WTNL Chapter 431

Thank you @Pixi for the Kofi (1/5)~

Yuying University
Chapter 431: “You’re almost at your limit, aren’t you?”

After saying those words, Wen Jianyan lowered his head again. His sweat-drenched hair hung over his cheeks, and his pale neck looked as if it might snap under the weight of his head at any moment.

He was completely spent and said no more.

Orange Candy glanced sideways at Hugo.

No matter what had just attacked them, out of everyone present, only Hugo had encountered “it” before. Naturally, the decision had to be made by him.

“……”

Hugo lowered his gaze, silently staring at the young man before him, as if weighing and contemplating something.

Soon, he turned around and said concisely:

“Let’s go.”

Seeing that Hugo had accepted Wen Jianyan’s suggestion and decided to head in the opposite direction, the group immediately sprang into action.

They supported the weakened Wen Jianyan and swiftly advanced along the corridor.

The gloomy hallway was pitch dark, without a trace of light.

All around was dead silent, with only the deliberately muffled footsteps of the team echoing back. Both ends of the corridor were engulfed in darkness so deep that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, as if the path had no end.

Orange Candy quickened her pace and came up beside Hugo.

“What exactly is chasing us right now?”

Although the information about the principal’s office was crucial, under the current circumstances, intel about “it” was even more urgent.

Hugo didn’t look down. With his brows furrowed, his eyes stared straight ahead as he replied:

“I don’t know.”

“But one thing’s certain — ‘it’ only appears when darkness falls.” As Hugo spoke, he cautiously scanned his surroundings. “It has no form, no sound, can’t be tracked, and its appearances and attacks seem random for now.”

“But once it locks onto you, it will keep following you until you die or you enter a room with light.”

As he spoke, Hugo rolled up his sleeve and showed it to Orange Candy.

On the man’s sturdy forearm was a dark bluish handprint, clearly left some time ago.

This was exactly why Hugo was willing to believe Wen Jianyan’s earlier words and change their direction — because despite not mentioning his previous encounter, Wen Jianyan somehow knew something was following him.

It might have just been a hallucination… but it was also possible—

That he really could see it.

Hugo preferred to believe the latter.

Staring at the handprint on Hugo’s arm, Orange Candy’s brow twitched.

If each attack cost 25 HP, that meant a person could only survive four attacks at most. If they couldn’t find a safe, lit place before then, the only thing waiting for them would be death.

“Are there any other lit places outside?”

Orange Candy thought for a few seconds before asking again.

“There are.”

Hugo answered quickly.

“The cafeteria, the library, and the gym all still have lights on.”

He glanced at Orange Candy. “But I’m not sure what’s inside them.”

Though Hugo didn’t elaborate, Orange Candy caught the implication — obviously, while those places had lifesaving lights and could shield them from “those things” in the dark, they weren’t necessarily safe.

It seemed the only relatively secure location at the moment was the lecture hall where the ethics class was held.

They couldn’t restore their status by eating, but overall, the danger and horror levels remained manageable.

It was the “door of life.”

But unlike other anchors who failed to reach the lecture hall, they were now voluntarily leaving this safe place to head somewhere far more dangerous.

“How much time do we have?” Orange Candy asked.

Hugo: “Not sure, but based on my experience, anywhere from half an hour to an hour.”

Neither long nor short.

Orange Candy looked ahead. Not far away, a tightly shut iron door gleamed with a faint green light in the darkness, marked with the words “Emergency Exit.”

“Then we’d better hurry.”

Soon, the door was right in front of them.

Hugo stopped, reaching out to pull it open.

The door’s hinge creaked sharply, piercing the silence without warning, sending a chill through everyone’s hearts.

Beyond the door lay a vast expanse of darkness.

The streetlights were still on, but their light was so dim — a faint, yellowish glow barely dispersing the surrounding shadows. Instead, they looked like eyes silently watching from the gloom.

Under this weak light, the entire campus looked nothing like it did during the day, shrouded in eerie shadows everywhere.

Suddenly, Hugo stopped in his tracks and turned to the pale Wen Jianyan, who was being supported by Su Cheng: “Your SAN value…?”

