Xingwang Hotel
Chapter 377.1: Land of the Dead
—A 100% death rate?
Those words landed like a heavy blow—like a hammer slamming down directly on one’s chest, so forceful it left one dizzy.
“What?”
Wen Jianyan was stunned. He turned to look at Bai Xue.
Although they stood close together, in this pitch-black darkness where one couldn’t even see their hand in front of their face, he still couldn’t make out Bai Xue’s figure—let alone anything else.
“You mean… Chen Mo?”
“Yes. But not just him.”
Bai Xue calmly shook his head.
“In any case, don’t go over there. He’s beyond saving.”
To Bai Xue’s eyes, the space ahead was like a massive black hole—one that had swallowed up all potential outcomes. No light remained.
Even if Chen Mo hadn’t technically died yet, he was already no different from the dead.
That was a black hole that would devour anything that drew near.
All possibilities would be reduced to zero.
Under such circumstances, the most rational thing to do was to avoid approaching—play it safe this round.
After all, there were fewer than twenty minutes left until the banquet ended. They only needed to endure for one more round at most.
Upon hearing this, Wen Jianyan paused and instinctively looked into the distance.
Not far away, at the edge of the darkened long table, Chen Mo sat upright and motionless. His expression was blank, his face pale as death, like a corpse that had been dead for a long time—eerily still.
The tablecloth under the tray, the floor beneath his seat—everything was soaked in crimson blood.
The blood wasn’t from Chen Mo, but from the three skinned faces piled on the bronze tray.
The entire scene was sinister, foreboding, and deeply disturbing.
Wen Jianyan stood still, gripping his tray, a cold sweat running down his back in waves. Even his palms were damp with sweat.
The situation was far more complicated than he’d imagined.
It was clear now—unlike the other residents of this instance, unlike the mindless ghosts acting purely on instinct, this white-clothed woman was the only one who might possess the ability of free will.
Whether it was the way she “guided” them at the very beginning, or the fragmented hints found later in the notebook, everything pointed toward that fact.
She wasn’t just some unconscious, wandering spirit. She was something far more terrifying—an entity with a dangerous, active will.
Chen Mo falling into her hands… definitely wasn’t just an accident.
The pain in Wen Jianyan’s wrist worsened.
A chilling, deep ache seeped out from his bones, pressing heavily on his skin.
Wen Jianyan lowered his head and rolled up his sleeve.
On his wrist was a dark, bruised handprint. The skin beneath it seemed slightly sunken, as if an invisible hand were gripping him tightly.
His mind was in chaos.
Noisy, overwhelming thoughts jammed into his head—details he’d overanalyzed fighting to be heard: “I’m the most important.” “No, I am!” It was giving him a headache.
Stop. Stop.
Wen Jianyan took a deep breath and forced himself to break free from the swirl of thoughts.
He turned to Bai Xue and asked, “If I go near him—will I die?”
“…What?”
Bai Xue blinked, momentarily confused by Wen Jianyan’s question.
“I remember—you can see the probability of specific events happening, right?” Wen Jianyan asked patiently. “So if I walk over there—will I die?”
Bai Xue turned his head and looked toward the table once more.
Behind the mask, his eyes gleamed with a strange, inky blackness.
After a few seconds, he hesitantly replied:
“…I’m not sure.”
Indeed, within the blood pooled by the table, there was a black hole that could devour all possibilities. But when Bai Xue tried to search for a path where Wen Jianyan could survive if he approached—he surprisingly sensed a sliver of hope.
It was very strange.
Bai Xue had never encountered anything like it before.
“I see.”
Wen Jianyan felt his heart sink slightly. He exhaled slowly and nodded.
Bai Xue’s answer confirmed his suspicion.
Finally, Wen Jianyan understood what was really going on.
That thing had been trying to get close to him all along.
From the very beginning—when the painting appeared in his room, to the supposed guidance afterward—everything was an attempt to approach him, perhaps even manipulate him.
Including what was happening now.
That’s why out of everyone, only Chen Mo had been caught.
And Chen Mo wasn’t just anyone—he was an experienced anchor: rational, calm, and without any obvious weaknesses. He had the experience to immediately recognize that the white-clothed woman wasn’t something to deal with rashly.
Which meant there was only one explanation:
He was the decoy.
And because of that, Wen Jianyan was the true target.
That’s why only his death rate wasn’t 100%.
Because this trap had been set specifically—for him.
But why?
What did it want?
Wen Jianyan believed he would know very soon.
He turned to Bai Xue again and said solemnly, “Next, I’ll need a favor from you.”
Bai Xue: “You’re still going?”
“Yes.” Wen Jianyan nodded. “I need you to adjust the death probability when I go over.”
Bai Xue wasn’t surprised.
After all, that was the only way he could help.
It was a familiar request.
