(4/10)
Anchor Hall
Chapter 389: All my memories begin with the first time we looked into each other’s eyes.
“…What is this?”
Wu Zhu frowned slightly and raised his hand to touch the metal cage on his face.
He seemed to have just noticed this… strange new thing on himself.
A muzzle made of black leather and metal was clamped onto his jaw, creating a stark contrast against his unnaturally pale skin.
“Take a guess,” Wen Jianyan smiled.
It had taken him only a few short seconds to regain his usual elegance and frivolity, slipping back into his smooth, easygoing demeanor without leaving a single crack in his facade.
Wu Zhu frowned, tracing the thing fastened to his face with his fingertips. Once he realized he couldn’t remove it, he immediately understood what it was for.
He appeared momentarily stunned, then lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Wen Jianyan.
Through the metal muzzle, one could just barely see the faint smile tugging at his lips. His low voice carried a strange, unreadable tone:
“You’re afraid I’ll bite you?”
…Afraid?
Wen Jianyan’s brow twitched.
Although Wu Zhu had guessed the object’s purpose correctly, the phrasing was deeply unpleasant.
“I’d prefer if you saw it as a gift,” Wen Jianyan said gently.
The young man leaned in close, his warm smile completely devoid of aggression. He lightly tapped Wu Zhu’s cheek with a finger.
“To help keep your mouth and teeth in check—make you behave a little better.”
His voice was soft, but there was an intentional taunt in his tone, as if he were deliberately trying to provoke him.
—And to remind him clearly who was the one chained hand and foot, locked in a collar.
“I see,” Wu Zhu smiled, seemingly unaffected by the provocation.
He lowered his hand, his gaze falling once again on Wen Jianyan. “When are you planning to take it off?”
Wen Jianyan narrowed his eyes. “When I’m in a good mood.”
Without him realizing, Wu Zhu had leaned in closer.
His pitch-black hair cascaded down his pale, muscular back, and his golden eyes shimmered with a strange excitement in the dim light.
“Then what should I do to put you in a good mood?”
Even though Wen Jianyan knew that within Ouroboros, Wu Zhu was entirely under the control of his commands—and with the live-stream-issued muzzle on, couldn’t do anything beyond his limits—the moment the distance between them shrank, his breath still caught involuntarily.
“…For starters, stay further away,” he said, voice squeezed through gritted teeth, fingers tightening around the nearby blanket.
Wu Zhu looked genuinely regretful as he slowly drew back.
But although his body withdrew, his gaze did not follow. Instead, it lingered on Wen Jianyan, slithering over him like an invisible serpent, slowly tightening its coils.
“…”
Wen Jianyan took a deep breath and sat upright.
Although he had entered Ouroboros with the intention of a dignified conversation with Wu Zhu, he had to admit—even just sitting across from him was enough to keep his nerves on edge.
He was slightly frustrated. His grip unconsciously tightened, fingertips turning pale.
This was really…
Much worse than when Wu Zhu couldn’t speak and had low intelligence.
At least back then, fooling or manipulating him had been much easier.
As Wen Jianyan sank into thought, a hand suddenly grasped his.
“?!”
Startled, Wen Jianyan reflexively tried to pull back—but was held firm, unable to move.
“What are you doing?”
He glared at Wu Zhu, his brow furrowing.
“Nothing.”
Without even looking up, Wu Zhu studied the human hand in his palm with keen interest.
The bones were long and well-proportioned, the knuckles slim and lightly defined. Now that the tension had eased, color had returned to the fair skin, and the base of the fingernails carried a faint flush.
It made one want to sink their teeth into it.
Wu Zhu touched the muzzle on his face, as though truly regretting the situation.
So he settled for the next best thing: threading his fingers between Wen Jianyan’s, pressing their palms tightly together—cold against warm—fitting so snugly it was as though their palm lines were meant to align.
It was such a simple act, yet it sent ripples through Wen Jianyan’s heart.
He suddenly remembered that moment in the Xingwang Hotel.
He snapped his head toward Wu Zhu, completely forgetting to pull his hand back.
Countless possibilities flashed through his mind.
“You can sense what’s happening outside through the ring?”
His eyes locked onto Wu Zhu’s face, not missing a single change in expression.
“Or rather—do you remember what happened in the last fragment?”
Wu Zhu shook the chains on his wrists, making them jingle. “I’m your prisoner now. I can’t leave this place.”
Wu Zhu: “Why are you asking?”
Wen Jianyan didn’t answer. He looked down, lost in thought.
A faint light fell on his face. His long lashes cast thin shadows on his pale cheeks, making his expression seem even more distant.