The youth was barely standing. If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, he could easily be mistaken for dead.

But after a few seconds, he stirred slightly and, in a hoarse and strained voice, replied:

“Very low.”

In fact, among all of them, no one’s SAN value was lower than his.

In the livestream room, the bright red number 9 was shockingly conspicuous.

…A single-digit SAN value.

That was a number no one could endure.

Any other anchor’s mental defenses would have collapsed long before reaching that point, turning them into part of the instance itself. The fact that Wen Jianyan was still alive and somewhat lucid was already astonishing.

But that was all.

Su Cheng, still supporting him, pulled out a bottle of water with one hand and unscrewed it: “Hold on, drink some—”

Unexpectedly, Wen Jianyan shook his head and rasped:

“No need.”

“…!”

Everyone was momentarily stunned.

Wen Jianyan slightly raised his head.

Through his messy bangs, his unfocused gaze drifted in the air, unable to lock onto anything.

“You want me to help you see where ‘they’ are, don’t you?”

He tugged at the corner of his mouth. His lips were pale, utterly devoid of color.

“Guess how I’m able to see them?”

—Because of his SAN value.

Although they’d suspected this, everyone’s hearts still sank.

Indeed.

The thought had crossed all their minds — why was Wen Jianyan the only one among them who could “see” entities that even props couldn’t reveal? Clearly, his SAN value was so low that he was almost fused with the instance itself.

But… walking into the darkness in this state was like tossing a bloody slab of meat into a pool full of sharks.

Both visible and invisible “things” would be drawn to him.

Moreover, anyone could see that physically and mentally, he was already at his limit.

Like a cracked porcelain vase barely holding its shape, but liable to shatter completely with just one touch — irreparable.

It was far too risky to venture into the dark like this.

On top of that, there was an unspoken risk:

Can they really trust Wen Jianyan in his current state?

If it were the normal Wen Jianyan, the answer would be yes, of course. But now, it was different.

The lower the SAN value, the weaker the mind, and the brain would start conjuring all kinds of terrifying hallucinations.

Wen Jianyan himself had admitted he couldn’t fully distinguish between illusion and reality now.

And until now, they had no way to verify the accuracy of his visions.

What if… just what if, everything he saw was nothing more than his brain’s illusions?

Wen Jianyan dropped his head again and stayed silent.

So what now?

A heavy decision lay before them all.

Su Cheng tightened his grip on Wen Jianyan’s arm: “I don’t think it’s a good idea — it’s too dangerous.”

He stepped forward, looking intently at everyone:

“I think we should replenish his stats and play it safe.”

Wei Cheng thought for a moment, then nodded: “I agree.”

Tian Ye gently voiced the concern no one else had said aloud: “Also… we can’t be sure if this is reliable, can we?”

Throughout the debate, Wen Jianyan kept his head bowed, his breathing faint and shallow, hidden in shadow.

Clearly, he wasn’t going to participate in this decision.

As he said — he could no longer fully distinguish hallucination from reality. So, he was leaving the choice to them.

—If they needed him to “see,” then he would remain in this state and enter the dark. If they feared his low SAN value would attract more “things,” then they’d have to give up the advantage his “vision” provided and let him recover.

“Mm… I think he really can see them.” Orange Candy casually touched her nose and suddenly spoke up.

The others looked at her: “?”

Orange Candy grinned: “I just think he can.”

She rarely relied on strict logic; she knew she wasn’t good at it. So, unlike someone like Wen Jianyan who analyzed everything thoroughly, she preferred to trust her instinct and intuition — like a wild animal navigating by feeling rather than reason.

Just like now — she understood the pros and cons of each choice, and knew playing it safe might be better, but even so, Orange Candy would say:

He can see them.

Everyone: “……”

The atmosphere reached an impasse.

Hugo hadn’t spoken at all.

He stepped forward, looking at Su Cheng standing between him and Wen Jianyan, and asked: “How much water do we have left?”

Su Cheng stared at him deeply, then tossed him the bottle.

Hugo shook it.

About a fifth remained.

He handed the water back to Su Cheng. “Let’s go.”

