Chapter 694: Each for their own master
Under Wu Zhu’s guidance, the group hurried forward with urgency.
At first, the “scent of blood” he mentioned was merely an ethereal concept. However, as it gradually accumulated in the corridor, it eventually became as thick as porridge, so heavy and pungent that even they could no longer ignore it.
Finally, Wu Zhu stopped in his tracks.
“We’re here.”
“There are thirteen places on this floor with the scent of blood, but this one is the strongest,” he said.
After speaking, Wu Zhu turned sideways and looked at Wen Jianyan standing next to him.
“…”
Wen Jianyan sighed helplessly, but still fulfilled his expectations:
“Mm-hmm, good job.”
Receiving the praise, the other party satisfyingly withdrew his gaze. His face was as cold as usual, but he inexplicably seemed very happy.
Everyone: “……………………”
[…I just can’t fucking watch this.]
[Hahahahaha, maybe you two should restrain yourselves a bit? I feel like the three of them are on the verge of a breakdown.]
[But I have to say, what rich expressions!]
[Disbelief amidst the stiffness, powerlessness amidst the despair… wow… so magical!]
Wen Jianyan was completely oblivious to the surging undercurrents.
Because the scene before him had already captured his full attention.
This was the ruins of a massacre.
Splatter-like bloodstains painted the walls all the way up to the ceiling. Due to the passage of time, they had taken on an oppressive dark red hue, almost blending in with the wallpaper. Without careful observation, one could hardly realize how shockingly tragic this was.
Wen Jianyan crouched down, carefully holding a corpse’s chin with his fingers, turning its pale, lifeless head. His thoughtful gaze drifted from its neck down to its chest, closely examining the dried, hideous wounds.
Blond stepped forward and poked his head out to ask, “How is it? Did you find any clues?”
“What clues do we even need for this?” Ji Guan shrugged from behind and said, “Isn’t the scene obvious enough?”
Chen Mo’s gaze swept over the tragic sight before them from afar, not voicing any disagreement.
The scene before them was excessively bloody, so there was a high probability it wasn’t a standard clash between anchors. After all, their targets weren’t each other; without some deep-seated hatred, there was no need to fight to the death like this. If someone from their side really was involved in pushing a battle to this extent, it could only be Chen Cheng or Orange Candy. However, Chen Cheng’s style was more ruthless and precise, whereas Orange Candy was tyrannical and mad. Therefore, the creator of this scene was undoubtedly Orange Candy.
But Wen Jianyan shook his head and stood up:
“I don’t think so.”
The few of them froze.
Wen Jianyan pointed to a corpse in the corner not far away—it leaned lifelessly against the wall, its head drooping, its neck hanging limply as if it had lost its bones: “Look, the cause of death for that person is a broken neck.”
His gaze shifted to another side, where a corpse lay askew on the ground, eyes half-open, frozen in an expression of horror, and one side of its head was deeply caved in.
“This is blunt force trauma.”
Finally, Wen Jianyan looked down at the corpse lying at his feet. He gently nudged it over with the tip of his toe, revealing a bloody, gaping hole in its chest:
“As for this one, his fatal injury was a sharp weapon piercing through his chest.”
So many different causes of death typically only occurred in chaotic group battles, and couldn’t be produced by a single individual.
Blond paused. His gaze quickly swept across the messy scene, and his extraordinary vision quickly made him realize something: “Ah, there seem to be quite a few weapons on the ground that correspond to the wounds…”
Chen Mo frowned: “They killed each other?”
Ji Guan was confused: “But why would they—”
Halfway through his sentence, he suddenly blanked out. A jolt of electricity violently shot through his entire body in an instant, and he drew in a sharp breath of cold air: “—Wait, you mean!!”
“Yes.”
Wen Jianyan nodded.
Slowly, word by word, he clearly stated the guess that was in everyone’s minds:
“Bai Xue.”
To date, among all the anchors they had seen, the only person in the entirety of Nightmare who could make attackers kill each other without lifting a single finger was him.
Bai Xue, the ominous medium, the spinner of fate.
Despite reaching this conclusion, their hearts sank collectively. They exchanged a look with one another, their expressions far from relaxed.
