(4/10)
Yuying University
Chapter 442: Online course registration system
The surroundings were pitch black, the entire campus shrouded in an unfathomable, eerie atmosphere.
Only the streetlamps flickered faintly.
Beneath the empty space in front of the dormitory building stood a narrow, old desk. On top of it, five blood-red characters—[Freshman Guidance Desk]—were particularly striking and eye-catching.
“……”
Not far away, several “freshmen” exchanged glances before slowly walking forward.
“This is… the freshman guidance desk?”
The leading anchor stared closely at the figure behind the desk and opened his mouth.
“Yes.”
Behind the desk, half of the man’s face was hidden in darkness. Under the faint light, only his pale jaw could be seen.
His voice broke the dead silence, making everyone present involuntarily tense up.
The young man smiled faintly and replied with an official tone:
“To help Freshmen better adapt to school life, the school has set up this guidance desk.”
The anchor spoke again, cautiously asking,
“Guidance on what?”
There was no reply. The faint smile on the other party’s lips didn’t waver in the slightest.
“……”
In the dead silence, the anchor and his teammates exchanged a careful glance.
“Please wait a moment.”
They took a few steps back inconspicuously, huddled together, whispering as they discussed something in low voices.
Wen Jianyan sat behind the desk, patiently waiting.
—In truth, he didn’t plan to stay here long.
Rather than saying he came to “deceive,” it was more accurate to say he was using… let’s say tactful means to gather information early, and avoid unnecessary conflicts.
Earlier, while listening to the system’s broadcast, Wen Jianyan had noticed a small issue:
All the information mentioned was directed only at those anchors who had entered their second academic year, like him. There was no mention at all of those who had just been assigned in—the first-year freshmen.
In other words, these newly entered anchors were hearing completely different information.
Regarding the dormitory reassignment, others might just see it as a simple progression step, but Wen Jianyan saw it as a division and isolation between freshmen and sophomores.
He had encountered similar scenarios in the past, where more anchors were inserted into a reopened instance.
And such scenarios typically worked against the original anchors already inside the instance.
What’s more, the instance had now risen directly from A-level to SS-level.
In this situation, the newly inserted anchors would certainly not be weak—they might even be thrill-seekers who voluntarily requested to join.
That’s why Wen Jianyan’s “early contact” became particularly necessary.
He didn’t need to “extract” any secrets from the newcomers.
It was enough just to appear as a guide and selectively answer their questions.
Sometimes, when someone believes they are extracting information from others, they inadvertently reveal their own true intentions—especially when the person they are questioning is seen as an “NPC.”
In the eyes of anchors, NPCs are merely sources of information. They only need to judge whether the information is true or useful, never considering that the questions they ask might become the other party’s way of understanding them.
Wen Jianyan sat upright behind the desk, silent, with a faint smile on his lips. He watched as the small team finished their brief discussion and walked back over.
“Do sophomores also live in this dorm building?”
Unexpectedly, their first question cut straight to the point.
“No,” Wen Jianyan answered calmly. “This is the dormitory area for first-year students.”
“Then where do they live?” the other asked.
The young man’s expression remained unchanged. He simply raised a hand and pointed behind him:
“Sophomores live in Student Apartment Zone 2.”
That direction had been swallowed by the darkness, but if one walked a bit further, they would see a low wall, with a sign by the iron gate that marked Zone 2.
This wasn’t classified information. Any anchor who spent a bit more time in the instance would eventually figure it out.
The team exchanged glances again.
The lead anchor looked back at Wen Jianyan.
“Are there any activities in the school where we can interact with the sophomores?”
“Of course.”
Still seated behind the desk, his pale face half-hidden in the dark, the young man answered smoothly and without pause:
“You’ll share required lectures and some electives with upperclassmen. If you want to meet them, you can join clubs or student organizations.”
—
[Wait, I’m confused. Isn’t he a sophomore pretending to be a freshman?]
[I’m not sure. Technically, no one should know the rules here yet.]
[Oh, please. He’s making stuff up. The other side doesn’t know, so as long as it sounds legit, that’s all that matters.]
[…Makes sense.]
[I was too naive. I actually believed him for a second. So mad!]
Next, the anchor tried to ask some more specific questions—like “How to join a club” or “How to get into a student org.” But when the questions got more detailed, the pale young man behind the desk kept his polite smile, but said nothing.
He wasn’t a novice. He knew that meant this information was restricted at the early stage.
