Yuying University
Chapter 429: Nightmare APP group chat assistant reminds you to use civilized language
Wen Jianyan stood frozen in place, eyes lowered, staring intently at the crimson text on the paper, cold sweat pouring from his forehead.
[I pledge, I willingly offer my flesh and blood.]
[I pledge, I willingly offer my spirit.]
[I pledge, I willingly offer my life.]
The original ideological guidelines had vanished, replaced by these three bizarre and deeply unsettling lines of text.
Over and over, densely written.
Though silent and motionless, the words seemed somehow alive—like needles piercing his eyes, as if trying to invade his brain through his pupils.
A strong sense of foreboding made Wen Jianyan’s hair stand on end, a chill seeping into his skin through the paper, making his fingers stiff and icy.
He gripped the cold sheet tightly, fingertips turning white from the pressure.
What did these three lines mean?
Was he supposed to read them aloud next?
Or… had he already read them?
The moment that thought crossed his mind, Wen Jianyan shivered uncontrollably, a chill rushing from head to toe, his back drenched in cold sweat.
“…”
The steady chanting that had filled the room abruptly ceased, plunging the space into an eerie silence that made everyone instinctively tense.
In this situation, no one was more anxious than Wen Jianyan’s teammates.
Among the previous anchors who stood up, the longest pause had been fifteen seconds.
Fifteen seconds.
The teammates exchanged heavy looks.
That meant if the pause exceeded that threshold, the anchor’s life was in imminent danger.
An invisible clock started ticking down. Everyone’s nerves were taut as they counted each passing second.
Orange Candy tilted her head slightly, casting a meaningful glance at the others behind her, silently raising her hand:
—Prepare to use the item.
She wasn’t about to let a teammate die in this class—not just because Wen Jianyan was still valuable, but because she had the means to prevent it.
Although the rules of an A-level instance were difficult to overcome and came with steep costs, with the right strategy, it wasn’t entirely hopeless.
Su Cheng sat ramrod straight in his seat, lips pressed tightly together, betraying his unease.
He turned to look at Wen Jianyan, who was standing nearby.
From his seated position, the paper in Wen Jianyan’s hands blocked his view, but he could see the white-knuckled grip on the paper’s edges.
Eight seconds left.
In the “Integrity First” live room barrage:
[Ahhh hurry up and read it!! There’s not much time!!]
[Stop dreaming, the anchor is dead this time. Some people were saying he’d be fine in this situation… wake up! Sure, he’s capable, but his sanity is already dangerously low—willpower alone won’t help anymore.]
[What did he even see? He’s not staring off into space like the others but is fixated on the paper…]
[Ughh, when can livestreams sync up hallucinations! Blood petition for that!]
[Double blood petition!]
[Honestly, I’d rather it be a terrifying hallucination. If the text on the paper really changed, that’s way worse…]
[Agreed.]
[The anchor is done for this time.]
Just as the chat grew more heated and pessimistic, Wen Jianyan suddenly spoke:
“…Yuying Comprehensive University is my alma mater. It nurtured me and raised me. My achievements are the university’s achievements; my future is the university’s future.”
His voice was calm and steady, as if that nearly twenty-second pause had never happened, reading the guidelines fluently.
“For Yuying Comprehensive University, I pledge to undergo ideological and moral training, abide by the moral guidelines, and never disobey the university’s teachings.”
Like Orange Candy and the others, the viewers in the livestream collectively sighed in relief:
[Ahhh… that scared me, he’s finally reading again.]
[I really thought he was dead this time.]
[And y’all in chat were overreacting, saying the paper changed or whatever… does he sound like he’s reading something new?]
Wen Jianyan kept his gaze on the paper in his palm.
The blood-red, horrifying three lines of pledge remained unchanged, yet he calmly and steadily recited the original “ideological guidelines,” not missing a single word.
“I am a part of Yuying Comprehensive University. I love my alma mater. I will never leave my alma mater.”
He finished.
But the vice principal didn’t respond immediately, leaving the lecture hall in a suffocating silence.
Orange Candy turned around, looking back.
Wen Jianyan forced a smile at her, but his face was almost as pale as the paper, his lips bloodless, which made it all the more disturbing.
He looked back at the podium.
The vice principal’s face was pale and gaunt, his murky, lifeless eyes locked onto Wen Jianyan like a vulture eyeing carrion, cold and creepy.
But unlike the other NPCs, this state didn’t last long.
Finally, he spoke:
“…Sit down.”
Although his tone was the same, the usual formulaic praise for others was missing, making his words sound particularly stiff.
Even so, Orange Candy, Su Cheng, and the others all breathed a deep sigh of relief.
They knew this meant Wen Jianyan’s crisis was over.
Wen Jianyan placed the paper back on the desk and began to sit, but as soon as his knees bent, dizziness hit him hard, as if all strength was draining from his body. He swayed, about to fall.
