(8/10)
Yuying University
Chapter 446: Tonight at midnight
On the basketball court, a change in ball possession signifies a reversal of offense and defense.
The moment Wen Jianyan received the ball, he sensed an invisible chill closing in from all directions, as if some unseen presence was approaching.
He immediately began to move.
“Everyone knows how to play basketball, right?”
Wen Jianyan turned his head and looked at the others on the court.
The others exchanged glances and hesitantly nodded.
Since they had chosen this game, it was natural that they had a basic understanding of basketball. At the very least, they had come into contact with it in school or treated it as a hobby. But it didn’t go much further than that.
They knew a little—but just a little.
Wen Jianyan saw their awkward expressions and gave a faint smile.
“It’s okay, don’t worry.”
But before the others could breathe a sigh of relief, he calmly and cheerfully continued:
“I’m about the same as you.”
Oh, about the same, then—
—Wait, what???
Everyone froze.
From the start, whether it was his grasp of the rules or his smooth and confident movements with dribbling and shooting, this guy had looked like a total pro. But now he was saying what?
They stared at Wen Jianyan in disbelief, hardly trusting their ears.
At that moment, the young man was jogging forward with the ball, his white shirt billowing in the wind like wings on a bird.
His posture and movements made it obvious—he looked like someone extremely skilled at this game.
In the “Integrity First” live room chat:
[Is this a joke?]
[Hahaha, the anchor is lying again.]
[But like, what’s the point of lying here? He’s not trying to pretend to be weak—everyone’s clearly listening to him already. Why act like he doesn’t know what he’s doing?]
[…]
[Wait, what if… he’s actually telling the truth?]
He really was telling the truth.
Just like the other anchors on the court, Wen Jianyan had only a beginner’s grasp of basketball—both in terms of skills and understanding the rules.
He knew a little, enough to show off once in a while, or look cool on the court—but that was it.
Everything else came down to pure athletic instinct.
The huge court was lit by only four streetlights. The rest was swallowed by darkness.
Wen Jianyan pulled his gaze back in.
He was still jogging with the ball, keeping a steady pace that wouldn’t draw a foul.
“Run ten meters forward,” Wen Jianyan said, patting the shoulder of the anchor next to him.
He then turned slightly: “Hey, you.”
The named anchor flinched, instinctively glancing around before realizing he was being called.
“Seven meters forward, three to the left,” Wen Jianyan instructed.
Each of his commands was simple and direct—no room for misinterpretation.
Soon, Wen Jianyan came to a stop.
The basketball in his hands, now radiating a chilling aura, thudded rhythmically against the ground.
Wen Jianyan stood motionless.
“?”
The others didn’t know what he was doing, so they stayed where they were, watching and waiting.
In the “Integrity First” live room chat:
[Why did he stop moving?]
[No idea…]
[Usually, once you have the ball, shouldn’t you just go for a layup or something? Why stand still at center court?]
[Isn’t that against the rules?]
The chill grew stronger.
Wen Jianyan felt goosebumps rise on his arms, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
Something with malicious intent was approaching through the darkness.
He couldn’t see it—but he could feel it.
Closer.
His body reacted instinctively. Cold sweat seeped from his palms, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. He could hear the roar of blood in his ears.
Just a bit longer.
“Hey, what exactly are you trying to do?”
Someone was starting to lose patience.
They had to admit, the guy’s response earlier had impressed them and taken control of the situation—but now, leaving the outcome in the hands of someone who had no real experience playing basketball? That felt reckless.
Not to mention, what he was doing now looked like suicide.
“Pass me the ball. I can take it across!”
One of the anchors was getting antsy.
“Hey, what are you doing? Say something!”
Still, Wen Jianyan said nothing. He kept his eyes fixed on a single point in the air, as though all his attention was focused there. His posture looked relaxed, but his body was taut like a drawn bowstring—about to snap at any moment.
Zhao Ze scowled and turned back to glare at the others. “Shut up.”
Unlike the rest of them, he’d actually played with Wen Jianyan before—he knew what he was capable of. And in a situation like this, if anyone could get them out safely or even win… there wasn’t a second person he’d bet on.
Though they didn’t understand why Zhao Ze had suddenly switched sides, his loyal buddies, Brother Hu and A-Bao, quickly backed him up:
“Alright, shut up, all of you!”
“You heard my bro. Wherever he told you to stand, stay there. Otherwise, you’re going against us. Got it?”
There weren’t many anchors on the court to begin with, and with a few on Wen Jianyan’s side, they quickly took control of the situation. Finally, the complaints ceased.
Thud. Thud.
The rhythmic sound of the basketball echoed across the court.