“If it’s Bai Xue…” Chen Mo frowned tightly. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly, “Then the problem might be a bit big.”
“Actually, before you appeared, we had already lost contact with him.”
After a brief hesitation, Chen Mo still voiced his speculation out loud.
“So I think, this was highly likely a choice made by him.”
While the communication system in Nightmare only started having issues after Wen Jianyan appeared, losing contact with Bai Xue had happened right after they entered the instance. Aside from the very beginning, he had unilaterally cut off all communication channels. Judging by Chen Cheng’s subsequent near-frantic responses, it was obvious there was no progress on his end either. Given Bai Xue’s talent, if he wanted to find them, it would be a breeze. Thus, there was only one possibility for the current situation:
Bai Xue himself did not want to group up with them.
“So what? Are we just going to leave him alone and go find the next person?” Ji Guan’s eyes darkened. “Wasn’t he the one who initially gave the warning ‘Going alone means death’?”
“But…”
Blond’s tone dropped.
“Can we really find him?”
Although the next sentence went unspoken, everyone knew it clearly in their hearts:
Once Bai Xue didn’t want to be found, his ability was more than enough to let him evade any and all searches.
Suddenly, a deep voice came from behind them:
“We can.”
…What?!
The men were instantly startled and turned simultaneously toward the direction of the voice.
Wu Zhu stood not far away. He raised his hand. Hovering right above the tip of his pale finger was a drop of semi-coagulated, almost light pink liquid.
He raised his eyes and spoke in his usual indifferent tone:
“Blood.”
“His.”
Wen Jianyan was startled and reacted almost immediately.
“You can find him through the scent of his blood?”
“Yes.” Wu Zhu nodded.
Wen Jianyan pondered for a few seconds before looking at Chen Mo:
“Wu Zhu and I will go find Bai Xue. You guys head back to the elevator and wait for us.”
“You two are going alone?” Chen Mo paused. His gaze fell on Wu Zhu, he frowned, and quickly withdrew his sight. “Is there no other way?”
Wen Jianyan: “If we want to find Bai Xue, I’m afraid not.”
Indeed, Bai Xue could see and manipulate probability. However, in the world of numbers he could see, there wasn’t a total lack of exceptions. Wu Zhu’s existence would interfere with and influence all probabilities, making it so Bai Xue had no way to predict and no way to evade him. But this condition only worked against Wu Zhu, and was ineffective for other companions. This had already been fully proven in the Prosperity Hotel instance.
“…I understand.”
Chen Mo took a deep breath and nodded.
No matter how uneasy he felt about this “non-human,” he knew the priorities given the current situation.
“Before I return, you must act cautiously,” Wen Jianyan instructed. “Do not trust any messages sent to your phones.”
The number of people on this floor was already dwindling, and among those remaining, probably few could pose a real threat to Chen Mo and the others.
“If you really encounter any situation, cut your wrists.”
Wu Zhu spoke up.
His gaze rarely landed on the three of them. A pair of bright, golden python-like eyes stared at them, bringing a sort of non-human sense of scrutiny.
“I remember the smell of your blood.”
Chen Mo took a deep breath: “I understand… Be careful on your way.”
Ji Guan wasn’t as polite as Chen Mo. He glared darkly at the other, having already made up his mind that if this guy acted annoying again like the previous times, he absolutely wouldn’t tolerate it so easily—
Under his ferocious glare, the other indeed didn’t say anything more this time.
Wen Jianyan waved his hand and turned to walk into the distance, with Wu Zhu following closely behind.
But before leaving, he carelessly glanced back and said:
“—Don’t worry, he’s safer with me than with anyone else.”
Ji Guan: “……………………”
“?!” Seeing that the situation was going south, Chen Mo quickly grabbed his shoulder with keen eyes and swift hands. Blond also dashed forward, cold sweat dripping, blocking his front to obstruct his vision. The two cooperated tacitly—one pinning him down, the other covering his mouth—controlling Ji Guan in the blink of an eye.
Calm down, bro, calm down!
Chen Mo hinted with his eyes.
“Mmph mmph mmph!”