Tian Ye was startled: “Wait, but we still haven’t—”

“I’ve decided.”

Hugo turned his head. The cold, sharp lines of his face were half-hidden in the dark. He glanced at Tian Ye and said:

“This is the only way.”

Unlike the emotionally-driven Orange Candy, Hugo was a straightforward pragmatist.

His reasoning was simple:

There wasn’t enough water.

The lower the SAN value, the more water was needed to restore it. But given the current situation, even if they poured every last drop into Wen Jianyan, his SAN wouldn’t recover past 30%. While he’d be in better shape, the fact that he’d draw “them” wouldn’t change.

So, they might as well gamble on his “vision.”

After weighing the pros and cons, Hugo made his decision.

After all, there were already two of “them” trailing behind. “Playing it safe” was no longer realistic. Rather than stumbling blindly in pitch-black darkness with no leads, it was better to take a more extreme approach.

They could only trust that Wen Jianyan could “see” and let him lead the way.

Since both Hugo and Orange Candy had made up their minds, the others had no further objections.

“……”

Su Cheng’s gaze chilled momentarily. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes to hide the emotions surging within, then supported Wen Jianyan and followed the others out of the teaching building.

Though mentally prepared, the moment they stepped into the darkness, everyone involuntarily shivered.

Not from the cold — but from a kind of bone-deep, intangible chill that instinctively made one uneasy.

“Is there any threat?”

Hugo asked.

Wen Jianyan raised his head, struggling to glance around.

Because his SAN value was so low, his sensitivity to malice and terror was much sharper than the others’, and his already pale face grew even whiter.

“Besides the two that have been following us… none.”

“Good.” Hugo nodded slightly and took the lead.

Orange Candy asked, “So, where’s the teaching building you mentioned? Is it far?”

Hugo glanced at her: “It’s in the teaching area. A straight route would take less than ten minutes.”

It was relatively close.

“Let’s go,” Orange Candy said.

She gripped the rusted, terrifying long knife in her hand. The blade was dull, but it exuded a strangely cold, eerie aura.

Shrouded in darkness, the group silently pressed forward.

The campus was deathly silent, cloaked in endless darkness, with only the faint glow of the streetlights. They darted swiftly between buildings, trying to reach the location Hugo described as quickly as possible.

Along the way, Wen Jianyan would occasionally speak up, his voice weak and breathless, giving brief but clear instructions.

Such as:

“Turn left.”

“Don’t go near the lawn.”

And so on.

Thus, they advanced through the darkness in a winding path.

Though it took longer than it would have by day, the good news was that since leaving the corridor, they hadn’t encountered another attack.

Soon, they had covered half the distance.

Suddenly, without warning, Wen Jianyan spoke again:

“Stop.”

Everyone’s heart skipped a beat, and they stopped almost immediately.

Hugo turned to look.

At some point, Wen Jianyan had raised his head, staring fixedly ahead. His gaze seemed unfocused, yet it was as if he was staring at something no one else could see.

“We can’t go this way,” he murmured.

Hugo raised his hand, signaling them to halt, then carefully stepped forward, his back against the wall. He cautiously peered around the corner.

In the darkness ahead, a sudden bright light appeared.

It was the library.

The gray-and-white building stood silently in the distance, its warm light shining through the windows, like a beacon in the cold, dark night — compelling an instinctive urge to seek shelter within.

But right now, the sight only filled them with dread.

Wen Jianyan tilted his head back, staring fixedly forward. His pale face was devoid of any color.

In the “Integrity First” livestream chat:

[Shit… the anchor’s SAN value is fluctuating again!!]

[Damn it, I’m dying of curiosity. What the hell is he seeing?!]

[Blood petition for Nightmare to play the hallucination content!!]

[What’s going on, am I the only one getting nervous to death? Isn’t the anchor’s SAN down to nine? Any lower and he’s done for…]

A cold hand covered his eyes.

A familiar voice whispered in his ear: “Forgotten already?”

Wen Jianyan shuddered.

He abruptly broke eye contact and lowered his head. It took several seconds before he felt his soul slowly return to his body, regaining control of his limbs bit by bit.