“!”
Su Cheng flinched and instinctively reached out—
But the next second, Wen Jianyan had already sat back properly in his seat.
“…”
Su Cheng paused, almost thinking he’d imagined it.
He retracted his hand.
Sitting down, Wen Jianyan’s ears buzzed, his soul feeling detached from his body, the world distant and surreal.
In this state, he slowly turned his head to the right.
The edges of his vision darkened, and everything swayed slightly. In this hazy space between reality and illusion, the “hallucination” beside him appeared disturbingly real—even its cold presence was sharper than before.
“What, are you trying to thank me?”
The hallucination asked.
“…”
Thank your damn head.
Wen Jianyan looked away, expression blank.
His phone vibrated under the desk.
Wen Jianyan paused, retrieved it, and glanced at the screen.
It was a message from Orange Candy in the group chat.
Don’t Mess with Me: [?]
Su Cheng followed immediately:
Prophet: [What happened just now? You stopped suddenly and scared us to death. Was it a hallucination from low sanity? Are you okay?]
The messages came fast and dense, giving Wen Jianyan a bit of a headache.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and replied:
[It’s complicated, not sure if it was real or not. I’ll explain after class.]
Don’t Mess with Me: [I was one second away from using the backup plan, got it?]
Don’t Mess with Me: [Also, you look like a ghost. Ugly as hell.]
Wen Jianyan chuckled, about to reply when suddenly a new message popped up:
Hugo: [OK.]
“…”
Wen Jianyan froze, finger halting on the screen, eyes fixed on that rarely-seen name—Hugo?
That one message blew up the entire group chat.
Don’t Mess with Me: [?]
Battle of Wei Cheng: [???]
Fields of Hope: [?????]
Don’t Mess with Me: [Wait, what do you mean OK? Explain yourself!]
Clearly, Orange Candy was pissed off again at Hugo’s cryptic messaging. Even though she wasn’t physically present, Wen Jianyan could almost picture her gloomy, irritable expression.
Hugo: [Found the principal’s office.]
Even though Wen Jianyan had a hunch when Hugo popped up, seeing the actual message still made his heart skip a beat. He subconsciously held his breath.
Ever since they separated at the mini-mart, Hugo had vanished—not just physically but from the group chat as well. All attempts by Orange Candy to reach him had failed, as if he’d evaporated into thin air. Now, his reappearance came with such an explosive revelation, it left everyone reeling.
Don’t Mess with Me: [!]
Don’t Mess with Me: [We’ve got an hour and a half left of class. Set a meeting point.]
Hugo: [Can’t.]
Don’t Mess with Me: [???]
Hugo: [It has to be now.]
Wen Jianyan hesitated, then typed:
[You found the principal’s office because the vice principal has left the admin building, right?]
Hugo: [Correct.]
No wonder.
Wen Jianyan gripped his phone, his heart sinking slightly.
He’d already suspected—having the vice principal teach this ideological class instead of a regular teacher or counselor was odd. Now it all made sense why Hugo had been silent until this class began.
Before anyone else could reply, Hugo sent another message:
Hugo: [Figure out how to ditch class. I’m waiting outside the teaching building.]
Don’t Mess with Me: [Ditch class? Seriously? @Hugo]
Don’t Mess with Me: [What’s the situation outside? @Hugo]
Don’t Mess with Me: [At least explain first! @Hugo]
But after that, Hugo went silent again, no matter how many times Orange Candy pinged him.
Don’t Mess with Me: [Hugo that bastard, I swear to f***ing—]
Wen Jianyan: “…”
He gripped his phone and looked around the classroom.
Maybe it was his sanity being too low, but even though the lecture hall looked the same, everything felt off—like there was a strange filter distorting the sound and scene, subtly different from his memory.
He caught a faintly sweet yet pungent scent in the air, subtle but sharp—something he vaguely recalled smelling somewhere before.
Through the slightly reddish air, the faces of the five NPCs on the podium and in the aisles appeared increasingly pale and ghastly. Their eyeballs rolled ceaselessly, scanning every movement within the lecture hall.
Outside the distant window, it was still pitch black.
Visually, it was impossible to tell what was happening beyond the classroom, what dangers lurked in the darkness, or why the anchor who had previously tried to break out had suddenly gone silent.
In such circumstances, “skipping class” was obviously not a wise decision.
However…
If what Hugo said was true, then it meant that if they missed this opportunity, they’d have to wait until next Friday’s ideological and moral class to access the principal’s office and whatever hidden items were inside.
Wen Jianyan pressed his lips together, his fingers rubbing the side of his phone, deep in thought.
Soon, he made his decision.
He lowered his head and began typing rapidly on the screen.
