(10/10)
Yuying University
Chapter 395: Course Selection
The teaching building of Yuying Comprehensive University was a series of connected gray structures. It was long, but not tall—only three floors high. The main doors stood wide open, and a gust of cold wind blew out from within, carrying a strange and unpleasant, pungent smell that made people deeply uncomfortable.
It was as if something had died and rotted inside.
The group arrived at the entrance of the teaching building.
Beside the building, on the mottled and peeling earthen wall, a large red poster had been pasted.
Dense black brushstrokes filled the red paper.
[Freshman Course Schedule]
As expected, in this Yuying Comprehensive University instance, attending class was clearly going to be an extremely important part of survival.
“Where are your phones? Take pictures of this,” Orange Candy said.
Everyone followed suit.
Wen Jianyan stepped closer and studied the details of the red poster carefully.
The schedule was divided into two parts:
Compulsory Courses and Elective Courses.
There were only three compulsory classes:
Major course, Morality and Ethics, and Physical Education.
The elective courses were more varied.
Painting, film studies, literature, foreign languages, fieldwork…
And so on.
On Monday morning, the available elective options were painting, literature, and film.
The rest would be available for registration on Tuesday morning.
Wei Cheng let out a laugh. “This instance is pretty realistic. All these classes—you can actually find them in real universities.” Judging from the names alone, they all seemed fairly harmless.
But what they truly entailed… that would only be revealed once classes began.
Wen Jianyan’s gaze dropped to the very bottom of the red poster. The handwriting there was crooked, but still clearly legible:
“To ensure the graduation rate of our university, freshmen are advised to manage their time wisely and choose courses according to personal ability.”
“Wait, I think the freshman handbook mentioned something about this.”
As he spoke, Wen Jianyan pulled the freshman handbook from his pocket and flipped through it quickly.
The others looked over. “Oh?” Orange Candy sounded intrigued. “Read it for us?”
Wen Jianyan lowered his eyes and began reading aloud:
“Yuying Comprehensive University is a prestigious institution with a long history, strong faculty, and a commitment to both education and character development. We believe that during your four years here, you will find your purpose and value, and become a pillar of society.
As a university student, studying is a vital part of your life.
For your comprehensive and balanced development, our school adopts a credit-based system, ■■■■■.”
The final line was blurred and illegible. Wen Jianyan skipped it and continued:
“Each major course is worth 10 credits. Physical Education and Morality & Ethics are worth 20 credits each. Elective courses are worth 30 credits each.”
“Electives give more credits than required courses?” Tian Ye muttered under his breath. “Isn’t that kind of… unscientific?”
No one responded.
As experienced anchors, they all understood: higher credits didn’t necessarily mean something was better. It often meant greater difficulty—and higher risk. That’s why the rewards were higher.
Wen Jianyan paused, then continued slowly, “Please do not fail.”
In fact, at the bottom of this page in the handbook, that phrase had been printed three times:
Please do not fail.
Please do not fail.
Please do not fail.
The words, printed in small, rigid black font on plain white paper, seemed ordinary—but for some reason, they stood out glaringly, sending a chill down one’s spine.
The group exchanged glances, a shiver crawling up their backs.
Wen Jianyan lowered his gaze again and kept reading:
“Freshmen must complete course registration on the first day of school and arrange their schedule accordingly. You must enroll in at least five courses.
Otherwise, your credits will not be sufficient for your continued development at this institution, ■■■■■■, which will have irreversible and disastrous consequences for your future plans.”
Another line of blurred text followed.
Wen Jianyan skipped over it and kept reading:
“Major course: 3 sessions per week
Morality & Ethics: 1 session per week
Physical Education: 1 session per week
Electives: 2 sessions per week”
Beneath that section was a line of fine print:
Physical Education: Every Tuesday 14:00–16:00
Attendance: Unlimited
Location: Sports field (Attendance mandatory)
Morality & Ethics: Every Friday 18:00–20:00
Attendance: Unlimited
Location: Teaching Building D, Lecture Hall (Attendance mandatory)
Electives: Varies
Attendance: Varies
Location: Varies
“That’s pretty much everything in the handbook.” Wen Jianyan closed the book and looked up.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[Whoa, the info in this freshman handbook is packed. Feels like there are a bunch of traps waiting down the line…]
[So those mandatory courses—do we actually have to take them?]