By now, Wen Jianyan’s body was wound tight. His breath came quick and shallow, lashes trembling as he fought against some deep, instinctive fear.
He stared at that single point in the air. Whether he was seeing something or simply sensing it, no one could tell.
A frigid sensation crept up from the soles of his feet, winding around him.
Under his palm, the basketball’s previously smooth surface began to distort—bulging unnaturally as though something beneath the leather was trying to push out.
Suddenly, Wen Jianyan’s lashes twitched. His eyes lifted, bright as the midday sun.
“Brother Hu, catch.”
He jumped, and the basketball arced through the air in a clean, fluid motion—heading straight toward Brother Hu.
“?!”
Brother Hu was caught off guard and nearly missed it, but as an experienced player in many instances, his body reacted faster than his mind. By the time he realized what happened, the ball was already in his hands.
And the moment it landed, he felt it—an intense cold that seemed to shake him to the bone.
Brother Hu looked down.
Under the faint reddish glow of the lights, the basketball’s surface had become uneven and bumpy. Something writhed beneath it, like it was struggling to get out. The once-familiar texture was now slick and icy—almost like…
Human skin.
!!!
Brother Hu’s hair stood on end. He almost threw the ball away.
But at that moment, Wen Jianyan’s voice rang out nearby.
It was as calm and cool as ever, with a sharp, cutting clarity that pierced through the panic:
“Run forward.”
“After fifteen meters, pass it to the person on your left.”
Just like before, his instructions were simple, precise, and steadying—even in total chaos, they compelled obedience.
Brother Hu obeyed without thinking and started to run.
“Pass,” Wen Jianyan’s voice came again.
The ball moved from one anchor to another.
Wen Jianyan ran alongside them, his eyes never leaving the ball.
Though it had left his hands, his focus remained razor-sharp.
Yes, his basketball knowledge was shallow—limited to some basic rules and movements—but when it came to winning a game, Wen Jianyan was a master.
In any match, there are always opponents.
But unless one’s SAN drops to a single digit, these opponents remain unseen. Sacrificing precious SAN just for visibility? Not worth it.
However, that didn’t mean Wen Jianyan couldn’t sense their movements.
When you don’t have the ball, the basketball attacks rule-breakers. So what happens when possession changes?
They become the opponents.
By standing still and deliberately breaking the rules, Wen Jianyan made an otherwise invisible threat visible to him through pure sensation.
His SAN hadn’t dropped enough to see them outright, but it was enough to detect their presence.
They were coming to steal the ball—and the ball wanted to return to them.
Once they got close enough, he could act.
Like a freshly-oiled machine, everything began to run smoothly.
Wen Jianyan sprinted alongside the others, watching as the ball passed from hand to hand.
In the “Integrity First” live room chat:
[See? I knew it—he just wanted to pass the ball.]
[But this is weird. The pattern of passing seems kind of complex. Wouldn’t a straight shot be faster? There’s less than ten minutes left. Just score a point and win, right?]
[Who knows, maybe he’s just being dramatic.]
Then, a viewer suddenly noticed something:
[Wait a sec, can someone hop over to the other anchors’ rooms and check their SAN values? Let me know what they are.]
[?]
It was a strange request—but in a livestream with so many bored viewers hopping from room to room, the data was collected quickly.
And once those numbers were compiled… everything made sense.
The order of passing matched a precise pattern—alternating between high and low SAN values.
[Wait, did I miss something? Did he ask everyone their SAN values beforehand?]
[No, you’re not wrong. I’ve been watching the whole time—he never asked.]
[And even if he did, what would be the point? SAN changes when you get attacked. It could shift anytime. Even the person themself might not notice right away.]
[Wait, I don’t get it—then how did he know?]
A viewer suddenly said: [Hold on, let me check the recording…]
After finding the pattern, everything fell into place.
[Damn, I just realized—every single anchor who got assigned a position had previously been chased by the ball.]
[??!!]
[Holy crap.]
[Wait, wait—I’m still trying to wrap my head around this, why do you all look like you’ve suddenly figured out some big secret?]
[It means that the people who triggered the rules weren’t the only ones, but the basketball’s attacks were prioritized—it went for those with the lowest SAN first. The anchor must have remembered the general sanity range of each person based on that, which is how he made those decisions just now.]
At this point, Wen Jianyan’s arrangement finally made sense.
People with low sanity values were more likely to be attacked while carrying the ball, and more “opponents” would be drawn to them. Using this logic, he was able to corral an otherwise invisible threat into a controlled range. Then, by having those with higher sanity pass the ball, he was able to shorten the distance to the basket.