Let me go!
Ji Guan replied exasperatedly with his eyes.
I don’t care!! I’m going to fucking break up this marriage today!!!!
“Are Bai Xue’s injuries serious?” Wen Jianyan asked while walking briskly forward.
Wu Zhu shook his head: “Not serious.”
The blood left at the scene was very little, only a few drops.
In fact, precisely because the quantity was so small and the scent so unique, it caught Wu Zhu’s attention and could be separated from such a blood-soaked, gruesome scene.
“Just superficial wounds.”
“Where’s the blood? Let me see,” Wen Jianyan said.
With a flick of Wu Zhu’s fingertip, that light pink drop of blood floated over and stopped in the palm of Wen Jianyan’s hand.
Wen Jianyan examined the drop of blood, his brows furrowing.
The color of this blood was far too pale.
Bai Xue’s talent had likely been severely overdrawn.
He took a deep breath: “How much longer until we arrive?”
Wu Zhu looked into the air, estimating for a moment before answering: “Five minutes.”
The interior of the cruise ship was specifically created to suppress Wu Zhu. Here, he could no longer move around ignoring space like before, and could only walk forward on his two legs like Wen Jianyan.
“Right, one more thing.” Seemingly thinking of something else, Wen Jianyan pinched the bridge of his faintly aching nose. “About what just happened.”
“…Didn’t I tell you to get along well with the others?”
Before bringing Wu Zhu to meet his teammates, he had repeatedly warned and instructed him to get along nicely with the others…
But the result? It was a miracle a fight hadn’t broken out.
Wu Zhu: “I did.”
When interacting, he said “You’re welcome,” and when leaving, he told them “Don’t worry.” Wasn’t that very polite?
“You did my ass,” Wen Jianyan ruthlessly exposed him.
If Wu Zhu was still in a fragmented state, lacking memory and common sense, that would be one thing. But he was now very close to being whole; not only had he recovered his memories, but he had also regained his heart. Wen Jianyan was extremely clear that given the intelligence level of the other’s true form and his terrifyingly strong learning ability, this kind of performance was absolutely not unintentional.
Wen Jianyan frowned at him: “Why did you deliberately piss them off?”
Wu Zhu thought for a few seconds and answered: “I wanted to.”
He admitted it very straightforwardly. This frank, completely unconcealed attitude actually made Wen Jianyan choke on his words.
Wu Zhu narrowed his eyes, his tone somewhat dark: “I was the first to know you, but they acted as if they were more familiar with you. I don’t like it.”
Wen Jianyan: “…”
Bro, are you being childish or what.
No one told him that dating a non-human came with this kind of downside!
“They didn’t know,” he sighed, still speaking patiently, “Besides, they were just worried about me.”
What’s more, this worry wasn’t completely unfounded.
After all, Wu Zhu himself indeed had a long rap sheet.
“Anyway, when we see the others again, you are not allowed to act like this,” Wen Jianyan warned.
Wu Zhu took a step closer. Beneath his feet, his already tall shadow stretched outward wantonly like a monster brandishing claws and fangs, possessively swallowing the young man’s reflection, engulfing and confining him from all sides until nothing was left.
But he himself merely gently raised his hand, lacing his fingers with Wen Jianyan’s hand hanging by his side, shaking it carelessly.
“Okay, I’ll pay attention next time.”
Wen Jianyan: “…”
Why didn’t he believe him at all?
Finally, the Dark Fire squad began to grow restless.
Since entering the instance, they had kept their troops stationed and hadn’t taken any effective action.
“Vice President, when exactly are we going to make a move?”
A member of the Dark Fire Guild who had spoken up before could no longer hold back and urged.
The man appeared respectful on the surface, but his eyes seemed to harbor a probing element. “If I remember correctly, you are quite familiar with a few people from that guild over there, aren’t you?”
Even Qi Qian’s own rise to power had countless intricate ties to that other guild.
Within Dark Fire, this was an open secret.
Perhaps because they were inherently militant, the factional struggles within Dark Fire were the fiercest among the major guilds. Before Qi Qian became Vice President, his rapid rise in status and power had drawn a siege from several other factions, nearly costing him his life. It was also around that time that the guild founded by Pinocchio began to emerge.