Realizing the state he had just been in, Wen Jianyan felt a chill run down his spine.

Just like in the classroom earlier, the moment he encountered certain scenes, he was forcibly unable to look away.

“……”

Wen Jianyan blinked. His eyelashes brushed against the palm of his hand. His lips moved.

—Don’t look directly.

Not far away, Hugo retracted his gaze and looked at Wen Jianyan inquisitively:

“If we can’t go this way, the other route would take us through the cafeteria. The trip might take twice as long.”

“Take that one.”

Without any hesitation, Wen Jianyan gave a direct answer.

In the “Integrity First” livestream, viewers also noticed Wen Jianyan’s abnormal reaction and began digging for information:

[I checked a few other anchors’ rooms — the ones who didn’t make it to the lecture hall and were forced into the library by the dark. Guess what?]

[What? Don’t keep us hanging!]

[Okay, in short, all the anchors who entered the library — their streams are now closed. Not a single one is still on.]

In Nightmare, when a livestream closes, it means the anchor has died.

[What? All of them??]

[Yeah, all of them… I was shocked too. They all died cleanly.]

[How did they die?]

[Time was short, I only watched a couple of death replays — no clear clues yet, but I’ll keep digging!]

Meanwhile, another group of viewers reported back:

[Wow, I looked it up — almost no anchors in previous runs ever made it to the library.]

[Yeah, because it was always locked except for now. The library doors are usually sealed shut.]

[Damn, it’s like an unexplored blue ocean.]

[Though not entirely? I recall the movie Brave Richard had a library scene.]

[Oh, please, you really think a few fragmented movie scenes represent the real instance? Those film scenes were either historical recreations or simple sets — made for students and clubs to fight in, totally different from the real building’s danger level!]

[?? You seem to know a lot. Spill the tea!]

Exchanging glances, the team ultimately decided to follow Wen Jianyan’s suggestion. They cautiously retreated and backtracked, heading toward the cafeteria route.

Wen Jianyan was half-dragged by Su Cheng, his head bobbing with each step.

The hand blocking his vision had been withdrawn, and his sight cleared again — though “clear” was relative, since his SAN was nowhere near full, but it was all he had.

His legs still worked, barely, but most of his weight was on Su Cheng’s shoulder.

As they walked, Wen Jianyan tilted his head slightly. Amid the shifting, kaleidoscopic visuals, he saw a familiar figure to his left.

Wu Zhu.

Or rather, Wu Zhu’s “hallucination.”

Back in the classroom, Wu Zhu’s face had been clear, but his body was mostly shrouded in shadow.

But this time, in Wen Jianyan’s eyes, the figure was whole, fully formed — no longer a vague shadow, but a complete person, as if he had always been part of the group, a member only Wen Jianyan could see.

Sensing Wen Jianyan’s gaze, the “hallucination” turned to look.

Amid the collapsing hallucinations and strange lights, only those golden eyes remained as clear as ever.

“Not happy to see me?”

No.

Wen Jianyan’s lips moved silently:

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” The hallucination seemed to chuckle.

He stepped closer, standing beside Wen Jianyan, looking down at the youth’s pale face: “Why would you ask that?”

“You shouldn’t…”

Wen Jianyan frowned.

“Shouldn’t what?” The hallucination watched him closely.

Cold fingers touched his cheek:

“Maybe I’m just your subconscious trying to save yourself.”

In some sense, the hallucination was right.

It had never actively changed events; all real struggles and actions came from Wen Jianyan himself. The hallucination was more like an invisible prompt from his subconscious.

Wen Jianyan: “But…”

“Hm?” Su Cheng glanced back sharply. “But what?”

Wen Jianyan paused.

He realized he had spoken aloud.

He shouldn’t have.

“Nothing,” Wen Jianyan deflected, shifting his gaze ahead. “…Are we close?”

“Almost,” Su Cheng replied, adding uncertainly, “…I think.”

The darkness was thick and sticky, disorienting, making it nearly impossible to tell direction or location.

Yet Hugo led the way smoothly and confidently, as if the shadows posed no obstacle — as if he knew this path by heart.

