Chapter 1: Intruder 001 – A Dog Has Arrived

Lin Kuo felt like he was walking between two towering walls, a narrow gap barely wide enough to pass through.

He kept going along the claustrophobic path.

After an unknown length of time, a mechanical beep made him pause.

He looked ahead—where the corridor stretched endlessly.
Then he glanced down at his watch. It had stopped ticking the moment he arrived here.

Finally, he pulled out his phone.
The screen flickered oddly. It looked like the phone had been infected by some kind of Trojan virus.

It was downloading software on its own.
That beep just now had been the notification for a completed download.

Lin Kuo watched the app install and launch by itself, expressionless.

A line of text appeared on the screen:

_________________________________________________________________________

[Congratulations. You’ve been selected to participate in the Siege Game. Creating your personal livestream room…]

_________________________________________________________________________

Lin Kuo studied fine arts.
Because of his training, he had a keen eye for detail.

Everything he’d seen along the way—everything he’d memorized—told him clearly:
This was not the human world.

The walls were sky-high.

When he looked up, the sky above resembled a thin strip of blue at the bottom of a well.

Like a frog trapped in a narrow world, all he could see was a slit of sky.

So when the message appeared, it didn’t come as a surprise.

The text on the screen continued to update:

___________________________________________________________________________

[Personal livestream room has been created]
[Bullet comments and donation channels are now open]
[Loading instance: “Intruder”…]

___________________________________________________________________________

After the text vanished, the app interface slowly took on a familiar look.
It appeared to be a livestream platform.

Lin Kuo occasionally browsed gaming livestreams in his spare time.
The interface on his phone now looked nearly identical to those platforms.

Most platforms had categories like “Lifestyle” or “Gaming.”
This one, though, had “Upper City” and “Lower City.”

He tapped a few times.
The “Upper City” required special access he didn’t have.
The “Lower City” said he was currently livestreaming and couldn’t view other streams.

Livestreaming?

He quickly realized—he had a livestream room.
Every move he made was being broadcast.
When he lifted his head to search for the camera, the image in the stream did the same, with almost no delay.

Then he noticed his stream’s title:

_______________________________________________________________________________________

“Lin Kuo’s Death Livestream [Default Name]”
Viewer count: 0
Donations: 0
Points: 0

_______________________________________________________________________________________

There was no explanation of what these meant, but Lin Kuo could guess.
He was like one of those outdoor streamers—except the content of his stream was death.

He wasn’t the curious type.
Once he understood his situation, he had no interest in messing with the creepy app any further.
He was about to put the phone away when his finger accidentally tapped the stream’s title.

A prompt popped up:

_______________________________________________________________________________________

[Give your stream a title.]

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Lin Kuo didn’t want to bother.
But it felt like the system had sensed his thoughts.
Unless he changed the name, it wasn’t going to let the screen turn off.

Coincidentally, Lin Kuo had mild OCD.
Putting a phone into his pocket while it was still lit made his skin crawl.

He thought for a moment, then typed:

_______________________________________________________________________________________

[Only Dogs Would Click This Stream]
Confirm.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

System: ……
Screen turned off.

After walking another two thousand or so steps, his view suddenly opened up.
A three-story villa stood before him.

But more eye-catching than the villa was the blood-red full moon hanging behind it.

At that moment, his phone beeped again.
Lin Kuo didn’t check it, but the screen displayed more text on its own:

__________________________________________________________________________________________

[“Intruder” has finished loading]
[Instance: “Intruder”]
Players: 7
Rules: Survive for five days
Reward: Survivors receive 200 points

__________________________________________________________________________________________

A girl’s sobs drifted in from afar.

As he got closer, Lin Kuo saw several people standing outside the villa—both men and women.
The sobbing came from a girl, clearly overwhelmed by the strangeness of the situation.
She covered her face in despair.
Her hands were cupped so tightly, Lin Kuo thought she might soon catch a handful of tears.

A man with a scar on his face grew irritated by the noise.
He swore, “The hell are you crying for? Rookies are always a pain.”

The girl flinched at the outburst.
She stopped sobbing but couldn’t hold back the tears pooling in her eyes.

The scarred man let out a grunt.
He spat, “What the hell are you staring at me for? Like I’m bullying a woman or something. What bad f*cking luck… Still crying? You deaf or what? Want me to beat it into you?!”

He raised his arm, ready to slap her.

The girl froze, watching the hand coming down in terror.
She even felt the gust of air from the motion—

—but at the last second, someone stopped it.

Lin Kuo gripped the man’s arm.
He was only half the guy’s size, but his grip rendered the man completely immobile.

The scarred man quickly realized this and glared at the slender youth in front of him.
Embarrassed, he gritted out, “You… You little—”

Lin Kuo tightened his grip.

Pain shot through the man’s arm, and he howled in agony.