It was only after returning from that sure-death crisis that Qi Qian’s position within the guild began to stabilize.
Following that, with an unstoppable momentum and ruthless, precise methods, he retaliated. After successively eliminating several other competitors, he finally secured his throne as the Vice President of the Dark Fire Guild.
Inside Dark Fire, Qi Qian had always been viewed as belonging to the pro-foreign faction.
Precisely because of this, even though Qi Qian was leading the team this time, the majority of the members in the squad were pillars from other factions.
One couldn’t say the undercurrents weren’t surging.
An Xin narrowed his eyes and turned his head to glare at him:
“…What are you implying?”
This time, the expression on his face faded. His right hand hung by his side, its fingertips faintly shimmering with a golden light.
“No, don’t misunderstand, I’m not implying anything.” But this time, the man didn’t back down. He stood up, his gaze sweeping past An Xin and landing straight on Qi Qian not far away, his tone subtly rebellious. “We know that you are in control of this operation, Vice President Qi, but to do nothing for so long… isn’t that somewhat too passive?”
“An Xin.”
Qi Qian spoke indifferently, stopping An Xin from whatever he was about to say.
“But…” An Xin gritted his teeth, looking indignant.
Qi Qian stood up. He didn’t look at the coldly-glaring An Xin, nor did he look at the Dark Fire member who dared to openly oppose him. He merely raised his eyes, placed his fingers against his lips, and let out a loud whistle.
The clear whistle echoed in the narrow, dim cabin.
“…”
The others were startled and subconsciously looked up.
Flap, flap.
A faint sound of flapping wings came from the air.
A paper bird flew over from a distance and landed on the tip of Qi Qian’s raised finger.
Behind him, the crowd quickly exchanged glances, seeing the same shock in each other’s eyes.
What kind of item was this?
And…
When did Qi Qian release it?
Ignoring the others, Qi Qian brought the paper bird to his ear and listened carefully for a long time.
Soon, he looked up. As his finger lowered, the paper bird resting on it turned into fine dust, fluttering down.
For a moment, the dark cabin was dead silent. Everyone’s eyes were locked onto Qi Qian, fully concentrated and waiting for his next move.
Under their gazes, Qi Qian slowly turned around. His emotionless eyes swept over the crowd as he spoke:
“The time is ripe.”
“Let’s move out.”
This brief command acted like flipping a switch.
All the restlessness, unease, and conflict from moments ago became unimportant in this instant. The similar looks honed from years of bloody battles surfaced on everyone’s faces. They stood up quietly, swiftly, and orderly, following their captain out of the cabin.
An invisible sense of oppression spread out along with their footsteps.
Instantly, the previously sluggish livestream room finally became active.
“Whoa!! The Dark Fire squad is making a move!”
“Nice, nice, nice. Watching their stream before made me so drowsy, but now it’s finally getting interesting.”
“Captain, what’s the situation?”
An Xin matched Qi Qian’s pace, turning his head to ask.
“This cruise ship instance has three floors in total. The ‘targets’ locations are scattered across these three floors.”
“Two separate coordinates are moving within a small area, highly likely trapped in some sort of encounter battle. Another two coordinates moving together disappeared at the edge of the map—the bounty is still incomplete—so they might have entered an unknown area. The remaining three coordinates were moving relatively fast but have now stopped, possibly waiting to meet up with someone.”
Qi Qian walked steadily forward, his tone calm and unrippled.
“Judging by the intelligence of the corpses left behind along their path, Bai Xue is highly likely among the former. One of the two disappeared coordinates should be either Chen Cheng or Orange Candy, and the other one should also be stuck in a battle.”
“Acting now yields the highest success rate.”
The air felt like a sponge. Light, sound… everything was silently absorbed like water, leaving only boundless, endless dead silence.
So quiet.
Bai Xue lowered his head and rested his forehead against his knees. Darkness descended from all directions like a veil, draping over his shoulders from above.
He closed his eyes, his eyelashes covering his unfocused pupils.
It was truly so quiet.