Soon, he looked up again. “Come here.”
This time, it was Wu Zhu who seemed surprised.
He hesitated for a moment, but Wen Jianyan had already lost his patience and issued a direct command.
With the clear clinking of chains, Wu Zhu was once again bound to the bed in the same position as before—his arms chained down, body restrained.
Wen Jianyan didn’t mind in the slightest. He climbed onto the bed.
Leaning down, he began to examine the pale chest covered in black runes—or more specifically, the scar at its center.
Apparently unsatisfied, he reached out.
He traced the scar over and over with his fingertips, measuring and mapping it carefully, afraid of missing even the slightest change.
His breath was soft and steady, his fingertips warm and gentle. Though it was clearly a clinical, investigative touch, the scene had taken on a different hue.
“…”
Wu Zhu’s gaze darkened.
From below, his golden eyes locked onto the man above him, a strange heat radiating from them, as though his stare alone could wind around him and hold him fast.
But Wen Jianyan seemed entirely unaware of their proximity—he even leaned in closer, studying the scar in the dim light with great attention.
According to Wu Zhu’s explanation in the Xingwang Hotel, the brand on his chest made him an anchor. All fragments that made contact with him would gradually “become” the main body.
But what had not been explained was: in the presence of an anchor, what changes would happen to the main self?
Wu Zhu’s earlier action had exploded like thunder in Wen Jianyan’s mind.
A startling and unbelievable theory surfaced.
Was Wu Zhu truly recovering?
Wen Jianyan couldn’t be sure.
Was it because he had become the anchor?
Or because he had “killed” the second fragment with the same weapon, and instead of eliminating it, he had absorbed it into Ouroboros, fusing it with the first?
…Or was it both?
It was a terrifying thought.
Trapping a single Wu Zhu fragment in Ouroboros was easy enough—but containing the complete Wu Zhu? Wen Jianyan wasn’t at all confident in the odds.
If that were the case, Wu Zhu would never tell the truth.
But due to the weapon’s unique properties, the scar couldn’t lie.
Yet no matter how much Wen Jianyan touched it, examined it, compared it—he found no difference.
No extra scar. No layered markings.
As if what he had seen earlier had just been a trick of the light.
“…”
Wen Jianyan withdrew his hand and straightened up.
He remained straddled over Wu Zhu, the doubt on his face lingering.
Had he really been overreacting?
Suddenly, Wen Jianyan jolted upright as if electrocuted. He nearly fell off the bed from the sudden movement.
Clutching the bed for support, his face flushed with rising blood. He gritted his teeth and spat:
“What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Wu Zhu, still bound with limbs restrained, tilted his head calmly, his expression disturbingly natural—completely devoid of any expected shame.
“Nothing,” he replied.
He looked over, his eyes shimmering with faint heat in the darkness—like a snake eyeing a bird—but also filled with genuine confusion:
“I can’t do anything anyway. Why did you pull away?”
Wen Jianyan: “…”
He didn’t know whether he was more infuriated by Wu Zhu’s behavior or by his twisted yet somehow perfectly sound logic. He stared in disbelief, at a loss for words.
“Besides the muzzle,” he growled through clenched teeth, “maybe I should’ve prepared something even more suitable for you.”
Pity he hadn’t thought of it in advance.
Unexpectedly, Wu Zhu asked, “Like what?”
“You’ll find out next time,” Wen Jianyan said, shooting him a chilling glance.
“Mm.” Wu Zhu looked very expectant. “Is it an even better ‘gift’?”
“……”
Wen Jianyan suddenly realized that if he really did redeem something like that, given how little Wu Zhu understood about the human world, he probably wouldn’t even know what that thing actually was.
Then wouldn’t that mean… He would have to personally…
“?!”
Wen Jianyan was startled by his own train of thought.
Even though he never considered himself particularly shy or reserved, this level of shame was still far beyond what he could handle.
His face flushed red and then pale, and it took him quite a while before he managed to squeeze out a sentence between clenched teeth:
“…In your dreams.”
…Forget it.
He couldn’t afford to lose face like that.
The room fell silent again.
Wu Zhu lay on the bed, while Wen Jianyan had retreated to the sofa. Though they were sharing the same space, it felt like a vast chasm separated them. The atmosphere was so suffocating it could be cut with a knife.
After a long time, it seemed Wen Jianyan finally managed to clear all the distracting thoughts from his mind. He took a deep breath and lifted his head.
This time, he wasn’t planning to circle around the topic. He got straight to the point:
“I came here today to ask you something.”
Wu Zhu: “Hm?”
