Thank you @bellaro for the Kofi.
Yuying University
Chapter 410: Get Lost!
“……”
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
Wen Jianyan’s expression stiffened slightly as he let out a silent, uncontrollable scream in his mind.
The half-sentence that had been about to leave his lips was swallowed back down his throat. He whipped his head around and suddenly broke into a sprint down the track.
Behind him, the footsteps of his “teammates” followed like shadows, seemingly speeding up as well.
“What’s wrong?”
The voices of his teammates came from behind, tone as usual, as if they were genuinely puzzled by Wen Jianyan’s actions.
Su Cheng’s voice called out too:
“Why are you running so fast?”
Wen Jianyan: “……”
Do you think I could even survive if I ran slower in this situation?!
The sky was pitch black. Aside from the blood-red track beneath his feet, everything else was submerged in a bottomless darkness.
Crunch, crunch.
His soles crushed the rubber pellets on the track, producing a rhythmic friction sound in the silence.
Wen Jianyan accelerated further while glancing down at the phone in his hand.
There were still seven minutes left before the twenty minutes were up.
Even though he was clearly in danger right now, the instance’s rules wouldn’t change. That meant—so long as he kept running for twenty minutes straight, the crisis of this PE class would be lifted, and he’d be able to leave this place.
Wen Jianyan risked a glance over his shoulder.
Just that one look sent a chill down his spine.
His “teammates,” faces pale and twisted with eerie smiles, were charging toward him at full speed. Those ghastly white faces, under the black sky and the red track, looked all the more horrifying.
“Hey!”
“Don’t run so fast! Wait for us!”
Wait for your damn ghost!
Wen Jianyan snapped his gaze forward and continued sprinting at full speed.
The blood-red track glared even brighter in the darkness, but as Wen Jianyan picked up speed, the rubber granules underfoot seemed to change texture—they turned sticky and viscous. Every time he lifted a foot, it felt like something was trying to hold him back, sapping his strength.
By the sixth lap, Wen Jianyan was no longer running with ease. He was slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed, and sweat beaded on his temples.
Maybe he’d run too hard just now—his head was starting to feel dizzy.
He looked down at the timer.
Only three minutes left.
Meaning, if he could just finish this last lap, the PE class would end.
Given his remaining strength, going all out to finish the lap shouldn’t be a problem.
However, due to this slight pause, the “teammates” behind had nearly caught up.
The sound of footsteps pounded right behind his head, sending shivers down his spine.
“!”
Wen Jianyan tensed.
Shit!
He hurriedly pushed himself to run faster again.
But just then, ahead at the end of the track, several figures began to appear in the darkness.
They stood upright not far ahead. Their pale, bloodless faces were turned toward him. Wen Jianyan vaguely saw red armbands on their arms—familiar ones, glaringly bright.
Wen Jianyan’s heart jumped. His brain, dulled by exhaustion, was suddenly struck by a sharp alert.
Student council members?
Why are they—
Just as he was lost in thought, suddenly a voice called out behind him. It was “Orange Candy”:
“Hey, did you see something weird?”
Wen Jianyan paused slightly.
Because… her tone was too real.
He couldn’t help it. Instinctively, he turned to look toward the voice.
“In your eyes, do we look… a bit different from before?” ‘Orange Candy’ slowed down and stopped chasing him. She asked calmly.
Her eerie smile remained, but her voice and tone were exactly the same as he remembered.
“You suddenly ran off so fast, we almost couldn’t catch up,”
‘Su Cheng’ came up, panting, and also stopped.
His voice was just as familiar, rational and concerned, sharply contrasting with the creepy twisted smile on his face.
“It was Orange Candy who realized it first—your SAN value probably dropped too low. That’s why you might be seeing things differently now, even people you’re familiar with start to look… wrong.”
‘Su Cheng’ raised both hands in a surrendering gesture:
“I know, right now we probably look like monsters to you. But we won’t get any closer. Just… listen to me…”
He took a deep breath. Though his face remained ghastly and distorted, the voice was cautious and calm—too familiar, to the point of feeling unreal.