Sensing that, the lead anchor tactfully stopped asking.
“Alright. Thanks, senior. I understand now.”
Wen Jianyan: “Wishing you a pleasant academic life.”
The group turned and walked toward the dormitory, whispering among themselves.
Wen Jianyan watched them go, his faint smile fading.
He narrowed his eyes, looking thoughtfully in their direction.
Meanwhile, not far away, Orange Candy and her team were hiding in the darkness using props, monitoring Wen Jianyan’s every move.
They heard every word of the conversation.
“Interesting,” Orange Candy propped her chin on her hand, her eyelids drooping lazily, hiding the sharp glint in her eyes.
“Looks like Nightmare is stirring up trouble between the anchors again.”
She sneered, “Sounds just like it.”
“Not necessarily,” Hugo leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
“What’s not necessarily?” Orange Candy was visibly annoyed at his caution.
She rolled her eyes dramatically.
“He just entered the instance. Probably hasn’t even looked at the student manual yet. The first thing he asks about is where the sophomores are. What else could that possibly mean?”
“……”
Hugo said nothing.
Though he didn’t approve of Orange Candy’s recklessly quick conclusions, he couldn’t refute her point either.
After all, Wen Jianyan’s timing was just too perfect.
Even delaying this by thirty minutes could’ve led to totally different results.
But now?
All the questions the anchors asked came from the limited knowledge they’d just gained.
Since they had only just entered the instance, there was no way they could’ve learned more in such a short time—
Which meant: all their questions were almost certainly related to system tasks or clearance conditions.
“What next? PvP?” Wei Cheng asked calmly.
“Probably,” the person sitting on the wall tilted her head, smiling sweetly.
“Let them come.”
She giggled, swinging her legs like nothing was wrong.
While they were talking, Wen Jianyan had started “guiding” a second team.
Their questions were similar—again focusing on the “sophomore students.” They asked a bit more than the previous team, but Wen Jianyan still answered with the same diligence.
“Wait.”
Orange Candy suddenly sat upright.
She stared intently into the distance.
Another team was approaching, their figures still hidden in the dark—but the leader’s figure was unmistakable to her.
“Pull him back,” Hugo also stood up straight, expression slightly cold.
At that moment, Wen Jianyan—still pretending to be an NPC—felt a vibration in his pocket.
It was the prearranged signal from his teammates.
The group in front of him still wanted to ask more questions.
But the pale young man behind the desk suddenly stood up.
“Apologies,” he said with his usual distant and professional smile.
“Tonight’s consultation is over.”
He bowed slightly, picked up the [Freshman Guidance Desk] sign, and tucked it into his pocket.
Under the confused gazes of the anchors, he turned lightly on his heels and vanished into the darkness, leaving them staring blankly.
…What just happened?
Why did it end so suddenly?
Very quickly, Wen Jianyan returned to his teammates. He jogged, slightly out of breath.
“What happened? It’s not time yet, is it?”
He asked, confused.
He hadn’t gathered enough info yet and had planned to bluff a few more teams. But clearly, something had changed—something serious enough that his team had called him back immediately.
And so, without hesitation, he turned and ran.
He had always been great at knowing when to get the hell out.
“…There.”
Orange Candy jerked her chin forward, looking displeased.
Wen Jianyan turned around in the direction he came from—and froze.
Unnoticed, the leader of the approaching team had stepped into the range of the streetlamp.
The dim, cold light illuminated his face: plain and average, but with a deeply unsettling air.
His skin was deathly pale, as though thickly plastered. His dull eyes shifted with a cold, damp look.
The moment Wen Jianyan saw him, his heart sank.
It was the Bricklayer.
Also one of the top ten, Ranked #6.
Disguising oneself in an SS-level instance was far too expensive—even Wen Jianyan couldn’t afford it.
So he hadn’t disguised his face at all, merely using light and shadow to make himself less noticeable.
This little trick worked fine on strangers.
But for someone like the Bricklayer, who had seen him many times in meetings—
It was useless.
If Orange Candy’s guess was correct, and the freshmen and sophomores were indeed hostile factions, then Wen Jianyan would naturally become a target immediately.
And since Orange Candy was too far from Hugo, and their opponent was also someone from the top ten, the outcome… was hard to predict.
“Why is it him?” Orange Candy narrowed her eyes and ground her molars, her expression turning dark. “That guy is bad news.”