This strategy—brilliant was an understatement.
It had almost nothing to do with basketball skills, but the grasp of the rules and the prediction of potential threats were terrifyingly precise.
And to think it was all observed, devised, and executed by a single person within just over ten minutes.
[…]
[…]
[One sentence: badass.]
[Badass!! (voice cracking)]
The basketball moved from one anchor to another like a well-oiled machine. Everything flowed smoothly, with barely a moment of delay.
Minutes passed, and not a single full attack occurred—each one was cut off with perfect timing.
Under Wen Jianyan’s guidance, the basketball drew closer and closer to the hoop.
But… that didn’t come without a cost.
As time passed, the basketball itself began to change. What had once been an ordinary, slightly worn ball was now exuding a chilling aura.
Dark red water began to drip from its surface, and the sinister droplets seemed to carry some indescribable fear. The surface, once firm, had become damp and soft, like human skin that had lost its elasticity—pressing on it left a visible dent.
And the bulging parts of the ball… began to move like breathing.
It was starting to look… more and more like a human head.
The anchor who had just passed the ball turned pale, gripping his wet palm as though he’d seen something horrifying.
“Hurry!”
He couldn’t help but shout.
Yes, hurry.
Just a little faster, and they’d make it in time.
The ball was incredibly close to the hoop—just needed to be passed to the last person—
The ball spun through the air, tracing a beautiful arc as it descended toward the last player.
Midair, it had already turned completely pale and cold. A human face had emerged clearly from its surface—it had fully transformed into a head.
It opened a pair of pitch-black, emotionless eyes and stared at the last person in the lineup. Its mouth cracked into a wide grin, as if it were about to giggle.
“——!!”
The person it stared at froze, their face pale, drenched in sweat, utterly paralyzed by fear, unable to move a muscle.
“Move.”
A cold, emotionless voice sounded beside him.
Before the anchor could react, a strong force yanked him backward.
A figure leapt past him.
A glimpse of a sharp-featured face flashed by.
A slam dunk!
In an instant, everyone held their breath.
The ball slammed precisely into the hoop with such force that the entire backboard shook. The fully awakened human head rotated inside the net, smiling menacingly at Wen Jianyan—but before it hit the ground, it vanished.
What just happened?
Those staring at the scene, their hearts in their throats, were stunned, eyes wide with disbelief.
At the same time, the dim red lighting faded into the distance, and the thick darkness surrounding the field began to dissipate.
Wen Jianyan, panting, stood on the ground.
Sweat soaked his bangs, and his cheekbones were flushed with an unhealthy red. As if sensing something, he turned toward the edge of the basketball court.
Far away, the rest of the sports field began to emerge from the shadows, becoming clearer. Other anchors who had been in different areas came into view.
So…
It was over?
They looked around, faces dazed as if waking from a dream.
Only now did their tense expressions begin to ease.
They finally had the energy to take in their surroundings.
Unlike the harmless PE class from the previous semester, this time no one looked relaxed or at ease after it ended.
There were clearly fewer people on the field.
The survivors were pale, sweating, breathing heavily.
And parts of the ground were soaked in red blood. Even from the remnants alone, one could imagine the brutality of what had occurred.
Across the silent field, faint cries of pain echoed.
At the end of the track, someone’s entire leg had been ripped off at the root. Another had lost half an arm. His teammate was desperately trying to stop the bleeding—but everyone knew that in this kind of scenario, losing a limb could mean death.
Still, they were considered lucky.
Because some people would never return from that darkness.
All things considered… the basketball court had the fewest casualties.
A chill ran down everyone’s spines.
They exchanged glances, then subtly turned to look at Wen Jianyan.
The young man stood at the edge of the basketball court, gazing up at the hoop. His side profile looked remarkably youthful.
Only now did they realize clearly: if it weren’t for him orchestrating everything from the start, they might’ve been wiped out.
Truthfully, for high-ranking anchors in Nightmare, surviving a single sub-event in a instance isn’t that hard. The truly ruthless ones could even use everyone else as cannon fodder—sacrificing others to survive themselves.
But for someone to both survive and get the whole team through unharmed…
That was nearly unheard of.
“Hey, so who exactly is that guy…”
Someone approached the group that had come with Wen Jianyan, trying to fish for some info.
Marsh recognized him—it was the same anchor who had taunted them earlier.
He shot the guy a glare and got a sheepish look in return.
But before the conversation could go any further, an uninvited guest interrupted.
A pale-faced person wearing an armband stepped into the court.
It was one of the student council members who had taken attendance earlier.
He walked straight toward Wen Jianyan.
In an instant, the whole court went silent. All eyes followed him.