“How much do you know about the Nightmare?”
Wen Jianyan took a deep breath and spoke slowly, as though carefully choosing each word.
In truth, if he wanted to understand the Nightmare Live Broadcast, understand Wu Zhu, and uncover the reason why Wu Zhu had been fragmented and scattered across the Nightmare’s different instances…
And find out just what those numerous intertwined, unseen powers truly were—
The most straightforward way would be to ask Wu Zhu directly.
However, up until now, even though Wen Jianyan had already trapped Wu Zhu inside the Ouroboros, the idea of asking him questions had never once crossed his mind.
Probably a side effect of lying too often in daily life. When Wen Jianyan didn’t trust someone from the bottom of his heart, he couldn’t believe a single word they said.
And if that’s the case—then what’s the point of even asking?
Now, though… while he didn’t feel like anything had changed, it seemed like there wouldn’t be much harm in at least hearing what the guy had to say?
Of course, the chances of getting a straight answer were still very low.
“I don’t know,” Wu Zhu said.
Wen Jianyan averted his gaze, clearly not having much hope to begin with. Even after getting such a reply, he remained calm and simply shrugged:
“Alright.
No harm in trying.”
He stood up, getting ready to leave.
But before he could even take a step, Wu Zhu’s voice sounded behind him.
“It’s the truth.”
“…?”
Wen Jianyan paused and slightly turned his head to look.
The other man still maintained his bound posture. He raised his eyes, meeting Wen Jianyan’s gaze. His face was expressionless, but completely open, with not the slightest sign of deceit.
Wen Jianyan frowned. “Hm?”
“Ever since I woke up, I’ve had no memory. Only instinct.”
Wu Zhu said.
But… how could that be possible?
Wen Jianyan frowned even more deeply.
He thought back on every encounter he’d had with Wu Zhu since entering the Nightmare. Every action the other party had taken, every “command” he had given—it had never looked like someone acting without knowledge or purpose.
On the contrary, it had always seemed like someone in full control of the big picture—calculating, cold, and ambitious.
Almost like he could read Wen Jianyan’s thoughts, Wu Zhu continued:
“I only know instinctively who my enemies are, where I need to go next, and what I need to do. It’s like an invisible pull leading me forward.”
Wu Zhu turned his head, his eyes locking onto Wen Jianyan.
In the darkness, his eyes gleamed like scarlet flames.
“All my memories… began from the moment we first looked at each other.”
“……”
It was a simple sentence, yet Wen Jianyan’s heart skipped a beat for some inexplicable reason.
Silence fell once more.
Could something like that really be true?
Wen Jianyan lowered his eyes and took a deep breath, frowning.
With no memories at all, and relying solely on some vague instinct to fight back against the Nightmare step by step…
But in truth, he was already starting to believe him.
In a way, there had been signs all along.
Why else would a fragmented evil god hold such a grudge against the first human who lied to him? Why would he chase that human across multiple instances without hesitation?
And now that he thought about it, back when he was serving as Wu Zhu’s “bishop,” every command Wu Zhu gave was always extremely vague—mostly just pointing him toward a instance or a direction.
Previously, Wen Jianyan had brushed it off as some mysterious “god works in mysterious ways” kind of religious crap.
But looking back now, it seemed more likely that this false god genuinely didn’t know what he was looking for. He was just issuing orders based on instinct, too proud to explain himself.
Wen Jianyan felt a little disappointed.
If that was the case, then when it came to uncovering the truth behind the Nightmare or the nature of this world, Wu Zhu was more or less… useless.
As though sensing Wen Jianyan’s doubt, the chains that had been taut began to slowly loosen.
Wu Zhu sat up.
“But,” he said, “if you want, I can still tell you how I feel about certain things.”
Wen Jianyan paused and turned his head.
With a soft jingling of chains, Wu Zhu walked over.
He leaned down beside the sofa.
“I won’t hide anything.”
“……”
Wen Jianyan hesitated for a moment.
In the end, he seemed to give in with a kind of resigned frustration. He ran a hand through his hair and sat down on the other end of the sofa.
“Fine. Since I’m already here, I might as well get some information before I leave.”
“One at a time,” Wen Jianyan said with a deep breath.
“First: the Nightmare Live Broadacst”
Wu Zhu’s answer was simple: “Disgust.”
Not much detail, but the emotion was clear and direct.
Wen Jianyan nodded and mentally noted the answer.
“Then, the Evil Bodhisattva in Antai Community.”
Aside from the residential area itself, it hadn’t appeared much in other instances. But when you really looked, more than a dozen instances had been at least partially affected by it.