Those densely packed numbers, which clung to him like maggots on bone and couldn’t be shaken off, had vanished.
In his daze, he seemed to return to before everything started.
In the quiet hospital, only the steady beeping of the machines could be heard, pumping air into his lungs time and time again. That continuous noise was like foam floating on the surface of the sea, while he quietly sank beneath the surface, watching the shifting, colorful water shadows from afar, falling drowsily downward. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat—intermittent, sporadic, weak.
He had never been attached to anything in his life.
Bai Xue always watched everyone from afar. It was like this before entering the instance, and it was the same after. He watched those blurry-faced people come and go; once with sympathy, now with fear.
But…
There was always something uncontrollably pushing open a corner from the bottom of his heart, struggling to poke its head out.
When he lay on the hospital bed, watching his peers laughing and playing outside the window from afar; when he stood in the corner, watching others entrust their backs and rely on each other, this thought would always secretly pop up.
I really wish I wasn’t alone anymore.
I really want a friend.
Until one day, this hidden wish was actually fulfilled in a peculiar way.
Even if he just stayed quietly in the corner, watching the others laugh or mess around beside him, this was an unprecedented and novel experience for Bai Xue.
Perhaps because of this, he took the initiative to find Orange Candy after leaving the cruise ship. Even if he didn’t say a word, he never missed a single meeting. Even if he overtaxed his talent, he plucked the spinning thread again and again to change the probability for the others, just so this happiness—even if it was fake—could last a little longer…
Just a little longer.
He was born accompanied by death.
These times were stolen to begin with anyway, so what harm was there in trading them for some secret happiness?
“…”
Bai Xue rested his forehead against his knees, curling himself up a bit tighter.
He was a bit sleepy.
Footsteps seemed to be coming from afar.
Bai Xue didn’t move.
After all, to him, it didn’t matter who came. No one could survive after attacking him.
Soon, the footsteps drew closer, going from blurry to clear, piercing through the dead silent sea surface bit by bit, until they finally reached his ears.
The footsteps stopped, and everything around fell silent.
This silence lasted a bit too long.
“…”
Bai Xue frowned and finally opened his eyes.
In an instant, those numbers that had just dissipated surged to his eyes in a frantic rush. But strangely, amidst these surging numbers, there existed a bizarre, blurry void in the center. It was as if, among the countless predictable probabilities, an uncontrollable, unobservable variable had appeared.
Bai Xue froze, seeming to realize something. He lifted his head from the crook of his arms and looked forward.
The door of the cabin he was in had been opened at some point. A tall silhouette stood at the doorway. Who knows how long he had been standing there. The flickering, dim light from the corridor poured in from behind him, unable to illuminate his face, only coating him in a faint golden rim.
That is…
Bai Xue opened his mouth, seeming wanting to say something.
But before he could speak, the other’s voice drifted over from not far away.
Clear, and laced with a smile.
“Want to make a bet?”
He lightly raised both hands, curled them into fists, and held them flat. “A piece of candy. Guess which hand it’s in, and if you get it right, I’ll give it to you.”
“…”
Bai Xue maintained his squatting posture in the corner. His expressionless, pale little face looked up, scrutinizing the figure before him with those bottomless, pitch-black eyes. Finally, after an unknown amount of time had passed, he spoke. His voice was somewhat hoarse from disuse.
“Left hand.”
The person opened his hand.
His left hand was completely empty.
“Wrong.”
“It’s okay, let’s try again.” The other chuckled and once again placed his closed hands flat in front of him. “Guess, is it the left hand or the right hand?”
“Right hand.”
Bai Xue’s eyes didn’t blink.
The young man opened his right hand and sighed regretfully.
“Wrong again.”
“…” Bai Xue’s eyes flickered twice. He stared at the other, and after seriously thinking for a few seconds, he spoke solemnly, “You cheated.”
“Both your hands are empty.”
This time, the other didn’t answer immediately.
He stepped forward, step by step.
This time, his face finally became clear.
Those bottomless, light-colored eyes, that harmlessly fair face, that deceptively casual smile.
He crouched down and opened his palm.
A candy sat starkly inside.
