gaze, staring at the card in his palm—seemingly lost in thought.

Too focused on individual rounds, and he had forgotten to control the larger picture.

Just as Bai Xue fell into contemplation, Wen Jianyan rose from his seat, stretching lazily:

“Alright, today’s game session is over.”

“Wait.”

Bai Xue lifted his eyes, looking at Wen Jianyan.

“I have one more question.”

“What is it?”

“Ever since we crossed paths in the corridor, and after entering the hotel room, all the probabilities surrounding you became unreadable.”

Bai Xue’s gaze locked onto Wen Jianyan.

“Why?”

It was because he was near a bug.

But that was an answer Wen Jianyan absolutely could not reveal.

In truth, Wen Jianyan had initially sparked Bai Xue’s interest in playing the game precisely because of this anomaly. Otherwise, given Bai Xue’s introverted and detached nature, he likely wouldn’t have engaged at all.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Wen Jianyan smiled—calm yet cunning:

“Secret.”

“But—”

Bai Xue tightened his grip on the card, standing up as if he wanted to press further.

Wen Jianyan shook his head, cutting him off: “I won, didn’t I?”

Bai Xue’s lips pressed together. He said nothing more.

“How about this—”

Wen Jianyan pondered for a moment, then the smile on his lips deepened:

“If I survive this instance, I’ll tell you the answer once we leave. How about that?”

He extended his hand.

“Deal?”

Bai Xue: “…”

His gaze lingered on Wen Jianyan.

Between intelligent people, there was no need for excessive words.

“Deal.”

Bai Xue reached out, grasping the hand that had been waiting mid-air.

Tomorrow would be a gruelling day. They needed to seize this rare opportunity to rest and conserve their strength—otherwise, surviving in this prolonged instance would be impossible.

Soon, both Bai Xue and Wen Jianyan lay down, preparing to rest.

Darkness descended, swallowing the room whole.

Wen Jianyan lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, as if lost in thought.

Soon, Bai Xue’s breathing became slow and steady.

He had fallen asleep.

Quietly, Wen Jianyan pulled out the hidden card from his sleeve and tossed it into his backpack storage—destroying the evidence.

In the “Integrity First” live broadcast room barrage:

[…Wait, what?]

[So everything you just said—was complete nonsense? You were cheating all along?!]

[Damn it, I knew it!!! You were acting all high and mighty, making it sound so convincing, and I actually bought it—only to realize in the end you just scammed your way through!]

[Shit, I actually feel bad for Bai Xue. He played the game seriously, got completely deceived, and even thought the anchor was making sense. He even silently agreed to cooperate moving forward, thinking he should stop causing trouble so the anchor could survive—Bai Xue, you poor soul!]

“This bastard!!”

Wen Jianyan yawned.

Not bad. All loose ends were now tied up.

He turned over, his expression showing a hint of drowsiness.

Today had drained him mentally, and he was exhausted.

However—

It felt like something was missing.

Wen Jianyan paused, lowered his eyes, and inconspicuously glanced at the mirror across from his bed.

In the dim lighting, the mirror reflected the entire room.

The furniture, shrouded in darkness.

The two beds.

And the two faintly rising and falling shadows upon them.

Nothing else.

Wu Zhu wasn’t there.

It seemed that he had truly believed Wen Jianyan’s words:

“Stay here, and I’ll like you a little more.”

And—

“I’ll come find you once it’s over.”

He must have remained obediently in place, waiting.

Not attempting to leave.

Good.

Wen Jianyan closed his eyes.

Time ticked away.

In the darkness, the sound of steady breathing filled the room.

It seemed as though everything had settled into peaceful slumber.

The night deepened.

Yet, unconsciously, the young man’s brows furrowed.

The room remained deathly silent.

Time, too, seemed to hold its breath.

Suddenly—

Wen Jianyan’s eyes snapped open.

There was no trace of sleepiness in them.

Shit.

He sat up abruptly, raking a hand through his messy hair, his expression darkening.

Silently, he climbed out of bed and headed toward the bathroom.

He turned the knob, flipping on the light.

The dim yellow glow illuminated the space, casting reflections across the mirror.

Standing in the exact same spot as when Wen Jianyan had left him—

Wu Zhu remained motionless.

He hadn’t shifted an inch.

His golden eyes were locked onto the closed bathroom door, unwavering.

It was as if, from the moment Wen Jianyan had left, he had remained frozen in place—like a statue, completely immobile.

As soon as Wen Jianyan appeared, disheveled hair and all—

Wu Zhu lowered his golden eyes and immediately leaned in toward him, clearly pleased.

He was met with an immediate rejection.

“Don’t touch me.”

Wen Jianyan’s voice was low and devoid of emotion.

His expression remained dark as he gave a command:

“Follow me. Sleep.”

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