Chapter 7: The Piano in the Bedroom

The room behind the door was indeed a bedroom.

The bedrooms in the villa were spacious, and the one Lin Kuo and Li Yinan entered was no exception. Besides the standard bedroom furniture, there was a small partitioned room. This partitioned space was likely meant to be a cloakroom, but it hadn’t been decorated as such. Instead, it had been simply converted to house a piano.

Lin Kuo walked around the room.

Everything appeared normal—nothing unusual stood out.

Moreover, the bedroom was clean and bright, clearly maintained by someone.

But there was only one bed in the room.

Li Yinan consciously chose the bench at the foot of the bed, leaving the only bed for Lin Kuo.

Lin Kuo didn’t object—mainly because he wasn’t the type to quibble over such small matters.

He hummed in acknowledgment and handed the blanket to Li Yinan.

That was his way of repaying her kindness.

Li Yinan thanked him.

After that, the room fell into silence.

The chaotic footsteps in the corridor had also vanished, leaving behind an eerie quiet.

After thinking for a moment, Li Yinan moved the bedside table to block the door.

When she turned around after doing so, she saw Lin Kuo watching her, as though he wanted to say something but was holding back.

“Wh… what’s wrong?”

Lin Kuo had actually wanted to say there was a chance the ghost was already in the room, but he held back—he didn’t want to scare her.

Instead, he stood and walked to the bathroom to wash up. He paused right before turning on the water.

The number of viewers in his livestream hadn’t decreased after his throat-slitting gesture—on the contrary, it had increased. Many people had entered to watch him court death. A small flame icon, representing popularity, had even appeared beside his stream title.

Lin Kuo had no intention of livestreaming himself using the toilet, so he took out his phone, hoping to find a way to cover the camera or temporarily turn off the stream.

The interface was simplistic—almost perfunctory.
There was no option to pause the stream.
Even if he covered the lens with his finger, after three seconds, another camera from who-knows-where would activate, continuing the full broadcast.

Just then, Li Yinan called out uneasily from outside the door, “Boss, are you okay?”

He had been in the bathroom too long.
Li Yinan was worried something had happened and hesitantly called through the door.

Lin Kuo opened it.
“I’m fine.”

Seeing him unharmed, Li Yinan let out a breath of relief.
“I felt a chill when I used the bathroom earlier. When you were in there for so long, I thought something had happened. I’m glad you’re alright.”

Lin Kuo’s expression changed slightly.

Li Yinan noticed the complex look on his face and grew uneasy. “What’s wrong?”

Lin Kuo figured if he didn’t explain, she’d be scared half to death.
So he rubbed his nose and awkwardly said, “You… you don’t have anyone in your stream?”

Li Yinan was stunned for a moment.

It took her a while to understand what he meant.

Her face turned red. “…I applied to the room manager to temporarily turn off the camera.”

“Room manager?”

Li Yinan nodded.

She had encountered the same problem as Lin Kuo when she used the bathroom.

She’d also taken out her phone and fiddled with it.

It was the bullet chat that had told her she could request a temporary camera shutdown from the room manager.

After all, no one was interested in watching someone use the toilet.

But Lin Kuo had poor rapport with his viewers—no one had reminded him.

Li Yinan explained this to Lin Kuo.

She took out her phone, exited the stream, and opened Walled City Chat.

“The room manager adds you as a friend through this WeChat-like app. You can send requests to the room manager, and depending on the situation, they’ll help you out.”

Lin Kuo followed her steps and exited the livestream.

On his home screen, sure enough, there was a Walled City Chat icon.

He opened it.

The interface and functions resembled WeChat.

In the contacts list, a gray dot appeared beside the number “1.”

A friend request.

It seemed to be the room manager Li Yinan had mentioned.

Lin Kuo pursed his lips and, though unwilling, accepted the friend request from a user named S.

Almost the moment he accepted, messages poured in:

_____________________________________________________________________________________

[S]: Going to the toilet?
[S]: Kidneys doing alright? Is 5 minutes of camera block enough?

_____________________________________________________________________________________

“ …”

He was puzzled.
He returned to the livestream to confirm whether this S was the same S topping the contribution leaderboard.

His phone kept vibrating.
Messages popped up one after another.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

[S]: (*￣︶￣)
[S]: No need to doubt—it’s me.
[S]: Camera’s already blocked. Go take care of business. We’ll chat when you’re back.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Lin Kuo didn’t move immediately.
Only after confirming the stream screen had gone black did he go relieve himself.

When he returned, his Walled City Chat was flooded.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

[S]: [File][File][File]
[S]: Those are the streamer conduct rules.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Lin Kuo didn’t bother opening the files.
He glanced at the bullet chat—viewers were flooding it with question marks, wondering who’d be the room manager for such a dog of a streamer.

Apparently, the room manager’s identity wasn’t revealed to the public.

Lin Kuo wasn’t interested anyway.

If he weren’t forced, he wouldn’t even use Walled City Chat—let alone add this S.

Seeing Lin Kuo’s disinterest, Li Yinan became anxious.

She hesitated but eventually said, “Boss, it’s best not to offend the room manager.”

After all, the room manager had a lot of control over the stream.
It would be too easy for them to stir up trouble.

Lin Kuo was indifferent.