Wen Jianyan remembered that during his first time attending a secret meeting, he was nearly harassed by the Mason, and it was only because Orange Candy disguised herself as Hugo and happened to pass by that she scared him off.
“What is it?”
Tian Ye blinked his innocent and clear eyes and asked puzzledly, “There are three top-ten people on our side and only one on theirs. No matter how you look at it, we have the advantage—”
He didn’t finish his sentence before Orange Candy smacked him hard on the head.
“Ow!”
Tian Ye clutched his head and cried out in pain.
“You’re lowering our entire team’s average IQ.”
Orange Candy said with a blank face.
Wen Jianyan calmly added, “Top-ten rankings don’t translate to strength in such a straightforward way. The opponent brought an intact squad. With such a lack of intel, engaging them now would be unwise.”
Orange Candy’s face darkened further: “What? Are you saying I can’t beat him?”
“Of course not,” Wen Jianyan quickly adjusted his tone. “In terms of pure combat strength, we are definitely stronger. But fighting isn’t our goal. The mission is. There’s no need to start a conflict prematurely.”
Orange Candy’s expression softened a bit.
“All right, let’s leave it at that.” Hugo lit a cigarette and said, “Back to the dorms.”
Wen Jianyan nodded. “Fine by me.”
The group turned and began walking toward Apartment Block 2.
Wen Jianyan stuck his hands in his pockets, silently watching the backs of his teammates.
In terms of solo combat, Hugo was undoubtedly stronger. However, the team Orange Candy brought into this instance wasn’t assembled with PvP as its main purpose. To match the instance’s early-level difficulty, many of her top combatants were left behind. After all, no one expected a supposedly ordinary A-level instance to suddenly escalate to SS-level difficulty.
Therefore, their preparation was definitely not as thorough as the anchors who entered later.
Moreover, the anchors’ abilities were all unique, and within a instance, they could use props synergistically. Under these circumstances, even with a strength gap, letting one’s guard down could easily lead to getting killed by tricks.
“……”
Wen Jianyan turned his head and looked in the direction they came from.
The Mason stood under a streetlight, gazing thoughtfully at the table in front of him, as if lost in thought.
His build was average, and nothing about his features stood out. Yet, the longer one looked at him, the stronger the chill and discomfort he emanated.
As if sensing something, the man slowly raised his head, seemingly about to turn around.
“!”
Wen Jianyan’s breath caught. He quickly looked away.
With the instance now upgraded to SS-level, he had expected more high-level anchors to enter—but the arrival of a fourth top-ten member still caught him off guard.
If confrontation were to begin now…
Everything would become far too unpredictable.
Soon, the group arrived at Apartment Block 2.
It was almost identical to where they had stayed previously, except there were fewer buildings.
The few dull-gray dormitories stood quietly in the dark. The left side was for boys, the right for girls. The lights in the lobby were still on, and everything inside looked exactly the same as in his memories.
“Okay, time to head in.”
Orange Candy stretched and said cheerfully.
“Oh right,” she suddenly remembered something and turned to Wen Jianyan with curiosity. “Back when I successfully skipped class, what exactly did you see in your low-san state?”
“……”
Wen Jianyan paused, then replied, “Unfortunately… I’m not really sure anymore.”
Cold, darkness, fear, despair… Every second he experienced during that time was seared into his mind in perfect clarity, each moment vivid and raw. Even recalling it now made his palms sweat and his hairs stand on end.
But for some reason—perhaps due to the sanity system—once his SAN value recovered to normal levels, those once-clear images had blurred into a jumbled mess. Fragmented scenes mixed with bizarre hallucinations, making it impossible to distinguish what was real.
Like a nightmare.
After waking up, every frame became vague and discontinuous. He could recall the general sequence of events, but specific parts were completely lost— the more he tried to remember, the more he forgot.
“I remember what happened, and every command I gave, but…”
Wen Jianyan pointed to his head.
“When I try to recall it now, all I can remember is this overwhelming fear that something terrible was going to happen to me, and that I had to take immediate action. But what that ‘something’ was… I can’t recall anymore.”
This roughly covered the entire span from when he left the morality class to when he entered the administration building.
“Normal.”
Hugo spoke up.
He bit the cigarette between his lips. A tiny red glow lit up his face.
“If you could still clearly remember what you saw in low SAN, your current sanity would’ve crumbled already.”
Tian Ye murmured thoughtfully: “A sort of self-protection mechanism?”
“More or less.”
Orange Candy shrugged, unsurprised.