“Whatever you do, don’t go any further.”
Wen Jianyan stood still, staring at them for a long moment, then slowly turned his head to look toward the end of the track.
Those student council members, in uniform and with armbands, still stood there watching him from afar.
……
Indeed, before PE started, Orange Candy had warned him about the risk of SAN value loss.
Including hallucinations, paranoia, and even madness.
That meant—“The creepy appearances of the teammates are just illusions” was a valid possibility. All this was to mislead him toward danger. Just like what happened earlier in the gym’s swimming pool—if he failed to realize in time, he would be lured into the most dangerous place, never to return.
But… at the same time, they could be lying too. All these statements about SAN value and hallucinations might just be tricks to stop him from reaching the finish line and escaping danger. Nothing but outright lies.
Who should he trust?
Who’s lying?
Wen Jianyan stood still. His chest heaved violently from the sprint. Sweat had soaked his black hair, which now clung to his pale forehead.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
Shit, the anchor’s starting to waver.
[No kidding, who wouldn’t waver in this situation?! Honestly, I’m confused too. Who the hell should he trust right now?]
[No idea…]
[Ahhh, is there anyone who’s played this instance before? Please say something! This feeling of not being able to trust anything is so creepy. Forget the anchor—I’m about to lose it just watching through the screen!]
[Can you guys shut up? Ever since the gym incident, you’ve been spamming the damn chat asking if anyone’s played this before. Are you sick in the head? How many times do you need to be told—even if someone has played this instance, they still wouldn’t know the answer!]
[To be honest… normally, track and field is supposed to be the safest PE option. Why this is happening… I have no clue either!]
[???]
[Seriously? I can’t even tell if the anchor is lucky or unlucky—how the hell did he trigger a brand-new hidden route again?]
[Actually, this is pretty normal. Open-world instances have tons of side routes—no matter how many times they get cleared, there’s always some anchor who triggers one that’s never been seen before. But this time, the new route feels… different. Suddenly this instance doesn’t seem so boring anymore.]
[Thanks to the anchor for saving this low-risk, low-death-rate, low-view-count instance! How long has it been? And he’s already run into dangers most anchors wouldn’t even hit in a full clear!]
Wen Jianyan stood frozen in place.
He could hear the heavy thump-thump of his heartbeat, growing louder, louder, until it became the noisiest sound in the world.
For some reason, he felt a strange sense of dissociation.
As if… the connection between his body and soul was glitching, slightly out of sync, making him feel like he was floating above himself.
Strange blotches and flashing lights began to appear at the edges of his vision.
Drip. Drip.
He could almost hear time itself passing—urging him to dash across the finish line.
In the distance, Su Cheng and Orange Candy’s faces flickered, alternating back and forth. Their voices sounded both near and impossibly far away, calling to him:
“…Don’t go forward… come back…”
“……”
Wen Jianyan lifted his gaze slightly, as if searching for something—but found no focus, and let his head drop again.
Within his field of view, the blood-red track was glowing as bright as fresh liquid crimson. Every rubber granule beneath his feet had taken on an odd appearance.
He couldn’t see distant things clearly—but what lay at his feet, he saw perfectly.
Every rubber pellet had turned into a tiny, blood-red eyeball. Densely packed beneath him, all silently screaming, overlapping voices piling atop one another, interrogating him:
Which will you choose?
What will you choose?
Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry! If you don’t hurry, you’ll die, you’re going to die, you’re about to die—you’re dying, dying, dying—
The voices grew louder, more chaotic.
“Ugh…”
Wen Jianyan furrowed his brows, a faint whimper escaping his throat. His pale face was drenched in sweat, and light-colored irises blurred by a spreading, unfocused halo.
Seeing this, the argument in the “Integrity First” livestream chat abruptly stalled:
[Wait… something’s wrong with the anchor, isn’t it?]