Bai Xue had long gotten used to it.
“Alright.”
He nodded.
Uncharacteristically, he added a few more words. Calm, rational, and matter-of-fact:
“At least in this instance, I’m one of your teammates. You don’t need my permission.”
“Well, that won’t do.”
Wen Jianyan turned to him and said seriously.
In the darkness, Bai Xue suddenly felt a weight on his head.
His head had been firmly ruffled.
“?”
Bai Xue was momentarily stunned.
Then he heard Wen Jianyan’s faintly amused voice:
“Such a beautiful color… I’d hate to see it disappear.”
“…”
Bai Xue took a step back, tilted his head away to avoid Wen Jianyan’s hand, and coldly muttered:
“Lowering the death rate comes at a cost.”
Adjusting probabilities wasn’t some profitable cheat—it was, in a way, a form of equivalent exchange. Especially when it came to death.
Like the threads of fate spun by the goddess—if you tug one, the surrounding threads shift as well. Saving a life wasn’t easy.
One life saved often meant another lost.
“I know.”
Wen Jianyan had already seen this in action near the start of the instance.
“Anyway…”
Wen Jianyan smiled sheepishly, almost apologetically, and said in a low voice: “When I give the signal, I need you to adjust Chen Mo’s death probability and stack his crisis onto me.”
“…?”
Bai Xue blinked, confused, and let out a puzzled sound: “Hmm?”
“Can you do that?” Wen Jianyan asked.
Bai Xue was silent for a long time. Then he said: “I can.”
But…
Chen Mo’s death probability was 100%.
Bai Xue hesitated, as if wanting to say something.
“That’s good, then.” Wen Jianyan patted him on the shoulder with a cheerful grin. “Once we get out of here, I’ll treat you to a big meal.”
Bai Xue hesitated briefly—but didn’t dodge Wen Jianyan’s touch.
Wen Jianyan took a deep breath, loosened his stiff shoulders a bit, then stepped forward, holding the tray in his hands, walking straight into the darkness.
Behind him, Bai Xue lifted his eyes, watching as the figure was swallowed by darkness. Behind the mask, his pitch-black pupils flickered faintly.
…What a strange person.
Bai Xue stood in place, gazing into the area where even the lights could no longer be seen, silently waiting for Wen Jianyan’s signal.
The moment the signal came, he would adjust the probability.
He would give the doomed Chen Mo a chance at survival—and make the originally safe Wen Jianyan encounter an “accident” and become the one destined to die.
What would the final outcome be?
Bai Xue didn’t know.
Those dark, eerie eyes were empty and void, as if nothing from the real world could reflect in them—only something irrational and beyond reason could be seen in their depths.
So strange.
Bai Xue never considered himself particularly kind.
Or rather, no one who survived the nightmares was truly good—and he was clearly worse than most.
After all, “selfishness” was the essence of his innate ability.
That was, to plunder the possibility of others surviving.
At first, those who knew his ability were overjoyed. They thought it was a chance to change fate and naturally treated him like a precious gem.
“Bai Xue, please, I beg you, save us!”
“Please, Bai Xue, I don’t want to die! I really don’t want to die!”
“Help us, just change the probability of our death, just a little!”
They pleaded with sharp cries, weeping and screaming, hoping for a chance to change fate and escape death.
Each request was so familiar, so similar, like they all came from the same mold.
“…Alright.”
Bai Xue would always give in.
Why wouldn’t he?
After all, he was a boy born with an immune deficiency, protected in an isolation ward from birth, who had never left the hospital or interacted with anyone other than doctors and nurses. Pure as a blank sheet of paper, untouched by malice.
So, he would always give in. Always be moved by others’ pleading.
Unfortunately, everyone who depended on him would eventually taste bitter consequences.
The course of fate could not be easily altered. The cost of saving one life often meant the death of one—or even several—others.
Bai Xue’s interference only brought greater danger to those around him.
He was like an evil wish-granting machine—the more beautiful the wish, the more horrifying the disaster it brought.
And he never refused.
Death became frequent; teammates were replaced rapidly.
They still kept him around.
After all, even if things got worse after changing fate, no one could resist the hope of being saved when facing death.
Even if the aftermath was more tragic, people always wanted to live. They always held on to the irrational fantasy that they could escape death’s grasp.
Yet, even if they didn’t notice it themselves, their gazes gradually changed—from hope to fear and distance.
Bai Xue grew increasingly silent.
He wasn’t good at communication, nor did he react to others’ shifting attitudes. No matter how tainted the surrounding stares became, he remained unmoved.
Later…
His teammates gradually realized something.
Sometimes, Bai Xue’s ability didn’t need to be actively triggered.
If he faced a mortal threat, his ability would automatically activate—stripping color from his body to save him temporarily—then claim more lives through the ensuing crisis.
