When He Zhihan stepped back inside Room 001, he fully expected to find an overgrown shrub of his roommate.
Instead, the space was completely empty.
No sign of Ji Changsheng or overgrown vines.
He Zhihan even yanked the narrow wardrobe doors open, half-expecting the bastard to be crouching inside.
Empty.
"Huh."
He wasn’t sure whether that was reassuring or deeply troubling, but he didn’t care enough to dwell on it.
Stripping off his blood-soaked shirt, he strode into the bathroom and turned the knob. Hot water immediately hissed from the showerhead. He stepped beneath the spray, letting the heat wash away the thick grime, dried blood, and metallic stench of the Abyssal Worm.
When he stepped out, wiping steam from the mirror, he noticed a plain wooden box resting atop the wardrobe.
Pulling it down, he found a few sets of fresh, unworn clothes. He selected a light brown, oversized cotton sweater with a wide, loose neckline that rested low against his collarbones, layering it over a fitted black tank top. The thin straps left his broad shoulders and throat exposed, displaying the dark ink of the dragon tattoo creeping up his neck alongside the faint scars of past violence.
He pulled on a pair of dark, heavy-duty trousers, then methodically wiped his boots until the black leather shone free of blood. Unbinding his hair, he let the long dark strands fall loose around his shoulders.
He stretched, his joints popping in sequence. His body felt remarkably awake, and his mind was running at peak efficiency.
He began sorting through everything that had happened.
So far, he had two theories.
Theory one, the wall of eyes was some kind of trigger. Making direct eye contact with an individual pupil turned the victim into a shrub.
Theory two, looking at the wall itself, without locking eyes with any particular eye, was somehow connected to the Abyssal Worm emerging from his shadow.
Whether the two triggers shared a core origin or operated as separate traps didn’t matter. He despised both.
Outside, the remaining Players were huddling together, foolishly trusting safety in numbers while praying to survive until dawn to claim whatever basic system rewards were promised.
Zhihan cast a cold glance out the window.
Five hours remained until sunrise. And with the Demigods’ active summoning wards humming quietly throughout the building, waiting around like a trapped rat was out of the question.
Fuck the mission reward. Fuck the skills.
He pushed the heavy window frame upward. A blast of freezing night air swept into the room, tossing his loose dark hair across his face.
Zhihan swung one leg over the sill, then the other, balancing his weight on the narrow ledge. He shifted his grip, lowered himself over the edge, and dropped onto the lower roof extension below.
He landed on the earth outside with a dull, heavy thud, dropping into a low crouch before absorbing the impact.
Straightening up, he rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath of the crisp night air.
Then he froze.
Drawn against the wall was a sprawling seal of red. An enormous replica of the exact talisman drawn on the paper lanterns.
"What the hell?" Zhihan muttered under his breath.
Inside the motel, hell officially broke loose.
Screams ripped through the night air. Through the windows, silhouettes of terrified Players sprinted down the corridors as bloated Abyssal Worms rose directly out of their shadows.
One.
Two.
Dozens of the misshapen, potato-like abominations tore through the floorboards, dragging themselves from the darkness beneath the Players’ boots before sinking their tooth-lined maw into fresh flesh.
Blood sprayed against the glass, painting the curtained windows in dark, wet crimson.
"HELP!"
"NO! NO, GET IT OFF ME! NO—!"
Zhihan stood in the grass outside, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his dark trousers, watching the bloodbath unfold like a spectator at a drive-in movie.
A second-floor window suddenly shattered and a terrified Player plunged to the stone courtyard below.
He hit the dirt with a sickening thud, howling in agony as his legs buckled, but raw adrenaline won out. He scrambled back to his feet and bolted, tearing past He Zhihan without a single glance back.
Zhihan didn’t move an inch. He just tilted his head, watching the man disappear into the black forest.
"Should I just put them out of their misery?" he drawled softly to the empty night.
His dark, cold eyes drifted back toward the motel. "Old Man Bo is probably in there getting chewed on, too."
He paused, his tone completely flat. "Or not. Who knows?"
He waited.
And waited.
The shrieks grew thicker, nastier, and infinitely more desperate as the giant crimson summoning seal on the wall pulsed.
He felt noble. Like a hero coming to save the day.
"System,"
[What do you—]
"Give me my rocket launcher."
[500 points have been deducted.]
[Warning: Ammunition will consume a fragment of your soul upon discharge.]
He Zhihan ignored the disclaimer entirely.
In a flash of light, a heavy, dark-steel rocket launcher materialized in his arms. He adjusted his stance, planting his heavy boots into the soil, and hoisted the massive weapon onto his shoulder. The metallic barrel aligned perfectly with the second floor windows.
Upstairs, a few more blood-soaked Players threw themselves through the shattered glass, tumbling onto the lawn to escape the carnage.
Zhihan waited three long seconds.
One.
Two.
Three.
His Cheshire-cat grin widened.
"Bye-bye."
CLICK.
BOOM!
A brilliant streak of blinding white fire tore through the pitch-black night air, whistling across the courtyard.
A split-second later, KABOOOOOM!
The motel exploded in a towering inferno of orange fire and shattering wood.
Shockwaves slammed through the soil, blowing He Zhihan’s dark hair back from his face as the entire building buckled, cratered, and collapsed in on itself.
Black smoke, dust, and roaring flames swallowed the remaining ruins.
And within seconds... The screaming stopped.