In the oppressive stillness, the student council member came to a stop in front of Wen Jianyan.
He stared at him with those hollow, emotionless eyes and said, “Congratulations. Your team has won the basketball match.”
With those words, everyone let out a breath of relief.
No matter what, it was comforting to hear confirmation of victory from an NPC.
“As a reward, please go to the administrative building before the semester ends to claim your prize.”
In the “Integrity First” live room chat:
[Whoa!]
[So that anchor gets an extra chance to go to the admin building?]
[Wow wow wow! That’s huge!]
A reward?
They exchanged looks, visibly excited.
They had guessed there might be a prize for winning, but they hadn’t expected this kind of “ceremony.”
Still, any reward was better than none.
“Mind if I ask what the prize is?” Wen Jianyan asked.
He didn’t seem to notice that he had become the center of attention again. He wore a polite, mild smile.
The student council member gave him a dark look.
“Sorry. I don’t have the clearance to know.”
Wen Jianyan: “Then may I ask whether we just pick up the prize ourselves, or will someone present it to us?”
“…”
The student council member’s face grew darker.
He stared at Wen Jianyan for several seconds, then reluctantly said, “The vice principal will present the prize personally.”
“Oh, what an honor.” Wen Jianyan smiled sincerely, as if truly flattered.
But the student council member clearly wasn’t impressed.
Scowling, he turned and walked off into the darkness.
Wen Jianyan dropped his smile.
He stared thoughtfully in the direction the NPC had vanished.
A quiet aura enveloped him, creating an invisible distance from the others.
Not far off, the “basketball team” exchanged glances and walked over.
“Um… thanks for earlier.”
Anyone with eyes could see they had survived the “match” thanks to him. Without Wen Jianyan, they probably wouldn’t have even lived through the class.
“If there’s anything we can—”
Wen Jianyan glanced at them.
His gaze was light and distant. Though he smiled, it didn’t feel warm—it felt cold, even detached.
“It’s nothing. Mutual benefit.”
He smiled and added:
“I’m not strong enough to survive alone, that’s all.”
The answer was unexpected.
Caught off guard by the rejection, Brother Hu was stunned.
Before anyone could react, Wen Jianyan had already turned to leave.
He waved. “My teammates are calling. See you.”
The others stood on the court, speechless.
His words left no room for argument… and to be honest, they had never met someone so blunt in a situation like this.
It was like he wanted nothing to do with anyone else.
—
Wen Jianyan looked down at his hand.
His palm still felt the clammy, slippery texture of the human head. The flesh between his thumb and index finger throbbed faintly.
There, a red wound showed where the head had bitten him hard in its last moments.
He flexed his fingers.
It didn’t hurt much and didn’t affect movement.
But whether anything else would come of it—he wasn’t sure.
The image of that head flashed in his mind—its sinister grin, the pitch-black eyes. It had all happened so quickly that he wasn’t sure if it was Chu Chu, the girl from Brave Richard, or the human head from A Day in the Life of Wang Ni.
But either way, there had to be a connection.
Wen Jianyan lowered his eyes, concealing his thoughts.
A voice called out in the distance: “Here!”
It was Su Cheng and the others.
Wen Jianyan lowered his hand, letting his sleeve cover the wound.
Not far away, Orange Candy stood at the edge of the court, bored, kicking at a pebble.
Blood stained the left half of her body—but clearly, it wasn’t hers.
When Wen Jianyan approached, she finally looked up and asked curiously:
“How was it? How’d the basketball game go?”
“Never want to play again,” Wen Jianyan replied honestly.
“Pfft—hahaha!” Orange Candy burst out laughing, nearly doubled over.
Yun Bilan: “You didn’t run into danger?”
“There was,” Wen Jianyan said nonchalantly. “But I handled it.”
His hand was in his pocket.
Su Cheng glanced at him but said nothing.
“All right,” Orange Candy wiped a tear from laughing too hard and raised her phone, showing him the screen. “Your little spy sent a message.”
Wen Jianyan bent closer to read the screen.
It was a message from Yellow Weasel.
Sent five minutes ago.
[What are your bed numbers?]
It was short, with no extra details.
But everyone present knew what it meant.
Clearly, just as Wen Jianyan suspected—though the first day had failed, the club still had to recruit members, or that plot thread would be wasted.
The instance clearly wasn’t going to proceed in a half-finished state.
And that gave them a perfect opportunity to infiltrate.
Wen Jianyan nodded and reported his bed number.
Orange Candy looked down and typed rapidly, then sent it off.
A moment later, her phone buzzed again.
Another message from Yellow Weasel:
[Tonight at midnight. Dorm.]
