Ten o’clock.
Zong Jiu stared thoughtfully at the motionless clock face.
The clocks inside the asylum were peculiar.
Only the dining hall and stairwells had them, and none possessed second hands. There were only hour and minute hands—and the minute hand moved forward once every five minutes.
Each movement was abrupt.
Then it froze completely until the next interval arrived.
Only after completing twelve such pauses would the hour hand advance.
The white-haired young man’s gaze darkened slightly.
Something clicked in his mind.
Last night, when he left the reading room on the ground floor and headed for the Basement One restroom to trigger the canonical death event tied to his original character, he had specifically glanced at the clock in the stairwell while turning the corner.
If he remembered correctly—
it had also read ten o’clock.
At the time, however, everyone had only just left the dining hall around eight-thirty. After spending time searching through the reading room archives, ten o’clock had sounded reasonable enough, so he hadn’t paid much attention to it.
But today was different.
Breakfast had ended precisely at eight.
Even accounting for the delay in the operating theater, it was entirely possible that the current time should already have approached eleven.
And then there were the extra two steps that had appeared out of nowhere.
Zong Jiu did not believe in coincidences.
Especially not inside an S-rank instance.
As for what these repeated “ten o’clocks” actually meant—
that was information he still lacked.
At that moment, he stood at the base of the stairwell.
To his left stretched the dim staircase leading further downward toward Basement Two.
Ahead lay the corridor of Basement One.
Everything around him carried a subtle yet unmistakable sense of wrongness.
The asylum was usually quiet—
but today’s silence felt abnormal.
Then his eyes landed on the iron door ahead.
It had changed.
The rust-covered, decaying metal door from earlier was gone.
In its place stood a spotless new one, polished so clean that even the small glass window reflected an icy sheen beneath the dim lights.
Not only Zong Jiu noticed.
Even the livestream viewers sensed something was wrong.
[Wait WHAT happened to the door?!]
[I only blinked for a second!]
[Could this be some kind of overlapping dimensional space?]
[No no no, this is exactly how terrifying instances start escalating.]
[And he still chose to leave the Holy Son’s group? Seriously?]
[What a waste of such a beautiful face. Turns out he’s just reckless.]
Zong Jiu, however, did not move rashly.
Instead of stepping into the corridor, he crouched down and brushed slender fingers across the floor.
When he lifted his hand again, a thin layer of gray ash coated his fingertips.
As though something here had weathered away over a very long period of time.
Then he noticed more inconsistencies.
Shattered fragments of glass.
Torn scraps of blank paper scattered beside the walls.
None of these things should have existed here.
This floor should have resembled an abandoned ruin, untouched for years.
By the time he fully confirmed something was wrong—
even the stairwell lights had dimmed.
Zong Jiu removed the spare hair tie wrapped around his wrist and gripped the stolen ballpoint pen concealed inside.
A makeshift weapon.
The lights in Basement One went out completely.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Yet instead of retreating toward the illuminated stairwell, Zong Jiu pressed himself against the wall and slowly advanced deeper into the corridor.
The livestream exploded.
[WHAT IS HE DOING?!]
[RUN BACK YOU IDIOT!]
[There’s literally no light down there!]
[He’s an E-rank newcomer without props, why is he acting like this?!]
[This is straight-up suicide.]
After separating from the veterans, very few viewers remained optimistic about his survival chances.
Abandoning the safety of a team inside a clearly high-level instance was practically self-destructive.
But Zong Jiu didn’t care.
In fact—
he welcomed dangerous challenges.
The greater the risk, the more survival points he could earn.
Keeping one shoulder against the wall, he advanced slowly through the darkness.
The right side of Basement One contained the confinement rooms.
The restroom was at the far left end of the corridor.
Only one side of the hallway contained patient rooms. The opposite side was a continuous blank wall, which made navigation easier.
Even so, Zong Jiu moved with extreme caution.
Every few steps, he paused completely still, listening.
Like a patient predator hidden in darkness.
The viewers’ hearts nearly stopped watching him move.
Because from their omniscient perspective, the system automatically brightened the environment for broadcast clarity.
They could clearly see the corridor surrounding him—
and the terrifying possibility that something could appear beside him at any second.
[Watching this is scarier than entering an instance myself.]
[I don’t want A’Jiu to die…]
[Someone remind me to come back in half an hour if he survives.]
[Spam comments! The bullet screen makes this less terrifying!]
Only when Zong Jiu finally reached the opposite wall did the livestream collectively breathe again.
It had taken him nearly ten full minutes to cross that short stretch of corridor.
Thankfully—
nothing happened.
Yet he still didn’t stop.
One hand traced the wall while the other held the pen tightly as he edged along the corner toward the restroom entrance.
Then—
his fingers touched empty air.
He had reached the restroom.
Zong Jiu remained pressed against the wall, carefully listening before entering.
The corridor remained deathly silent.
From where he stood, he could only see faint yellow light spilling from the distant stairwell lamps and the rows of silent iron doors lining the walls.
The stillness of the enormous asylum felt suffocating.
The viewers were utterly confused.
[Wait… he actually came back to the restroom?]
[Did he forget what happened here last night?!]
[No, seriously. He wants to die.]
Ironically, however, the number of viewers in his livestream continued rising rapidly.
Safe play was boring.
What audiences wanted was excitement.
And Zong Jiu delivered exactly that.
Finally, after confirming there was no movement nearby, he turned and stepped into the restroom.