Your Loyal Friend Pinocchio: [I remember you said you almost used the backup plan just now? @Don’t Mess With Me]
Your Loyal Friend Pinocchio: [What is it?]
Although Orange Candy was seething with frustration toward Hugo, she also knew that under these circumstances, skipping class was their only option.
After all, their goal in this instance wasn’t to clear it—they were after the bounty mission and the hidden item. That was a much harder task than simply surviving, and skipping class had become their only path forward.
So, after Wen Jianyan spoke up, Orange Candy reluctantly agreed.
Indeed, she had a backup plan.
As one of the top anchors with the deepest roots in Nightmare, the number of items she carried was unimaginable to ordinary anchors. These items had heavy restrictions in S-level instances, but in an A-level instance like this, they could easily turn the tide.
Don’t Mess With Me: [That’s about it. You sure you can handle it? @Your Loyal Friend Pinocchio]
Your Loyal Friend Pinocchio: [Yeah.]
Truthfully, Wen Jianyan wasn’t entirely sure nothing would go wrong, but he had to admit that Orange Candy’s “backup plan” was their best option right now.
Don’t Mess With Me: [Alright, give the signal.]
Wen Jianyan put away his phone and looked up.
Another anchor’s reading echoed through the classroom, sounding distorted, like some darker, more horrifying chant from afar.
But Wen Jianyan wasn’t paying attention to that.
He was watching the four “student council members.”
The vice principal on the podium was easier to deal with; his attention was fixed on the anchor, who was reading aloud. But the four student council members were different.
Since the recitation began, they had been patrolling the aisles, leaving no corner unchecked.
At first glance, it seemed almost impossible to leave unnoticed.
However, Wen Jianyan observed them more closely and patiently.
Their patrol routes were fixed, their steps stiff and slow, meaning their speed was also constant.
This meant that after the third round, when the second student council member passed the podium, there would be a very brief window—exactly eight seconds—where the path from their seats to the back door of the classroom would be unguarded, with all four members facing away.
The only tricky part was the fourth member.
Although his back was to them, he stood close to the back door. If they wanted to leave, they’d have to pass directly behind him.
Luckily, one element of Orange Candy’s backup plan was designed precisely for this situation.
Wen Jianyan steadied his breathing, waiting quietly.
One lap.
Two laps.
He could hear his own breathing, his heartbeat quickening.
Third lap.
Wen Jianyan’s eyes tracked the second member’s back as they walked forward.
By the window, a anchor was reciting the guidelines, and the vice principal’s gaze was fixed on him—luckily, in the opposite direction.
Three meters… two meters… one meter.
The second member reached the podium.
Wen Jianyan pressed his finger down, and everyone’s phones buzzed softly.
The four student council members had their backs turned.
Now.
The next second, a sharp bang sounded, like a lightbulb shattering under invisible pressure. In an instant, the entire classroom was plunged into pitch darkness.
This wasn’t ordinary darkness.
It wasn’t merely the absence of light, but rather the presence of a darkness that erased the light—created by a special item. Unless someone had a higher-grade dispelling tool, there was no way to see anything.
Most importantly, this darkness didn’t just block sight; it temporarily numbed the NPCs’ senses.
No one spoke or gave signals.
Yet, in everyone’s mind, the same thought emerged:
Move.
Using the darkness as cover, they silently stood and rushed toward the back door.
Where they’d been sitting, shadowy doppelgängers began to surface—identical in face, aura, and expressionless as puppets.
The student council member closest to the back door remained still, completely numb to the students slipping past him.
Wei Cheng was the first to reach the door.
He grabbed the handle and twisted gently.
The forced-opening tool they’d prepared wasn’t even needed—the door opened easily.
So far, so good.
Wei Cheng tapped his screen, sending the pre-arranged signal.
Buzz. Everyone’s phones vibrated again—
Faster.
Wen Jianyan quickened his pace, enduring the dizziness from his hallucinations and auditory distortions, relying on sheer willpower to keep up with Su Cheng ahead of him.
His sanity was dangerously low.
But he could hold out for a few dozen seconds.
Once they were out of the lecture hall, the restriction of “no eating or drinking” would be lifted, and he could restore his sanity, dispelling the maddening hallucinations.
Almost there.
They’d been lucky with every step of this plan. If all went well, they’d escape the classroom like shedding a skin.
Wen Jianyan sped up.
Through the glasses on his nose, the darkness was dispersed—he could see the door getting closer.
Five meters—three meters—two meters.
Almost there.
Click.
Suddenly, without warning, a faint sound of bones grinding echoed in the dark.
No one could see—just as Wen Jianyan was about to pass, the student council member who had remained still, numbed by the darkness, suddenly stirred. Like a shark catching the scent of blood in the water, it stiffly twisted its neck.
Slowly, sensing something, it began turning its head—
“Crack crack.”