[Shit, I think so too—what’s going on?]
[SAN value’s probably way too low, right? But wasn’t this instance’s SAN check supposed to be lenient? How come it suddenly kicked in now after dropping so much before with no effect?]
[…I couldn’t help it. I used points to redeem a viewer-exclusive spoiler hint and, well… let’s just say this is the most dangerous moment in the whole instance so far. Not exaggerating.]
Wen Jianyan’s dazed gaze dropped to the blood-red track.
He slowly lifted his hand.
His fingers, stiff and clumsy as if frozen, awkwardly fumbled at his shirt buttons.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[?]
[??!!]
One button after another came undone, revealing his chest and abdomen, tightly wrapped in bandages stained red with blood.
Who to trust?
Wen Jianyan’s trembling fingers began tearing at the bandages.
As the shirt fell open, the loosened bandages exposed pale skin, covered with wounds that were nearly healed—the edges of the scabs taut and pink with new flesh.
Which side to trust?
Wen Jianyan’s fingers rested against a wound.
…No.
He trusted no one.
No one.
Some sharp, screaming thing wailed deep inside his mind:
Don’t trust anyone. Trust no one.
Wen Jianyan’s movements slowed, dull and unsteady. His neatly trimmed nails dug deep into the scabbed wound, ripping open the tender new flesh underneath.
Fresh blood welled up, trickling down his chest, soaking the bandages, staining the white shirt hem with crimson in the blink of an eye.
Pain grew from the numbness, bringing with it faint, intermittent clarity amidst the chaotic sense of dissociation.
His legs began to move. His body swayed slightly as he slowly stepped backward.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[?]
[?! What’s the anchor trying to do now?]
[Step back? Where can he even go…?]
……
Wen Jianyan took another step back.
He had been running along the inner lane of the track. Although he had only stepped back twice, he was already near the edge of the track.
One more step, and Wen Jianyan would leave the track entirely and step onto the dull gray football field.
Suddenly, all the sounds in his ears sharpened, pounding heavily against his eardrums.
Su Cheng screamed, “Don’t go there!”
Orange Candy’s voice mixed in, “Come back now!”
Chaotic footsteps sounded again—this time, closing in from both sides simultaneously.
In the distance, the student council members standing at the finish line were no longer waiting—they began quickly walking toward him. Those pale faces came closer and closer.
…Not enough.
Wen Jianyan wanted to apply more force with his hand, but his body no longer obeyed him well.
His pale face tilted down, eyelashes trembling slightly.
He curled his fingers, pressing the edge of the Ouroboros ring into his wound. In the next second, what had only been slightly broken skin split open as if slashed by a blade, following the natural lines of his flesh. The ring began to drink blood, its snake eye gleaming red in the darkness.
Just as countless hands were about to touch him, Wen Jianyan swayed and slowly took another step back.
And this time, Wen Jianyan completely left the track.
The moment his last foot left the track, it was as if his entire being was yanked free from the dissociative state. He gasped sharply, his face turning deathly pale as he jerked his fingers out of the wound. The previously numb and vacant look on his face vanished, replaced by stunned panic as he stared at the track in front of him, gasping for breath.
In the distance, the student council members with armbands ran closer.
“Su Cheng” and “Orange Candy’s” faces twisted and distorted, replaced by pale, stiff expressions, cold and sinister.
On their arms were also bright red armbands.
The student council members stood upon the same blood-red track, staring at him coldly.
———All of them were fake.
They stood only a step away from Wen Jianyan, yet it felt like a vast chasm separated them. Frozen in place, they fixed their dull, lifeless eyes on him.
Cold sweat beaded on Wen Jianyan’s forehead.
Although he had left the track, his mind was still foggy; strange lights flickered at the edges of his vision, and his thoughts broke apart, scattering in fragments.
But at least… he could barely think again.
He struggled to lift his eyes, forcing himself to glance at the upper-right corner.