The residents of Antai had once gone to Fukan Hospital for treatment, and in the fifth floor of Changsheng Building’s instance, the hilt of the coffin’s bronze blade had the lotus symbol of the Evil Bodhisattva.
Wu Zhu frowned. “Loathing.”
Not surprising.
After all, that blade—suspected to originate from that three-faced statue—had “killed” him more than once.
Wen Jianyan: “The eyeball in the sky over the Fanatsy Amusement Park.”
Wu Zhu’s brow furrowed even tighter. “Nauseating.”
A stronger reaction.
Wen Jianyan looked at him in surprise.
“And what about the Changsheng Building?”
That was the same type of construct and naturally an important factor in how Wen Jianyan judged Wu Zhu’s stance.
Wu Zhu answered without hesitation: “Disgusting.”
Wen Jianyan: “…”
Alright then.
“What about the road next to Xingwang Hotel’s side entrance?” he asked.
Wu Zhu: “Couldn’t be sure, even when wearing the ring.”
Wen Jianyan frowned.
At this rate, there still weren’t enough samples. It was nearly impossible for him to make a decision.
He hesitated for a moment before ultimately deciding to be more direct and asked slowly:
“The same type?”
Wu Zhu answered just as swiftly: “Filthy things.”
Wen Jianyan’s face remained expressionless: “…”
Oh.
“Alright, that’s enough. I’ve got what I need.” Wen Jianyan collected his thoughts, looked up, and smiled. “Thanks for cooperating. This information has been very helpful to me.”
“Your mood improved?”
Wu Zhu watched him.
Wen Jianyan replied, “Yes.”
He stepped forward and, feeling unusually generous, bent down to unfasten the iron muzzle from the other’s face, smiling cheerfully as he said, “I’m in a good mood.”
He understood the concept of carrots and sticks.
Besides, now that he’d basically gathered all the intel he needed, he could leave at any time. Under those circumstances, unfastening the muzzle was no longer a big deal.
However, Wen Jianyan suddenly paused, as if he’d just remembered something.
He furrowed his brow and looked at Wu Zhu. His gaze drifted to the scar on Wu Zhu’s chest, as if confused by something. “Come to think of it, if…”
Wen Jianyan spoke halfway, then stopped.
He pressed a hand to his lips, as though contemplating, or perhaps trying to prevent himself from saying what was on the tip of his tongue.
“If?” Wu Zhu echoed.
“Nothing.” Wen Jianyan quickly reined in the emotion that had briefly slipped through. He blinked, and when he looked up again, he had returned completely to his usual self.
He waved his hand lightly. “See you next time.”
But before he could stand up, his wrist was suddenly grabbed.
“Aren’t you going to ask about yourself?”
Wu Zhu looked up, gazing at the otherworldly being so close before him. Now that the muzzle was gone, his unnaturally handsome face seemed even more eerily threatening.
Wen Jianyan: “…I don’t think there’s anything worth asking.”
Because he had just personally removed the iron cage from the man’s face, the distance between them had closed too much for comfort.
Wu Zhu seemed dissatisfied with this answer.
He leaned in again.
“Why.”
Wen Jianyan leaned back slightly, his upper body nearly pressed into the couch. His tone was dry and cold: “Because there’s no need. Can’t you understand that?”
“Alright.”
Wu Zhu didn’t press further and let go immediately.
But just as Wen Jianyan was about to breathe a sigh of relief, his heart tensed up again.
Wu Zhu lowered his eyes to look at him. One firm arm propped against the couch by Wen Jianyan’s ear.
“I’ve been good today, haven’t I?”
Wen Jianyan: “…Huh?”
The sudden use of the first person made him freeze.
“I’m hungry.”
Wu Zhu said directly.
His golden eyes burned like fire in the darkness, like a beast baring its fangs at last. His long black hair hung down, spilling over the young man’s heaving chest and abdomen—like a serpent from myth, about to devour a divine being whole.
Perhaps it was the closeness between them, but Wen Jianyan felt the brand on his hip begin to burn. Trapped in the narrow space, his breath felt short.
But he still frowned:
“…You want more blood?”
Wen Jianyan knew that blood was tied directly to Wu Zhu’s strength. He absolutely couldn’t—
“No.”
Darkness stirred behind Wu Zhu. He narrowed his eyes, as if recalling something.
“In fact, compared to the pain of blood, I’ve found I much prefer the things that leak from you when you’re happy.”
Even as he said this, Wu Zhu’s expression remained calm and composed.
This god without a shred of shame spoke solemnly and righteously:
“It’s delicious.”