The wariness and distance turned into complete fear and disgust.
How terrifying.
Wasn’t this basically a parasitic ability?
They huddled together, speaking venomously.
Yeah, just like that bastard.
Seemingly fragile and harmless, with no means of attack, longing for more possibilities—but living in an isolation ward that burned tens of thousands a month, feeding off the possibility of his blood relatives living better lives, just barely clinging to existence, all to survive from one day to the next.
Sure, he wouldn’t die. But everyone around him would go to hell.
Just like his ability—parasitic, exploitative.
But still useful.
“Bai Xue, there’s a team that wants your help with a task. You’ll go, right?”
Bai Xue nodded.
“Great,” the captain laughed with delight. “You’ll get a share of the points.”
One team after another.
In these instances, accidents were common. Team wipes could happen in an instant.
“This guy’s so useful. Just send him to a rival team, tweak things a bit to put him in danger, and boom—the team’s done for.”
“Hahaha, right? Who’d have thought even the Plague God could be useful to us?”
“No kidding, our points and rankings are skyrocketing like a rocket!”
“But hey, word’s getting out. The forums are starting to talk about the ‘curse.’ Might be harder to pull this off in the future.”
“Eh, who cares. If we can’t use him anymore, just dump him.”
“He’s no real use in a team anyway. We have to carefully control how we use his ability, keep him alive or we all suffer. What team can afford to support that kind of liability?”
“I don’t buy it. Just toss him into a place full of ghosts and leave—he won’t last long.”
In the distance—
A white-haired boy stood still, his pitch-black eyes gazing far ahead, silent as ever.
Then, another team was wiped out.
They had started off strong, brimming with energy—only to inexplicably fail in a relatively easy instance.
No one knew why.
But someone on the forums claimed they saw, after that instance ended, the sole survivor—Bai Xue—appearing alone in a pale white space. His ghostly white skin and hair nearly blended with the background. His face was blank, his body splattered with thick, sticky blood. His eyes were black as ink, eerily strange.
The rumor of the “curse” spread further and further.
Bai Xue became a fearsome legend.
Some teams even tried to use it to their advantage—but none of them met a good end.
Stepping over corpses, feeding on the lives of everyone around him, the lone survivor continued surviving instance after instance. He couldn’t die—and everyone around him kept dying, whether they were kind to him, tried to kill him, or tried to use him…
They all disappeared.
Turned to white bones, left far behind.
Fortunately, Bai Xue later made it into the Top Ten. For the top ten anchors, the platform reduced mandatory streaming frequency—now they only had to stream once every six months.
Of course, most top anchors didn’t stick to that bare minimum. By this point, surviving the instances was easy for them. They craved more—more things to plunder.
But things were different for Bai Xue.
He really only streamed once every six months.
As long as he met the minimum requirement, he never entered an instance again.
So, as the frequency of his appearances dropped sharply and his contemporaries either died or rose, the so-called “curse” became something only a few long-lived veteran anchors still remembered.
Bai Xue stared into the thick darkness before him.
With time, Wen Jianyan’s figure could no longer be seen.
Under the mask, that cold, expressionless face slowly revealed a trace of confusion.
That guy… really is strange.
Just like he said earlier, Bai Xue knew—technically speaking, he was part of this man’s team in this instance. As the captain, such a request was perfectly reasonable.
And this guy had repeatedly defied Bai Xue’s predictions, bursting with vitality. Just for that, Bai Xue was willing to expend a use of his ability to save him once.
He wasn’t disappointed or reluctant. On the contrary, he was rather used to it.
But the man’s request was so strange that even Bai Xue was stunned upon hearing it.
He had voluntarily asked for his own death probability to be raised to one hundred percent?
Bai Xue had never heard such a request before.
He didn’t understand.
Could it be that this always-smiling man was some kind of saint, sacrificing himself to give his teammates a better chance of survival?
No, that didn’t seem right.
The man was even making promises about “after the instance,” like he was hopeful about making it out alive—not like someone walking willingly to death.
He even said something like… not wanting the colors to fade.
What a smooth talker. A glib, frivolous liar who only said pleasant-sounding things.
Bai Xue frowned beneath his mask.
So annoying—he even made Bai Xue remember things he thought he had long forgotten.
Just as he grew more irritated, the man’s cheerful voice suddenly echoed in his ear, without warning.
“If you get caught up in the probability of a single card, you’ll lose sight of the bigger picture.”
And—
“If you can’t even bear a cursed rumor like this, then you’ll die in the Nightmare one way or another anyway, won’t you?”
…
Bai Xue stood in the darkness, motionless, as if deep in thought.
Time ticked by.
Only after a long while did he slowly exhale.
All right then.
The boy lifted his eyes, his calm, emotionless gaze falling into the distant shadows.
Let me see how much you can actually bear.
Poor bai xue 😭