She sighed, a little regretfully: “Oh well, worth a shot.”
After all, whatever Wen Jianyan had seen during that time would surely be closer to the true nature of the instance—things that people in a normal state couldn’t perceive. If he had remembered it clearly, it would definitely help guide their future actions.
Unfortunately, the instance clearly had countermeasures, even built-in mechanisms for this.
“All right, see you tomorrow!”
She waved and skipped off toward the girls’ dorm.
Yun Bilan nodded politely to Wen Jianyan and quickly followed.
The remaining boys headed for their dorm.
Outside the boys’ building, the chubby dorm warden sat silently behind a desk, his expression dark as he stared at them intently.
Wen Jianyan recognized him—it was the same man who had watched Orange Candy barge in last time.
“…”
Awkward.
Still, whether because the dorms were a safe zone or due to some invisible rules, the warden didn’t give them trouble. He simply pushed a thick register toward them and grunted, “Sign in.”
The group exchanged glances and proceeded to register, now familiar with the process.
The warden grabbed a large ring of heavy keys and trudged upstairs.
Wen Jianyan noticed that although from the outside, the dorms looked unchanged, the number of rooms per floor had decreased. So despite the many deaths in the “first academic year,” the occupancy rate had actually increased in the “second year.”
As before, they were assigned to separate rooms.
Wen Jianyan wasn’t surprised.
He took the key, gave the warden a friendly smile despite the cold stare, and said:
“Good night, Auntie?”
“Auntie” shot him a glare and turned away, disappearing down the corridor with heavy steps.
Wen Jianyan, having failed his charm attempt, sighed and accepted the result. He pushed open the dorm door.
It was another eight-person dorm.
Unlike last time, this one was already full—only one bed was left.
Wen Jianyan glanced around thoughtfully.
Last time, while he and his teammates were split up, the other “residents” like Brother Hu and Weasel were all housed with their own teammates.
But this time, judging from the body language and expressions, the people here didn’t seem to know one another.
Was everyone deliberately separated? Or just coincidence?
Regardless, Wen Jianyan wasn’t completely without acquaintances here.
As soon as his gaze landed on one bunk, Zhao Ze suddenly sat bolt upright.
He asked cautiously, “You’re sleeping here?”
Wen Jianyan: “…”
“?”
Zhao Ze’s back was stiff with tension.
Their interaction had been brief, but he had a good sense of judgment.
None of the other members in Wen Jianyan’s group were easy to deal with. So if someone could travel with them, even if he looked harmless, he was likely extremely dangerous.
Even now, Zhao Ze clearly remembered the moment that orange-haired girl tilted her head with an innocent smile, but her words chilled him to the bone:
“That bed’s his now. Got it?”
It had been a while, but Zhao Ze hadn’t forgotten the oppressive fear he felt when she said that.
“Uh,” Wen Jianyan blinked. “Sure?”
He really didn’t care where he slept. After all, the kind of dangers he was now exposed to were completely different from the others.
For him, this “second year” was merely a starting point. The real challenge was ahead.
So if something dangerous were to happen… it wouldn’t matter where he slept.
Under everyone’s silent stares, the harmless-looking young man calmly walked to the final bed and sat down.
In the [Integrity First] live room chat:
[Damn, he’s exuding such boss energy right now.]
[LOL the camera just zoomed in on every roommate’s face—everyone looks like they’ve seen a ghost.]
[LMAO what a flex—first day of ‘school’ and he’s already making waves.]
[No wonder he’s our boy. Smooth operator from day one.]
Wen Jianyan checked the time.
Less than an hour left until lights out.
So he pulled out the freshman handbook and began reading it again.
It was the same one that had been locked in the vice principal’s office—and clearly the key reason for the instance’s shift from A-level to SS-level. But that was only on the surface.
Based on everything Wen Jianyan had observed in the instance so far…
He suspected this instance was always meant to be SS-level.
The signs had been there for a while. Whether it was the ineffectiveness of tools supposedly suited for A-levels, or the extreme difficulty in areas outside the system’s coverage, all of it pointed to a instance far more dangerous than its rating implied.
Only the overly lax mission requirements and freedom of movement had earned it an A-level designation.
But in truth…
It had been SS-level all along.
“Advancing to the next academic year” was nothing more than a trigger—an opportunity for the hidden darkness within the instance to be fully exposed.
The freshman handbook was indeed important, but saying it could answer all questions would be an overstatement.