[Probably, otherwise why call them required?]
[Hold up, I’ve seen this instance before. I’ve watched other anchors skip major courses and still clear it. Don’t forget—it’s only rated A! It’s not that hard.]
[Exactly. If those courses were truly mandatory, the handbook would have stated it outright. Instead, it only says you must take at least five total.]
As the chat discussed game mechanics in full swing, a few off-topic messages floated across the screen:
[Hehe… the anchor’s reading voice is so nice.]
[Damn, the handbook part is too short. I could listen to that voice all day!]
Outside the stream, the team of anchors was analyzing the situation too.
Unlike reality, some rules at Yuying Comprehensive University were clearly twisted.
For instance, the major course—arguably the most important—offered the fewest credits. It also lacked the “mandatory attendance” note that PE and Morality & Ethics had. Meanwhile, electives—which in real universities were often seen as less crucial—offered the highest credits and had only two sessions per week.
Behind them, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed. More figures appeared in the distance—evidently, other anchors had also made it to the teaching building and were beginning their own investigations.
“PE and Morality & Ethics have no student limits, but that might not be the case for electives,” Su Cheng added.
“If I remember right, university electives have seat caps. Popular ones fill up fast. If your timing is off, you can’t get in.”
Su Cheng’s words stirred a long-buried memory. The others looked thoughtful.
That… was true.
Electives with high credit rewards and low weekly frequency would definitely be the most contested. The rest would be left with low-reward, high-frequency major courses. That meant they needed to act fast.
Orange Candy: “Let’s go.”
With that, the group picked up their pace and entered the building.
Inside, it was chillingly cold. The moment they stepped in, a wave of cold air surged up from the floor, like walking into a freezer.
The strange smell in the air became even stronger.
Still, they didn’t stop.
Each classroom door had a label posted.
Area A, Room 101 – Major Course.
“Don’t enter any classrooms yet. Split up. Let’s check the whole building first,” Orange Candy said after a moment of thought.
Though there were many rooms on each floor, the building wasn’t tall. As seasoned anchors, they were highly efficient. In just a few minutes, they had surveyed the entire building.
They regrouped at the designated meeting point to share findings.
Clearly, the teaching building was divided into three zones.
Area A and Area B were entirely for major courses—every classroom sign was identical. Area C, on the other hand, was used solely for electives.
“So… no one found Area D?” Orange Candy looked around with a frown.
Everyone shook their heads.
They had searched every nook and cranny of the building. No matter how hard they looked, only Areas A, B, and C existed. The D Area—where the Morality & Ethics class was supposed to be held—was nowhere to be found. It was as if it didn’t exist.
“……”
They exchanged serious glances.
Wen Jianyan said, “By the way, there’s one thing I’m not sure if you’ve noticed.”
The others turned toward him.
Wen Jianyan narrowed his eyes. “We still don’t know what our major is.”
Logically, a freshman class at a comprehensive university wouldn’t all be from the same major. Yet this notice—meant for all anchors—listed only one “major course” as required. From the moment they entered this instance, that detail had been glossed over.
“Well,” Wei Cheng said, “this is a game instance, not real life. It’s not like they can actually create dozens of majors, right?”
His point made sense.
After all, game instances were full of surreal elements—trying to compare them directly to real-world logic was meaningless.
Wen Jianyan narrowed his eyes further.
He didn’t think Wei Cheng was wrong. He’d been through enough fantasy-style instances—even one built entirely inside the human psyche. But… maybe it was just instinct. He had a feeling something was being hidden in this gap.
“So, how should we choose our courses?” Tian Ye looked down at the photo on his phone, visibly lost. He glanced up at the others.
Perhaps because Yuying Comprehensive University was an open-world instance, there were just too many options left to them.