The once-clear numbers were now blurry, even doubled.
HP: ■■
SAN: 27
Under his gaze, the number next to SAN flickered slightly—then slowly turned to 26.
It was… the track.
As long as he stayed on the track… his SAN value would keep dropping.
Wen Jianyan shook his head harshly, gritting his teeth and jabbing his fingers into the wound on his chest. “—Ugh!”
The pain cleared his mind a little.
This instance’s SAN mechanic was different from those he’d encountered before. At first, the SAN drop only caused temperature changes and made him more vulnerable, but didn’t stack heavy debuffs.
On the one hand, this made movement easier.
But on the other hand—it dulled his senses, letting his SAN drain quietly without him noticing.
Pain was terrifying, yes—but it also served as a warning and self-protection.
If this warning system failed, the body lost its last line of defense—like a frog boiled slowly in warm water, letting itself stay exposed to danger.
And now, it seemed this numbness also subtly dulled thinking itself.
Wen Jianyan dug deeper into the wound, forcing fresh blood to flow. Balancing between illusion and clarity, he self-inflicted this pain to drag himself toward consciousness—and to remember:
Ever since he’d entered the gym, he’d rarely checked his SAN value—not for any reason other than… simply forgetting.
Even after leaving the gym, he’d only remembered when Orange Candy asked about his numbers.
And once he stepped onto the track… Wen Jianyan had completely forgotten SAN even existed. Even when strange visions appeared, he didn’t think to check.
And when SAN dropped low enough, once it crossed a certain threshold—it would cause a qualitative change.
The false calm and numbness would vanish, replaced by chaotic, frenzied hallucinations.
As Wen Jianyan forced himself to think, some viewers in the “Integrity First’ livestream suddenly noticed the fluctuation in his SAN.
The faintly flickering number stayed at 26 for more than ten seconds—then slowly, gradually—climbed up by one.
27.
[?]
[???]
[Holy shit, SAN went up?!]
[Wait, the anchor didn’t use any items just now, right?]
[He couldn’t have used anything even if he wanted to!]
[Maybe it’s a system bug? I thought SAN could only drop in this situation… How could it go up?! Probably an error that’ll fix itself soon.]
As his mind steadied, Wen Jianyan remembered more details.
Just now—while standing on the track—he had tried to do something.
Now that he thought about it… he vaguely sensed that something was wrong and wanted to check his SAN.
But under the influence of the track and low SAN, he failed.
His eyes had only just begun to lift—when he instantly forgot what he meant to do. As if the idea of checking SAN had been silently erased from his mind altogether.
“……”
Wen Jianyan’s fingers pressed deeper into the wound, feeling the torn flesh and sticky warmth pulsing against his fingertips.
Even pain felt distant now.
His breath was hot, and his eyes seemed to tremble.
Looks like… as SAN fell, the anchor began to forget this very mechanic.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[!!!]
[I’m shocked—his SAN’s at 28 now! 28, everyone!]
[Holy shit, this is insane! This is the first time I’ve seen someone forcefully stop their SAN drop by pure willpower—and even make the number go back up!]
Suddenly, Wen Jianyan thought he heard a sigh by his ear.
Very far away, very faint.
“?!”
Wen Jianyan froze for a moment, then slowly lifted his eyes.
Those few student council members, with their chilling aura, were still standing a few steps away, staring at him expressionlessly.
But no matter what, that sigh definitely hadn’t come from them.
“Over here.”
A familiar, low voice sounded.
“……”
Wen Jianyan turned his gaze blankly—and locked eyes with a pair of golden pupils faintly glowing in the darkness.
His lips moved slightly.
…Wu Zhu?
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[?]
[? Is the anchor talking to the air now?]
[No clue, couldn’t hear him clearly.]
[See? I said it must’ve been a system bug! The anchor’s obviously suffering full-blown hallucinations now—both visual and auditory. You can tell his SAN is so low he’s about to die. There’s no way that value should’ve gone up!]