Otherwise, this updated version wouldn’t have been distributed to every anchor right at the start of the second academic year.
Still… to access the “new school year,” it was the first thing one had to come into contact with.
Under the lamp light, Wen Jianyan recalled the contents of the original handbook while circling new information with his pen—anything that didn’t exist in his memory.
The map had indeed grown larger.
And along with it, the amount of hidden information had also increased.
Many of the originally blurred sections were now more illegible, clearly indicating that those texts could only be read when one’s SAN value dropped to single digits.
Unfortunately…
Wen Jianyan had been too pressed for time and in too poor a state previously, so he only had time to read the section about “advancing” and hadn’t looked at the rest.
He carefully marked these areas and memorized their locations, so he could find them quickly when needed.
Wen Jianyan kept his head down, focused—looking every bit like an ordinary college student.
Just then, he caught the sound of others talking.
His pen paused as he looked up.
“…Do you know how to advance to sophomore year?”
“I’m not sure either.”
The temporary “roommates” in the dorm had begun cautiously conversing with each other.
Clearly, they had also received the “advance or die” time-limited mission from the system.
But they seemed utterly confused about what to do.
“Do the credits we have now matter?”
“Maybe? I mean, in the real world, advancing also needs credits, right?”
“But I don’t know how to use them.”
Since it wasn’t officially the first day yet, even though the anchors were anxious, there was no way to obtain more information.
Tension was starting to rise in their voices.
“Damn it, who the hell is behind this?! It was supposed to be an ordinary A-level instance, and now it’s been forcibly upgraded to SS-level! Who the hell is supposed to survive this?!”
“Yeah… this is bullshit.”
“If I ever find out who got me into this mess, I’ll drag that bastard to hell with me, just wait.”
Wen Jianyan: “…”
In the [Integrity First] live room chat:
[…Well, this is awkward.]
[HAHAHAHAHA!!]
[Bet you didn’t see that coming—the culprit is right in front of you!]
The instigator calmly looked away and subtly shrank into the bed, trying to lower his presence.
Soon, it was lights out.
With the experience from their freshman year, all the anchors in the dorm brushed their teeth and got into bed on their own.
With a crisp “click,” darkness fell.
Wen Jianyan lay on his bed, cold air seeping up from the bedframe and threading into his bones.
He stared at the human bone wind chime hanging at the head of his bed, while remembering the lucky cat bell he’d accidentally left in the administrative building.
He fiddled with the ring on his finger and let out a deep, sorrowful sigh.
But before he could dwell in his sadness for long, that familiar, irresistible drowsiness washed over him.
In the blink of an eye, Wen Jianyan was pulled into sleep.
It was a dreamless night.
When he was startled awake by a ringtone again, it was already the next day.
He propped himself up and instinctively glanced at the health bar in the upper right corner of his vision—then paused.
Wen Jianyan remembered that before going to sleep, his HP was at 71 and SAN at 63.
Now, while his HP remained the same, his SAN had dropped to 48.
Right. Even during the first academic year, sleeping cost SAN.
But it used to only cost 10 points.
In the second year, that had increased to 15 points overnight?
A 150% rise—that was excessive.
“…”
Staring at the pitiful number, Wen Jianyan nearly blacked out.
Seriously… He had worked so hard to push his SAN value just above passing, and now, after a single night, it had dropped below again.
No wonder the Nightmare had been so generous earlier!
That familiar coldness seeped out from his bones once more.
His limbs felt like they were soaked in icy water, like rusted machinery—alien and out of sync with his body.
Wen Jianyan sighed and got out of bed with a grim face.
Whatever. At least it was better than the single digits from before.
He glanced out the window—and paused.
Was it just his imagination, or was the sky much darker than he remembered?
Normally, at wake-up time, the sky would be dimly lit at least, but now it was pitch black, pressing down and suffocating.
As Wen Jianyan stared dazedly out the window, the dorm’s speaker suddenly crackled to life with a distorted voice:
“First, congratulations to everyone on entering the second academic year.”
Everyone jumped and instinctively looked toward the source of the voice.
Wen Jianyan frowned slightly.
Something about that voice sounded familiar.
Wasn’t it…
The vice principal who once gave them a moral education lecture?
The distorted voice continued:
“To enhance your learning experience, the school has undergone several upgrades. Online course registration is now available. There are limited seats per class, so hurry and don’t waste this opportunity.”
In the [Integrity First] live room chat:
[?? What the hell? Did I hear that right? Online course registration?]