“Let’s not forget what we came here for.” Hugo suddenly spoke up.
The others turned to look at him. He continued, “This instance isn’t that hard. We’re not here just to clear it—we’re here to complete the mission.”
—The prop hidden in the principal’s office.
Everyone’s expression grew serious.
Hugo was right. This instance was only rated A. For anchors of their level, it wouldn’t pose any unmanageable threats. That meant they needed to stay focused on the task—not simply passing the instance.
“You’re right,” Wen Jianyan nodded. “In that case, we’d better play it safe.”
Soon, they came up with a compromise:
One major course, one PE class, one Morality & Ethics class, and two electives.
Even though the major course gave low credits and had more sessions—making it the worst value—taking at least one would allow them to better understand the instance and stay within acceptable parameters. It would give them the best chance to grasp the big picture.
With this setup, each person would earn 110 credits—more than enough to clear the instance—and gain some buffer room in case anything went wrong.
“What elective should we register for?” Wei Cheng asked.
“The names of the electives seem harmless enough,” Wen Jianyan studied the list of electives, musing aloud. “But as for what they really are… that’s hard to say.”
So, what should they sign up for?
“Let’s just pick one randomly,” Orange Candy shrugged, looking completely unconcerned. “Since we can’t tell anything from the outside, we might as well leave it to luck.”
Wen Jianyan: “……”
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[Hahahahahaha!]
[HAHAHAHA ‘leave it to luck’—I’m dying!]
[Look at the host’s face, he just turned green.]
[Wen Jianyan: you might as well let me use my brain instead.]
“Do whatever you want,” Hugo pulled a cigarette from his pocket, held it between his lips, and said calmly, “I’m going off on my own.”
“Alright.”
Orange Candy didn’t seem surprised by Hugo’s lone-wolf behavior.
She waved her hand nonchalantly and said, “See you at the required course. If anything comes up, message me.”
Hugo said nothing, simply waved his hand and walked away, disappearing down the hallway.
Wen Jianyan’s gaze lingered on his back for a moment.
No wonder before the “Xingwang Hotel” instance began, Orange Candy had said that Hugo was strong but not exactly a team player. Sure enough, the moment the instance started, he was already gone.
But that also proved how confident he was in his own strength—otherwise, he wouldn’t have so readily chosen to break off and explore solo.
However…
Wen Jianyan frowned slightly.
From what he remembered, inside the “Xingwang Hotel” box garden, Hugo did have a team and teammates. He hadn’t been this averse to teaming up. Had something happened that Wen Jianyan didn’t know about? Or…
He wasn’t sure.
There was still too little information.
“Let’s go, we’ll try signing up for one class first.”
Orange Candy looked in a certain direction, her eyes lighting up. “Hey, this one looks good!”
She waved them over and bounced toward one of the classrooms.
Wen Jianyan sighed and followed.
A small plaque hung beside the classroom door, neatly printed with the following:
Classroom C-203
Course: Literature
The classroom wasn’t very big and looked very old. The walls were peeling, some spots bare, and the remaining paint had yellowed. Random graffiti was scrawled all over. Because they’d already spent some time in the hallway, there were already other anchors seated inside. A teacher-like figure sat at the lectern, glancing down at a notebook.
Apparently hearing their footsteps, the teacher turned to look at them:
“Freshmen?”
The classroom was dim and shadowy.
The teacher’s face looked especially pale, his eyes pitch-black, giving off an unexplainably chilling aura.
“Yes,” Orange Candy answered.
The teacher tapped the table. “Student IDs. Come register.”
The group exchanged glances and walked forward.
Wen Jianyan’s gaze landed on the notebook in front of the teacher. His pupils contracted slightly.
“Wait.”
He reached out and stopped Orange Candy, who had already pulled out her student ID.
Orange Candy: “?”
She blinked and tilted her head at him, seemingly asking what was wrong.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[? What’s going on?]
[Same thing as last night’s student?]
[No way, they’re not reusing the same trick, right? It was clever the first time, but it’ll get old fast.]