Suddenly, Hugo stopped.

Ahead, a familiar building loomed in the darkness.

The cafeteria.

But unlike they expected, they weren’t alone.

Near the cafeteria, two groups were approaching from opposite directions. They looked panicked, like cornered prey, fleeing blindly in the dark, desperate for any shelter. Though still distant, their wounded movements were obvious.

“What is it?” Orange Candy turned to Hugo.

“People,” Hugo surveyed the surroundings with a cold gaze, sweeping the void as if searching for some invisible threat. “And where there are people…”

“…There are ‘them’.”

A weak voice sounded from behind.

Everyone turned their heads to look.

Wen Jianyan raised his head, his eyes rimmed red with fever, his pale face looking as though it would dissolve into the darkness at any moment. His light-colored irises flickered:
“…There are many.”

Orange Candy looked at Hugo, “Is there any other route?”

Hugo replied firmly, “No.”

Everyone looked back at Wen Jianyan.

Tian Ye asked, “Compared to the area around the library, is this—?”

Wen Jianyan slowly lifted his eyelids and gave a brief laugh:

“Even if there’s nothing around the library, I’d still recommend taking this way.”

After unusually saying this long sentence, he had to stop and catch his breath, as though it was the only way to restore a bit of strength.

The group exchanged glances, seeing the surprise in each other’s eyes.

What on earth had Wen Jianyan seen near the library to make him this cautious? Even though they were now seeing more “of them” around the cafeteria, he still insisted on avoiding the library.

“Don’t worry.”

Wen Jianyan closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. His voice was low, weak, but calm:

“I have a way.”

“From now on, follow my instructions to the letter. Don’t take a single extra step.”

Hugo studied the young man before him.

He looked awful.

His breath was weak, he needed to pause for breath after every sentence, his unfocused eyes stared into the endless dark, and his face was deathly pale—but strangely, his eyes still burned with a faint light.

Like a flame struggling to stay lit among ashes—weak, wavering, yet stubbornly refusing to die.

Hugo paused, then answered, “Okay.”

“Twelve o’clock direction, fifty meters.”

“Turn left, speed up.”

“Keep moving forward, don’t stop.”

“……”

Command after command was given, and everyone followed them without hesitation, moving with extreme coordination as if they were one entity.

And yet, the most critical center and brain of the group was that feeble, half-paralyzed person in the middle, who looked as if he was clinging to life by a thread.

“I must admit,” the “hallucination” suddenly spoke, “you’re doing very well.”

From start to finish, he had trailed along unhurriedly at Wen Jianyan’s side, like a leisurely stroll.

Wen Jianyan’s SAN value was too low—darkness attracted and gathered all the surrounding horrors to him. If he acted alone, death would be certain.

But they weren’t alone.

There were two other teams nearby, both already injured and targeted by “them.”

“Those things” had no intelligence but moved according to instinct—or some kind of rule. Their paths could be predicted.

Wen Jianyan was using his grip on the positioning of the other teams to shake off the pursuit—this required surgical precision and terrifying reflexes.

“…Impressive.”

Wu Zhu lowered his eyes to the young man before him.

“But,” his tone was flat, “your limit is nearly reached, isn’t it?”

“…Shut up.”

Su Cheng turned, “What?”

Wen Jianyan snapped out of it: “…Nothing, keep moving.”

“You realize it, don’t you? You’re talking to me more and more,” Wu Zhu walked beside him, watching him in profile. In the bizarre dark, his normal-looking face seemed grotesque.

“The barrier between hallucination and reality is fading.”

In the “Integrity First” livestream, viewers watched nervously as the anchor’s SAN value quietly dropped to 6.

Terrifying.

At this level, he could drop dead any second, and no one knew when the stream would suddenly cut off and never come back.

Ahead, the cafeteria was close.

Wen Jianyan furrowed his brow deeply, breathing shallowly:
“Three o’clock direction ahead, straight fifty meters, then circle around the outer wall.”

This was the last step. After that, they’d only need to walk less than a hundred meters to leave this danger zone.