Wen Jianyan raised his hand and reached into the air—his fingers passed right through Wu Zhu’s phantom form.
Nothing there.
As expected—it was a hallucination.
So why is this guy haunting me even in my hallucinations?
Wu Zhu: “You want to touch me?”
Wen Jianyan averted his gaze.
“Not impossible,”
Wu Zhu said.
Wen Jianyan ignored the hallucination.
Yes, his SAN was indeed dangerously low—but not so low that he’d start answering his own hallucinations. Not yet.
“Humans can feel pain, right?”
A bony, defined finger touched the torn, bloody wound on his chest—not painful, but cold.
The bandage came loose on one side, while the other tightened, its edge slightly bulging with a soft curve.
Under the dark red blood, his pale, damp skin showed.
“But it looks good.”
Wu Zhu said.
Wen Jianyan: “……”
“Can I have a lick?”
Wu Zhu asked politely.
Wen Jianyan: “………………”
Wu Zhu leaned closer.
“How about this—you kiss me, and I’ll take you out of here. How does that sound?”
Wen Jianyan took a deep breath. Finally fed up, he lifted his eyes to look straight at him, breaking his rule of not talking to hallucinations:
“…Get lost.”
Twenty minutes came to an end.
Su Cheng, Orange Candy, Wei Cheng, and the others successively crossed the finish line.
As they stepped over the finish line, the dazed, numb expressions on their faces abruptly vanished, replaced by sudden clarity.
“What… just happened?”
Tian Ye panted, looking around in confusion at the track behind them.
He remembered starting to run, and the longer he ran, the more muddled his mind became. His legs moved like machinery—ignoring his will—just moving forward, forward…
And by the time he came to his senses, he was already at the end of the track.
Though small, Orange Candy had better stamina than anyone. Even after running the full twenty minutes, her breathing wasn’t even disturbed.
She glanced at the bracelet on her wrist—the one she’d redeemed and activated after sleeping through an entire specialty class. It was the same type of item as Wen Jianyan’s bone wind chime—an emergency tool that would break and fall off the moment her life was in danger.
But the bracelet was still firmly on her slender wrist. The edges were a little worn, but nowhere near breaking.
Orange Candy clicked her tongue in disappointment and muttered irritably:
“Nothing happened.”
“Yeah.”
Wei Cheng steadied his breathing and agreed.
If anything truly dangerous had happened on the track, he would have been the first to sense it.
Looks like the PE class was similar to the specialty class—a semi-forced process where items couldn’t be used, but where no fatal threat would appear during the course either.
“Eh!” Suddenly, Tian Ye seemed to realize something and exclaimed in surprise, “Wait—my SAN dropped a little, but my stamina actually increased!”
The others all paused, then hurriedly checked their own stamina.
Sure enough, after running for twenty minutes, although their SAN values had each dropped by three to five points, their stamina had recovered significantly.
“No way,” Wei Cheng widened his eyes slightly in astonishment. “You mean this instance’s PE class really does improve your body?”
Tian Ye looked dazed as well: “Holy crap, this is the first time I’ve seen such an honest course description. Awesome.”
At the same time, their student cards had also been credited with spendable points—meaning that this class could officially be considered complete for now.
In this light, it was understandable why this instance had such a low viewer rating.
Even though they’d been here for two days, life-threatening crises had been relatively rare.
In fact, as long as one carefully followed the school’s scheduled classes and was cautious—with a bit of luck—one could mostly avoid the majority of dangers.
“Wait… something’s not right.”
Su Cheng’s gaze fell on the track behind them, his brows furrowing tightly.
Where was Wen Jianyan?
More and more anchors continued appearing behind them as they crossed the finish line—these must’ve also chosen the athletics course. But until they crossed the finish line, none of them had been visible—only after finishing could they return to reality.
Even if they arrived one after another, it shouldn’t have taken this long for him to appear.
“?!”