“Still wrong.”
“………………” Bai Xue froze, staring in disbelief at the candy in Wen Jianyan’s palm. His entire face scrunched up tightly, as if he wanted to pierce through the hand with his gaze to see what trick was hidden underneath.
“You can’t even guess this right, so how can you have the nerve to say you can see through all probabilities?”
The other’s tone was intimate, almost teasing.
Bai Xue blanked for a moment, then looked up at him.
“As long as I’m here, your curse is nothing.”
Wen Jianyan let out a light laugh. He leaned forward and stuffed that piece of candy into Bai Xue’s palm. His voice carried a smile, his tone gentle and cunning.
“—How about it, do you want to make a bet?”
Bai Xue followed behind Wen Jianyan, stepping out of the pitch-black cabin he had just been in. He kept his head down, well-behaved like a tamed little beast, one cheek slightly bulging as if he was eating something.
Wen Jianyan looked at the tall man waiting at the cabin door and raised an eyebrow.
“See, it didn’t take long, did it?”
“…”
Wu Zhu’s gaze fell on Bai Xue.
“Let me introduce you,” Wen Jianyan turned sideways, stepping out of the way. “This is Bai Xue.”
He pointed to the man standing in front of him: “Wu Zhu.”
Bai Xue lifted his pitch-black eyes to look at Wu Zhu. The moment his gaze touched Wu Zhu, the relaxed expression on his face vanished abruptly. He took a half-step back, carefully raising a hand to grab the corner of Wen Jianyan’s sleeve, trying to pull him away from Wu Zhu.
Wen Jianyan froze, then felt a bit caught between laughter and tears: “Hey, don’t worry, he’s safe.”
“…Safe?” Bai Xue repeated.
“Mm-hmm, very safe.” Wen Jianyan grabbed Wu Zhu’s face with both hands, squishing it up, down, left, and right. “Look, if you don’t believe me.”
Wu Zhu lowered his eyes, completely unresisting as he let him do whatever he wanted, even cooperatively lowering his head a little so he could squish more comfortably.
Bai Xue hesitated. His gaze patrolled over Wu Zhu for a few seconds, seemingly believing Wen Jianyan’s judgment on safety. He finally let go of Wen Jianyan’s sleeve and stopped trying to drag him out of the danger zone.
Suddenly, Wu Zhu, who had been standing still, looked up. He stared intently into the distance, a chilling light sinking deep into his dark golden eyes.
In an instant, the atmosphere seemed to change.
“What’s wrong?”
Wen Jianyan asked urgently.
“Something happened.”
Wu Zhu said, “Your friends are bleeding.”
The elevator descended slowly.
The leader wore pitch-black tactical gear. His expression was cold, and between his brows lingered a persistent, grim hostility. The several people behind him carried the same aura—cold-blooded, belligerent, and highly ambitious.
“They should be right on the next floor.”
One of them lowered his eyes, glanced at the phone screen in his palm, and made a judgment.
“The location isn’t far from the elevator.”
“Careful, they have a visual enhancer among them,” Qi Qian rubbed his palm and said calmly. “If we don’t operate properly, they will know I’m coming.”
He tossed an item to a person behind him and said,
“From the moment we step out of the elevator, activate it. It can create a black barrier that cannot be penetrated by vision, covering our tracks.”
“Later, split into two teams. One team will detour around to the back. Don’t give them a chance to escape.”
Qi Qian showed the phone to the people behind him. It starkly displayed a photo of Ji Guan:
“This guy must be killed first.”
“He carries an uncertain factor that could highly likely change the tide of the battle. We absolutely cannot give him a chance to release his ghost, otherwise, we can easily be dragged into a war of attrition.”
“Hiss…”
“This is what’s terrifying about the Dark Fire squad. They are too experienced in this area.”
“Right, what’s even scarier is that they understand their opponents too well… Look at them, the tactics they choose, the items they bring, they are all far too targeted. It’s even highly likely they guessed what might happen here before the instance started, and began systematically planning for this encirclement. Too ruthless, it makes my scalp tingle just listening.”