[I doubt it. Even Orange Candy didn’t notice anything. With her sharp eyes, there’s no way she wouldn’t recognize a fake.]
[Then what is it?]
The teacher lifted his head, those pitch-dark eyes locking onto Wen Jianyan. His face was expressionless, but something about it sent a chill down your spine.
“Hello, teacher,” Wen Jianyan blinked, looking very obedient. “I just wanted to ask—does this course have a class schedule?”
“……”
Maybe it was just their imagination, but the teacher’s face seemed to darken ever so slightly.
The classroom fell into dead silence.
Even the other anchors looked up.
Wen Jianyan stood calmly, wearing a slight smile, the very picture of a polite and respectful student.
At last, the teacher raised a hand and pointed coldly to a corner of the room. “Over there. Go look for yourself.”
“Thank you, teacher.” Wen Jianyan’s smile deepened.
He turned and walked toward the entrance.
Tian Ye still looked confused and whispered, “What’s going on?”
Wen Jianyan pulled open the door. “The teacher’s holding a roster.”
Just before they were about to register, because Wen Jianyan had been standing closer to the lectern, he had a perfect view of the top of the notebook, which clearly read:
Student Attendance Roster.
Everyone froze.
A roster?
Wait, that meant…
“This teacher takes attendance,” Orange Candy narrowed her eyes and said slowly.
“Exactly.”
Wen Jianyan nodded.
Behind the door, in a very hidden spot, there was a wrinkled piece of paper, its edges curled, as if it hadn’t been touched in ages.
On it were a few crooked lines of writing:
Course: Literature
Time: Mondays 10:00–12:00 AM, Tuesdays 2:00–4:00 PM.
Their expressions darkened.
So that was the trap.
Because this was an instance, they had subconsciously assumed that the Nightmare would arrange the schedule in a way that no classes would overlap.
But clearly, that wasn’t the case.
This elective directly conflicted with one of their mandatory courses—P.E., which was on Tuesday afternoons.
If they actually signed up for this class, they’d miss at least one required class every week.
Even Wen Jianyan felt a chill.
If he hadn’t already been on high alert for every minor detail, he might’ve stepped into this trap too.
Missing one class a week might not get them killed outright, but who knew what consequences it might lead to?
The group exchanged looks.
Wen Jianyan turned back toward the teacher’s increasingly sullen face, and gave him an awkward smile: “Sorry, teacher. I don’t think we’re very interested in literature after all.”
The teacher’s face darkened even more.
The other anchors in the classroom seemed to have realized something as well, and they were starting to squirm in their seats, their expressions growing increasingly conflicted.
The group left the classroom.
Behind them, the teacher stared at their backs without blinking. His bloodless face looked even more eerie and disturbing in the dim light.
Standing in the hallway, they began to talk.
“Let’s go register for our major course first,” Wen Jianyan said.
The major course had the most class hours per week and was also mandatory, meaning it had the highest chance of conflicting with other classes. Only by registering for it first could they make sure other classes wouldn’t clash.
They had initially chosen to register for electives first because some had limited spots and could be hard to grab. But since there were hidden time traps, they had no choice but to reverse the order.
“Quick, let’s hurry!”
The group sped up, running down the corridor and dashing from Zone C to Zone B at full speed. They picked a random classroom and rushed in.
Under the surprised gaze of the anchors already inside, they registered for the course, panting, and obtained their major course schedule.
As soon as Wen Jianyan got the schedule, his expression darkened slightly.
His gaze fell on Monday afternoon.
…The freshman major course ran from 3:30 PM to 5:30 PM.
But the club recruitment event was from 4:00 PM to 6:00 PM.
The timing almost completely overlapped, leaving only half an hour of free time in the end.
Well, half an hour is better than nothing.
“Hey!”
A startled voice came from Tian Ye nearby.
“What is it?” The others turned to look at him.
“Check your student ID!” Tian Ye exclaimed.
The others were stunned for a moment, then quickly took out their student IDs from their pockets.
Yuying Comprehensive University.