Everyone instantly realized something was wrong.
“……”
Orange Candy frowned, her usual careless grin gone. She actually looked serious as she stepped forward:
“Move.”
The others hurriedly made way as Orange Candy walked along the track.
Even though she’d crossed the finish line, Orange Candy’s figure hadn’t vanished. On the contrary, more anchors were slowly appearing behind her from the previously empty track, crossing the finish line and returning to reality.
It seemed this was a one-way road—you could only leave, not return.
“Try using a prop,” Wei Cheng said.
“Useless.”
Yun Bilan shook her head, looking grim.
Clearly, while Orange Candy had tried walking back just now, Yun Bilan had attempted using a prop—but it showed Wen Jianyan’s location as out of range, making it impossible to pull him out.
“What’s going on?” Tian Ye asked helplessly. “Is it because his SAN is too low?”
Could it be that when SAN dropped below a certain level, the situation he encountered became this drastically different?
“Maybe.” Orange Candy narrowed her eyes slightly. “…But it shouldn’t be.”
Just then, a tall figure approached from a distance—one that looked annoyingly familiar.
It was Hugo.
He seemed to have finally finished cleaning up the mess in the gym and arrived at the field.
With one hand in his pocket, he strolled over, quickly sensing the tense atmosphere.
Hugo frowned slightly: “What happened?”
His eyes swept around once before realization hit him: “Someone’s missing?”
“Hey,” Orange Candy looked at Hugo, unusually serious. “Did you provoke some troublesome danger earlier?”
Hugo didn’t know why she asked that—but he answered honestly:
“I did.”
As expected.
Orange Candy grinned—but her smile was sharp and dangerous as she stomped hard on Hugo’s foot and ground it in.
“……”
Hugo’s brow twitched, but he forcefully swallowed the pain.
“What’s wrong?”
Orange Candy: “That guy checked in for you earlier.”
She pressed harder, still smiling sweetly: “Never thought it—this time it’s actually your fault.”
Hugo froze slightly, then his expression darkened as he seemed to realize something too.
“Spill it. What exactly did you do?”
“…I’ll say this first—I didn’t know this would happen.”
Hugo raised his hand, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed:
“Anyway, if I’m not mistaken, his current danger is coming from the student council.”
Su Cheng’s voice rose in shock: “…What?!”
Even Orange Candy was stunned: “What?”
“Remember that red cloth I used to block the gym window earlier?” Hugo asked.
Wei Cheng’s expression darkened: “…Yeah.”
He suddenly had a very bad feeling.
Hugo: “That was a student council member’s armband. I’m not part of the student council, so I can’t wear it. But even so—it still worked pretty well.”
Hugo: “Anyway… it wasn’t exactly acquired by legal means.”
Su Cheng: “…Not legal as in?”
Hugo: “I broke school rules to get it.”
Everyone: “……”
Now they all felt uneasy.
“That’s why I avoid mandatory classes,” Hugo said. “If they find me, I’ll be in big trouble.”
Everyone: “……………………”
Shit.
They finally understood—Wen Jianyan had been mistaken for Hugo, who broke the rules, and got caught by the student council as an unlucky scapegoat.
“So it really is because of you!”
Orange Candy’s smile was gone—she viciously kicked Hugo’s shin without holding back. Even Hugo couldn’t help but wince in pain.
“You clean up your own mess!”
Hugo, knowing he was at fault, said softly: “…Okay.”
Clearly, there was a reason he didn’t deal with the student council directly and instead stayed away from classes to avoid being hunted—this thing wasn’t something easy to handle.
Not only was Wen Jianyan trapped in a serious danger, but worse—his SAN was already dangerously low.
This could be the kind of fatal crisis that even veteran anchors struggled to escape.
“If that guy comes back in one piece this time, you owe him big time,” Orange Candy ground her teeth.
Taking a class for him was minor—solving his student council problem was huge.
“You better thank him properly, got it?”
Hugo: “…Got it.”