The sharp odor of disinfectant from yesterday had vanished completely.
In its place lingered the thick metallic stench of blood.
Zong Jiu calmly pulled a small matchbox from inside his hospital gown.
Thankfully, Dr. Chu had only sliced open his shirt earlier.
Had the man cut his pants as well, this little “contraband” would definitely have been confiscated.
And then Zong Jiu would probably be enjoying electroshock treatment instead of wandering through darkness.
He struck a match.
The livestream exploded again.
[WHERE DID HE GET MATCHES?!]
[Since when did he have those?!]
[I’ve watched his stream the entire time and didn’t notice!]
The small flame illuminated the restroom gradually.
Thankfully—
there was no classic horror scene of a ghost’s face suddenly appearing directly before him.
Unfortunately—
what awaited him was not much better.
The sink before him overflowed with blood.
A headless corpse draped limply across its edge.
Blackened blood crusted between stiff fingers.
The sight was grotesque beyond words.
Without question—
it was the corpse of the man with glasses.
No wonder Messiah and the others had failed to find the body.
Who would have guessed this tiny asylum concealed an entrance into an overlapping space?
Yet even faced with such a horrifying scene, Zong Jiu remained utterly calm.
He even raised the burning match closer to inspect the severed neck carefully.
Moments later, the flame flickered out.
Darkness swallowed the restroom once more.
Standing amid the overpowering smell of blood, Zong Jiu finally confirmed the theory forming in his mind.
But this was not a place to linger.
If he stayed too long, he might very well end up headless himself within minutes.
Just as he turned to leave—
“Thud.”
A faint footstep sounded behind him.
Zong Jiu’s eyes sharpened instantly.
The hand holding the pen lashed backward.
Fast.
Precise.
But the other person moved even faster.
A brutal strike slammed directly into his wrist.
Pain shot through his hand.
The pen clattered to the floor.
Martial artist.
Zong Jiu identified it immediately from that single exchange.
Ignoring the pain, he continued attacking.
If his hands had still been healthy, he could have exchanged several more moves.
Unfortunately, his damaged nerves severely limited his precision.
“You can’t beat me.”
A calm voice emerged from the darkness.
Then, with smooth tai chi movements, the man effortlessly seized Zong Jiu’s wrist midair.
Zong Jiu abruptly stopped struggling.
He recognized that voice.
Cold.
Measured.
Magnetic.
The same voice that had calmly questioned the system before tens of thousands of viewers in the Thriller Trainee studio.
The same mysterious contender whose deductions had earned valuable information for everyone present.
Just as Zong Jiu prepared to speak—
the man’s voice lowered suddenly.
“Something’s coming.”
At the same moment, Zong Jiu also heard movement from the corridor outside.
The two exchanged a brief glance in the darkness.
Then both darted toward the nearest restroom stall simultaneously.
The stall was cramped enough for one person.
Two grown men barely fit.
But neither had time to care.
Zong Jiu locked the door immediately.
Silence returned.
Then—
“THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.”
Heavy footsteps echoed closer through the corridor.
Whatever it was—
it had reached the restroom entrance.
In darkness, hearing became unnaturally sharp.
Zong Jiu could almost picture it.
Low growls.
Something dragging across the floor.
A wet rustling sound that crept nearer and nearer.
Nothing about it sounded human.
“THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.”
Closer now.
Just outside their stall.
Then came another sound—
marbles.
Tiny glass spheres bouncing against the floor with crisp, hollow clicks.
In countless ghost stories, that sound heralded the arrival of something inhuman.
Yet even now, Zong Jiu remained strangely calm.
He even had enough composure left to study the man beside him.
From their earlier exchange, Zong Jiu had already confirmed several things.
The opponent knew martial arts.
Understood his attack patterns.
And possessed a physique enhanced far beyond normal people.
Among the trainees currently inside this asylum—
very few fit that description.
Combined with the unfamiliar voice…
the answer became obvious.
Then—
the dragging sound outside suddenly stopped.
Stillness was infinitely more terrifying than movement.
Had it found them?
At least Zong Jiu was standing farther inside the stall.
If the door opened—
the other man would die first.
Then suddenly—
the lights came back on.
The smell of blood vanished instantly.
Voices echoed from outside.
“Seriously, why did the Holy Son tell us to check here again?”
“The higher-rankers already searched this restroom top to bottom earlier.”
“Maybe they’re just messing with us.”
Another lowered his voice nervously.
“You don’t actually believe that story, right?”
“The one about the F-rank becoming a headless corpse hanging over the sink?”
“Come on. Even made-up ghost stories sound more believable than that.”
“Shut up already, damn it. Talking about stuff like this here is bad luck.”
The restroom doors began opening one by one.
Then someone stopped outside their stall.
“Huh?”
“Why won’t this one open?”
“Hey, someone inside?”
“We’re checking the restroom. Answer if you’re there.”
Zong Jiu glanced sideways at the man beside him.
Then calmly unlocked the stall door.
The white-haired young man stepped out first.
His hair was slightly messy.
A faint suspicious flush lingered on his face as he rubbed his wrist casually.
Behind him emerged the dark-haired man.
Expression cold as ever—
though his clothes were slightly disheveled and his sleeves rolled up, as if he had just finished strenuous physical activity.
The newcomers outside froze.
…Two grown men going to the restroom together?
Ah.
That kind of relationship, huh.