Name: Wen Jianyan
Gender: Male
Major: ■■
Class: ■■
Student ID: ■■■■■■
At the bottom, at some unknown point, a new line had appeared:
Credits: 10
Wen Jianyan was taken aback.
You could earn credits just by registering for a course?
In other words… Wen Jianyan narrowed his eyes.
Rather than calling this instance a “credit system,” it was more like a “credit deduction system.”
“Let’s go, the elective courses outside are probably mostly taken by now. We’d better hurry!” Orange Candy stuffed her student ID back into her pocket and said urgently.
Everyone nodded and began running after her.
Since literature and PE overlapped, the only Monday courses they could sign up for were painting and film.
They rushed again to Zone C.
With the time it took to go back and forth, most elective courses in Zone C had already been taken. Almost all the classrooms were filled with “freshmen,” waiting for classes to start.
First floor, second floor…
Every classroom was packed.
Clearly, most anchors had realized that electives offered the best return in this instance. Although they might be more dangerous, compared to staying in this instance for two whole semesters, it was better to choose the slightly riskier option.
The group reached the third floor.
Panting, Tian Ye said, “There are still other electives on Tuesday. If we really can’t get in—”
Before he could finish, Yun Bilan’s voice rang out from nearby: “There’s an empty classroom here.”
“?!”
Everyone instantly perked up.
They quickly walked over.
Zone C, Room 313
Course: Film
Through the dusty window on the door, they could see that the classroom was less than half full. Compared to the others, it was practically empty.
“Let’s go.”
Orange Candy nodded and took the lead to push the door open.
The moment the door opened, a cold, eerie air hit them in the face.
A teacher was sitting at the podium, slowly turning his head to look at them.
Perhaps it was just the lighting, but his skin seemed to have a faint bluish tint, and a thin white film covered his eyes—yet he was smiling.
He smiled silently, simply staring at the “freshmen” walking in.
Though the gaze was unsettling, Orange Candy and the others acted naturally. “Hello, teacher,” Wen Jianyan greeted with a cheerful smile.
Behind him, Yun Bilan skillfully opened the door wider, discreetly checked the hidden class schedule beside the entrance, then nodded subtly at the others with a concealed hand signal.
All clear.
No time conflict with any required courses.
The group exchanged glances.
This one?
This one.
They all nodded and stepped forward.
Wen Jianyan handed over his student ID and politely said, “Teacher, we’d like to register.”
The teacher reached out and took the ID.
As the tip of the pen scratched across the register, the registration was completed.
The credits on the student ID ticked up slightly—to 40.
“Go find a seat,” the teacher returned the student ID and said, “Class is about to start.”
Wen Jianyan scanned the classroom, then walked to an empty seat near the back wall and sat down.
The moment he sat, a chilling sensation spread rapidly.
He couldn’t help but shiver.
Wen Jianyan instinctively glanced up at the top right corner.
His health and mana bars hadn’t changed.
The rest of the group had also completed their registrations and found seats nearby.
Orange Candy sat to his left, and the others were not far.
Wen Jianyan checked the time.
Fifteen minutes until class started.
Bored, he took the freshman handbook from his pocket and flipped through it leisurely.
Ten minutes left.
Wen Jianyan casually turned another page.
Suddenly, something at the edge of his vision caught his attention.
“…?”
He paused slightly and looked toward the edge of the desk.
There were deep gouges—like claw marks from fingernails.
Within them, there was a bit of dried dark brown substance, as if blood had seeped out when the nails broke.
Wen Jianyan frowned, pushed the handbook aside, gripped the edge of the desk, and shifted it slightly.
In the dim light, he looked at the wall behind it.
On the part of the wall blocked by the desk, someone had carved a few crooked, terrifying words:
Don’t take this course.
Run.
“!”
In an instant, cold sweat broke out down Wen Jianyan’s back.
Five minutes until class began.
Outside the door, an invisible darkness seemed to be creeping in.
A loud click echoed.
The teacher at the podium slowly stood up, a smile spreading across his face:
“Is everyone here?”
“Class is about to begin.”
His luck is impeccable