“Dark Fire choosing Qi Qian to lead the team is probably for the same reason—know yourself and know your enemy, and you will win every battle.”
Ding.
The elevator arrived.
Almost the instant the elevator doors opened, the item was activated. The lights above flickered weakly for a moment, and after a brief struggle, they were powerlessly swallowed by the bizarre darkness surging from all directions, completely extinguishing half a second later.
Concealed by the darkness, they quickly stepped out of the elevator.
However, just before stepping out, An Xin suddenly stopped in his tracks.
“Wait.”
“The time limit on this item is very short,” one of the Dark Fire members frowned tightly and urged. “Don’t waste our time.”
An Xin, however, acted as if he didn’t hear it and directly ignored him. He turned around, his gaze sweeping over the narrow interior of the elevator, seemingly looking for something—an object—or a shadow.
Qi Qian stood outside the elevator. He turned sideways and coldly interrupted the person urging:
“Shut up.”
“Let him be.”
An Xin found nothing.
So, he withdrew his gaze, knelt on one knee on the side near the elevator door, and placed a tiny white flower hidden in his chest onto the ground.
It was as if he was conducting some kind of silent mourning.
Soon, he stood up. The sorrow and fragility that had flashed across his expression for a moment vanished.
Replacing it was the grim, austere look unique to a member of Dark Fire.
“Done, let’s move out.”
Qi Qian nodded and turned around:
“Go.”
The position of the red dots wasn’t far from the elevator.
Qi Qian gave a silent nod to one of his men. The other understood implicitly, turning around and taking half the team on a detour.
Meanwhile, he took the remaining half and continued forward.
On the phone screen, three red dots flashed.
They also seemed to have realized the abnormality of the darkness. Thus, after a brief, panicked pacing, they quickly calmed down and spread out in a triangular formation, remaining vigilant of their surroundings.
In the darkness, their steps were quiet and swift, making no sound, much like cats.
Soon, the three targets appeared not far ahead.
In the narrow corridor, Chen Mo stood at the very front. His gaze patrolled everywhere, his expression suppressed and solemn.
He held a flattened matchbox in one hand, and pinched a match in the other. The flame was steady but weak, only able to illuminate a small patch of space in front of them.
Accompanied by unhurried approaching footsteps, the figures of the newcomers were gradually illuminated by the weak firelight.
“…”
Chen Mo’s gaze landed at the end of the corridor not far away, slowly reading out that familiar name—the name of the person who had once braved life and death and fought side-by-side with them many times.
“Qi Qian.”
Qi Qian stopped his steps and did not answer.
“Looks like it still came down to this.”
Chen Mo stared coldly straight at the newcomer. The flickering firelight in his hand illuminated his profile.
“What a pity.”
“Indeed.” Qi Qian said, “What a pity.”
The men opposite them stared intently in this direction. Their expressions were full of hostility, their bodies tensed with vigilance. All their attention was drawn to Qi Qian and the squad he led—they did not notice that in the darkness, the other half of the men were silently circling around from behind, inching closer to them bit by bit.
Qi Qian’s gaze fell on the other party:
“We are just each serving our own masters.”
“If you hand over Pinocchio’s location, I am willing to let you go. How about it?”
“Impossible.”
Chen Mo flatly refused.
Qi Qian nodded, seemingly not expecting this sentence to persuade the other anyway.
“I understand.”
In the back, the Dark Fire squad quietly approached. Blades were silently drawn from their sheaths, the cold glint of the metal flashing in the shadows.
“In that case…”
Qi Qian withdrew his gaze, seemingly letting out a silent sigh.
“Please don’t blame me for being ruthless.”
The instant his voice fell, a sudden change occurred!!!
A cold light pierced through the darkness, emitting a sharp tearing sound. With unstoppable speed and momentum, it headed straight for Ji Guan—
Everything happened in a split second.
The dagger kissed his throat.
Ji Guan’s eyes widened in shock as fresh blood gurgled from his windpipe. He opened his mouth, seemingly trying to say something, but his body merely went limp, and he fell backward.
“Attack.” At the same time, Qi Qian’s cold command rang in their ears.