Wu Zhu stared at Wen Jianyan, his golden eyes glowing faintly.

The youth wasn’t looking at him, treating him like any other hallucination—like everything else he heard or saw now.

Frankly, for an ordinary human, to still distinguish useful hallucinations from useless ones when on the verge of madness, and give precise instructions—that required unimaginable willpower.

Yes, when Wen Jianyan’s SAN hit zero, his mental defenses would collapse completely, and the Ouroboros prison centered on his mind would fall apart. Wu Zhu would be truly free—every previous shackle gone, with no possibility of replication.

Yes, Wen Jianyan would become part of the instance.

But in a way, it was only temporary.

Wu Zhu had long hidden fragments of himself, gathering power in secret. Once he regained his full freedom, he’d be even stronger than before, and by then, everything would change.

Nightmare was hard to break, and it might take ten or a hundred years, but tearing a instance free from Nightmare—wasn’t that hard for him.

The prize was too sweet.

This cunning, defiant human would become his follower and possession, forever entwined in his embrace. His every inch of skin would be cloaked in Wu Zhu’s shadow.

He’d never again speak any annoying provocations; his arms would never again have any other purpose but to wrap around Wu Zhu’s shoulders.

In the kingdom of eternal night, he would sink forever.

This was the perfect opportunity for an unprecedented victory.

After being stabbed and chained by the Ouroboros, Wu Zhu had waited so long for this moment.

And now that it arrived, he hadn’t yet acted.

He wasn’t sure why.

Nor was he sure why, when Wen Jianyan stared into the unseeable, he’d instinctively covered his eyes.

He hadn’t thought about it beforehand—it was just natural.

Wu Zhu leisurely followed beside Wen Jianyan, always keeping the same distance.

He found his own thoughts novel and unfamiliar.

In truth, since his imprisonment, this was not the first time this unfamiliar sensation arose—and it only grew stronger, impossible to ignore as his soul fragments converged on the anchor.

But for now, it wasn’t too bad.

Wu Zhu decided to wait and see where things would go.

He turned again to look at Wen Jianyan.

The young man’s profile was sharp, eyes fixed forward, lips trembling, yet still issuing precise commands one after another.

Just a bit longer.

And so, Wu Zhu followed cheerfully.

The cafeteria was just ahead.

But in Wen Jianyan’s eyes, it looked nothing like it did by day. He forced himself to look away, eyelids quivering, and muttered:
“Go on, keep going.”

Everyone quickened their pace.

Fifty meters, thirty meters, ten meters left.

They raced against time, hurrying to leave this place of danger.

But just as they were about to pass the left wall of the cafeteria, suddenly—a voice cried from behind, mingling terror with hope:
“Help, help us!!”

Everyone’s hearts clenched.

The campus was too dark; the faint streetlights were useless. Human vision couldn’t pierce this gloom—but if you got close enough, you’d still be seen.

They turned back and saw—a team member was staring straight at them, his fear-twisted face faintly illuminated, like a drowning man spotting a floating log, running toward them.

Wen Jianyan’s pupils contracted:
“No, don’t—!”

But it was too late.

The leading anchor seemed to sense something. He paused, looked down—

And saw that at some point, his right arm and leg were… gone.

He looked up, mouth open, as if to speak.

But it was meaningless.

In the next second, a living person vanished, like some grand disappearing act—blink, and he was gone.

Then the second. Then the third.

Within mere seconds, a whole team vanished without a trace, as if erased from the world.

But Wen Jianyan’s face turned deathly pale. He doubled over, violently retching.

Everyone knew—the world he saw was not the same as theirs.

Wen Jianyan saw more. Much worse things.

Su Cheng held him up: “Hey! Are you okay?”

“…No.” Wen Jianyan gripped his shoulder tightly, the veins on his pale hand bulging. He suppressed the urge to vomit and gritted out,
“Go. Now.”

They had reached here safely because there were three teams around the cafeteria, maintaining a fragile but passable balance.

“Their” attacks came with intervals and signs. If you understood that, you could navigate the gaps.

But now, with one team gone, the fragile balance was shattered.

From this moment on, everything would collapse.

“Run!”

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