“Step away from her.”
Lin Kuo’s face remained emotionless.
“If you agree, nod.”

The man clenched his teeth and gave a stiff nod.

Only then did Lin Kuo release him, as if discarding a piece of trash.

The man rotated his wrist, staring at Lin Kuo.
His features were sharp and beautiful.
He was about six feet tall, but because of his thin frame, he looked almost fragile—like a gust of wind could carry him away.

The more the man looked, the less he could accept it.
He figured the kid had only gotten the upper hand because he wasn’t prepared.
This time, he’d be ready.

Just as Lin Kuo bent down, seemingly to pick something up, the man raised his fist.

Then Lin Kuo straightened up and turned to face him.
He now held a brick.
His gaze was calm, carrying the weight of someone who had expected this.
It said clearly: I knew you’d keep asking for it.

Scarred man: “…”
Nope. Not worth it.

The moment turned awkward.
Someone coughed, stepping in to break the tension.

A man with a bun on his head spoke up, “Everyone’s here. We can go in now. The audience is getting impatient.”

The scarred man muttered, “The viewers in my stream love this kind of stuff.”

Bun-head scanned the group.
Seven people in total.
Other than himself and Scarface, the rest were all newbies.

After a pause, he began explaining:
“This is the Siege. We’re all residents of the Lower City…”
He hesitated, deciding not to explain too much in the first instance.
After all, who knew if these newcomers would survive.

He continued, “Just treat this as a game. A game you absolutely can’t afford to lose. During the instance, the main system opens your personal livestream room—you’ve all got one, right? You’ll be given a default name. Try to change it. Pick something that grabs attention and pulls in more viewers.”

The newbies looked at him.
In a twisted world like this, someone who shared the rules was essentially the leader.
A piece of driftwood for the drowning.

One of them hesitantly asked, “Is… is there any benefit?”

Bun-head nodded.
“The more viewers, the more points.
You’ll find out what points do once this instance ends.
For now, just remember:
Viewers can donate items through your stream.
And those items—can save your life.”

The newcomers quickly pulled out their phones to change their titles.
Only Lin Kuo remained still.

Bun-head gave him a look and added,
“Choose wisely.
You only get one chance to rename your stream per instance.”

The girl Lin Kuo had saved walked over, hesitant.
“Um… I work in media.
If you trust me, I could help you come up with a click-worthy title.”

Lin Kuo looked up.
“No need.”

She assumed he didn’t trust her.
Flustered, she blurted, “I work at UC News!”

Lin Kuo: “…”
“I already changed it.”

The girl clearly wanted to repay him.
She pressed,
“Then… could you tell me what you changed it to?
I could give you some feedback.”

To show her sincerity, she said,
“My title is—Shocking! What I Did Just to Survive!”

Lin Kuo paused. “Only Dogs Would Click This Stream.”

Girl: “……”
Girl: “…Huh?”

Everyone else had finished renaming their streams.
Bun-head moved on to final reminders.

The girl couldn’t find the right words to respond.
She didn’t realize Lin Kuo wasn’t asking her to analyze his title—he was simply being polite in return.

She checked her stream again.
After renaming, her viewer count had jumped from zero to several hundred.
Even the bullet comments had started rolling in.

She was thrilled… until she thought of something.
Cautiously, she asked,
“Um… how many viewers does your stream have?”

“No idea.”
Lin Kuo didn’t care.
In fact, he found it distasteful.

He’d seen the bullet comments on the girl’s screen:
[This rookie looks so average. Classic clickbait.]
[The system doesn’t even check for skill anymore? Anyone can join the Siege now?]
[All she does is cry. I bet she won’t survive the night.]
[Lol, I love watching newbies piss themselves in fear.]
[Her title’s the only interesting thing. If she dies, I’m switching to another stream.]

The main system had dragged them into a death game against their will.
Their lives, turned into entertainment for others.

Lin Kuo was naturally rebellious.
He wanted nothing more than to push back.

He said, “Probably zero.”

Zero meant no viewers.
And no donations.

The girl’s joy vanished.
Tears welled up again.

“You’re a good person… I really hope you survive…”

“Crying again? So damn annoying.”
The scarred man noticed them and cursed loudly.

Lin Kuo didn’t like crying.
Especially not if he was the reason for it.
He had no idea how to make her stop.

Just then, his phone buzzed.
He pulled it out.
A system notification:

[S has entered your livestream room]

He showed it to the girl.
“There. See?”

Tears blurred her vision.
Probably couldn’t read the screen.
So Lin Kuo said,

“There’s the dog.”

In the Upper City, a man accidentally clicked into a stream titled Only Dogs Would Click This Stream.
He was about to hit the [X] and pretend it never happened—

Then the streamer’s words stopped him cold.

An insult.
Direct.
Personal.