The Dark Fire members had long been ready to strike. As soon as the order to slaughter was given, they immediately, efficiently, and swiftly launched their actions, including the anchor who had initially raised an objection against Qi Qian.
A thirst for slaughter filled his eyes, and the corners of his mouth stretched uncontrollably into a wide, gruesome smile.
But suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a trace of abnormal movement.
A chilling aura surged from the depths of the darkness. A bluish-black palm flashed past amidst the shifting light and shadow. The next second, limbs were torn apart, flesh and blood went flying, and a living person was literally ripped to shreds right before his eyes.
Wait, something’s wrong—
Ji Guan didn’t die!!!
The man’s pupils contracted sharply, a wave of terror washing over his heart.
He whipped his head around, opening his mouth to warn his teammates. However, just as his mouth opened, a streak of golden light abruptly tore through the darkness. The sudden flash was like galloping thunder, piercing straight through his throat.
Not far away was An Xin, holding a drawn bowstring.
And Qi Qian’s indifferent eyes, illuminated by that golden light.
His deep pupils reflected a chilling, eerie glow as he watched this massacre from afar.
A massacre targeting Dark Fire, coordinated inside and out.
Qi Qian curled his lips, ordering An Xin:
“Continue.”
In just a flash, the dust had already settled.
Horrifying bloodstains were splashed across the ground, surrounded by fallen corpses.
All the anchors planted into Qi Qian’s squad by other factions within Dark Fire were now dead.
Ji Guan walked forward. He touched his throat—half a knife mark was still carved into his skin, fresh blood trickling out—he grimaced and said, “I was still a bit too slow, hiss, got scratched by that guy.”
Chen Mo ignored him and looked at Qi Qian instead: “Here, for you.”
He raised his hand and tossed something to Qi Qian.
“This thing kept thrashing around, handle it yourself.”
It was a fluttering paper bird.
It left Chen Mo’s side and flew crookedly into Qi Qian’s palm.
“This talent variant of yours is too weird,” Chen Mo frowned tightly. “If it’s not paper men, it’s paper birds…”
Qi Qian smiled and was just about to answer, when a faint voice sounded from behind him.
“…Qi, Qi Qian—”
He paused and turned his head toward the sound.
“You… you traitor!!!”
The physique and vitality of an advanced anchor were astonishing. Even with a wound piercing through his throat, he still hadn’t died immediately. Clutching the bloody hole in his neck, he coughed in his own blood, the hatred in his eyes sharp as knives.
“Do you know… what betraying… betraying your own guild… means?”
The man’s mouth twitched, but he still let out intermittent, terrifying laughter.
“Haha—you idiot, you chose the wrong side—Do you know what helping Pinocchio means? Do you know who your enemy is right now? You are going against the entire Nightmare—!”
The pitch-black boots stepping in the pool of blood moved forward step by step, finally stopping in front of him.
The next second, a familiar voice came from above.
“Helping Pinocchio?”
“…” The man coughed, struggling to lift his heavy head. Blood trailed down from his eye sockets. He stared fiercely at Qi Qian, who had stopped in front of him, as if trying to swallow him alive with his gaze.
“No.”
Qi Qian crouched down in front of him.
“You’re mistaken.”
Going against the entire Nightmare—Qi Qian knew he couldn’t do it, nor did he plan to.
What he was doing this time was no different from what he did before the Prosperity Building instance began—all those secret exchanges, those private communications, those hidden collusions; in the end, it was merely another mutually beneficial transaction.
Both he and his accomplice were intimately familiar with this, accustomed to it.
“Also, who said I betrayed the guild?”
Qi Qian’s long brows relaxed, a trace of a chilling smile surfacing in his eyes—just like when he purged all the Dark Fire members who framed him, boldly eradicated all rival factions, and climbed step-by-step up the bones of his enemies to the throne of Vice President.
“On the contrary, I will always be a member of Dark Fire.”
“It’s just that, staying in one position for too long, being ordered around like cattle and horses for so long… one always wants to climb a little higher.”
Crack.
Accompanied by a crisp sound, the last person’s neck was snapped.
The head, frozen with unwillingness, slumped into its own pool of blood, taking its last breath.