[Dude, I don’t even know anymore.]
[HAHAHAHA holy shit, this instance really is keeping up with the times!!]
Wen Jianyan blinked in surprise.
…Wasn’t this a little too modernized?
But then he realized what this so-called “online course registration” truly meant.
Freshmen on their first day had to register for classes in person at the teaching building.
This move clearly aimed to separate first-year and second-year students for the time being.
As he pondered, his phone buzzed.
Looking down, Wen Jianyan saw a new app had somehow appeared on his phone.
【Yuying Comprehensive University Course Registration System】
The icon was stylish—a minimalistic face.
He hesitated, then tapped it open.
【Welcome to Yuying Comprehensive University’s Online Course Registration System. For smooth use, please carefully read the following:
1. Each student may register for only one elective course per week.
2. Final enrollment is subject to the instructor’s decision and cannot be changed once submitted.
3. Do not fail.
Note: Once you have accumulated 150 credits, you may visit the Administration Office before the final day of the academic year to apply for advancement.】
Wen Jianyan stared at the last line and froze.
He hadn’t expected the instance to be so direct this time—no riddles, just an open explanation of how to advance.
That was a good thing, sure.
But… when tied into the framework now presented by the instance, it was harder to be optimistic.
After all, this wasn’t like before where credits alone were enough to clear the game. Now, what he had to do was…
His gaze landed on the last sentence again.
“The final day of the academic year.”
So, the Administration Office still had a time limit?
Wen Jianyan narrowed his eyes, rubbing the edge of his phone.
To answer that question, he’d have to explore again—properly, this time.
Just then, his group chat buzzed.
It was from Orange Candy.
[Don’t Mess With Me: Which class are you signing up for?]
Maybe because the duration of the second year was compressed to half of the first, students could only choose one elective this time.
Wen Jianyan was just about to reply when another message came in.
[Don’t Mess With Me: Never mind.]
“?”
Wen Jianyan blinked.
Never mind? What did that mean?
Suddenly, he thought of something and reopened the app.
After clicking past the instructions, he entered the registration screen—but instead of a list of available courses, one single line was displayed:
【You have successfully registered.】
Successfully?
Wen Jianyan blinked, confused.
What the hell? He hadn’t even started the registration process!
He scrolled down.
【Your selected course: Outdoor Practical Class】
【Course start time: 8:00 AM tomorrow, meet at the school gate】
“!”
Wen Jianyan’s eyes widened.
Shit. He remembered.
During freshman year, his entire team had registered for two electives:
One was Film Appreciation, the other Outdoor Practice.
Outdoor Practice was supposed to start at 8 AM on Saturday, but his team explored the administrative building on Friday night.
That night, they completed their freshman year and entered sophomore year…
Which meant he had completely missed the outdoor class!
So now, the system automatically carried over his previous registration—and defaulted him into Outdoor Practice.
“…”
Wen Jianyan stared at the now-greyed-out “Film Appreciation” course name and frowned.
Thanks to the team’s previous effort, they had already progressed through two films:
Brave Richard and A Day in the Life of Wang Ni.
Although the “main characters” had long been replaced by waves of anchors, and the format had overtaken the plot, the truth behind them had gradually started surfacing…
It might not seem directly tied to clearing the instance, but abandoning it just like this—it left a bitter taste in Wen Jianyan’s mouth.
He narrowed his eyes, clearly planning something.
Soon, he had an idea and quickly typed on his phone.
[Your Loyal Friend Pinocchio: Bro!!! @Hugo]
[Hugo: ?]
The reply was a bit slow—like he wasn’t too willing to respond.
[Your Loyal Friend Pinocchio: You still have an open elective spot, right?]
After all, Hugo hadn’t acted with the main group during freshman year, so he hadn’t registered for Outdoor Practice.
A few seconds later, Hugo reluctantly replied with one word:
[Yeah.]
[Your Loyal Friend Pinocchio: Sign up for Film Appreciation, please~]
Followed by an adorable cat sticker.
[Hugo: ……]
[Your Loyal Friend Pinocchio: Pretty please!】
[Bunny Begging.jpg]
[Don’t Mess With Me: Bunny Begging.jpg]
[In the Fields of Hope: Bunny Begging.jpg]
[Fortress Battle: Bunny Begging.jpg]
Hugo: “……”
Staring at the flood of emojis, he felt a faint throb in his temples.
After a few seconds, he sighed and replied helplessly:
[Fine.]