Li Yinan added, “What if the boss’s room manager gets mad and quits? What will we do the next time we need to shower or use the toilet?”

 “…”

Damn it.

He suppressed the urge to block S and casually opened one of the files.

It listed numerous behavioral restrictions: no attacking NPCs, no disrespectful comments about the Main God System, etc.

Breaking the rules would result in punishment. In more serious cases, the room manager could report the streamer to the Main God System.

Lin Kuo skimmed it for a few seconds before losing interest.

Rather than a room manager, it felt more like a watchdog sent by the Main God System to monitor them.

What era was this, still restricting free speech?

With a cold expression, Lin Kuo replied to S:

_____________________________________________________________________________________

[Lin Kuo]: Got it.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Li Yinan saw Lin Kuo’s face and guessed he hadn’t exactly been polite.
She encouraged gently, “Maybe be a little more polite?”

Lin Kuo frowned and typed:

_____________________________________________________________________________________

[Lin Kuo]: Thanks.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Sheng Wen, being a room manager for the first time, chuckled.
He could still see Lin Kuo’s foul expression through the livestream split screen.
Due to system restrictions, viewers could only see Lin Kuo holding his phone, not what was on the screen—so he wasn’t worried about causing a stir.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

[S]: I probably don’t need to introduce myself.
[S]: I’m the S your teammate mentioned.
[S]: If you want to know anything else about me, just ask.

[Lin Kuo]: I don’t.

[S]: OK. Any other questions?

Lin Kuo began typing.

[Lin Kuo]: I do.
[S]: Go on.
[Lin Kuo]: Can you be quiet?
[S]: I can’t.
[S]: It’s my first time as a room manager—I’m curious and excited.
[S]: Understand?

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Seeing Lin Kuo about to put down his phone, Sheng Wen typed again:

_____________________________________________________________________________________

[S]: I have something serious to tell you (You’ve limited me to 3 messages a day. 2 remaining.)
[S]: ??? (1 remaining)
[S]: No way (0 remaining)
[S]: … (You’ve reached the daily limit. Please try again tomorrow.)

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Sheng Wen’s smile froze.

To be honest, he hadn’t received such cold treatment since entering the Walled City. He knew Lin Kuo was unconventional, but this was brutal.

His heart cracked a little. But he really did have something serious to tell Lin Kuo.

After thinking it over, Sheng Wen spent nearly 50,000 points to exchange for a smurf account. A room manager for a Lower District streamer wouldn’t even earn 500 points across 10 instances. If anyone found out he was squandering points like this, they’d die of heartache.

Sheng Wen used the smurf account to send Lin Kuo a friend request.

He was about to explain his identity but suddenly remembered Lin Kuo’s incalculable mental strength.

A high mental strength meant an extremely stable self.

In Lin Kuo’s case, it was also linked to his difficulty trusting others.

An idea struck Sheng Wen.

In the friend request message, he left a note:

[Big brother, I’m at my wit’s end. Can I borrow some points? I promise I’ll pay you back.]

Then he watched the livestream closely.

Lin Kuo picked up his phone again.

Meanwhile, Li Yinan had learned from her room manager’s file that newbies would be rated after their first instance.

This rating would determine which district they were sent to—and they couldn’t travel between districts at will.

She knew she couldn’t possibly end up in the same district as Lin Kuo.

But she didn’t want to lose contact with him, so she wanted to add him on Walled City Chat.

Lin Kuo agreed.

When he picked up his phone, he was surprised to see two new friend requests.

Walled City Chat avatars and usernames couldn’t be customized without spending points.

That was also something Li Yinan had learned from the rule file.

Room manager S had clearly spent points to customize his.

Li Yinan’s avatar and name were her defaults.

Lin Kuo accepted her request, then checked the other one.

This account’s avatar was pitch black, and its nickname was just a period.

After reading the note in the request, Lin Kuo paused.

It reminded him of a bad memory—someone who had once promised to return 50 yuan but never did.

With a cold expression, he rejected the request.

He tossed his phone aside and lay down fully clothed.

Seeing him rest, Li Yinan also curled up on the bench at the foot of the bed.

The room fell silent again.

This instance had taken the concept of short days and long nights to the extreme.

Not only were Lin Kuo and Li Yinan wide awake, but so were the others in their respective rooms.

No one knew if the ghost would strike tonight—or if they would be the first to die.

Li Yinan’s heart was in her throat.

She strained to hear any sounds outside.

But there was only the wind howling through the window.

Even though she was wrapped in a blanket, her hands and feet were still cold.

Thinking of how Lin Kuo had given her the blanket, she wanted to close the window to block the chill.

With that thought, she sat up.

By the scarlet moonlight, she glanced toward the bed.

Lin Kuo, who should’ve been asleep, was gone.

“B… Boss?”

Li Yinan called out, her voice trembling.

She looked around, but Lin Kuo was nowhere to be found.

“Boss?” she called again.

“What?”

His voice came from the partitioned room.

Li Yinan followed the sound—and saw Lin Kuo standing by the piano, the lid open, his gaze fixed on the ivory-white keys.

She walked over.

Noticing the fine sheen of sweat on her forehead, Lin Kuo realized he’d scared her. “Sorry.”

He reached out and touched the piano keys.

While lying in bed, he had been thinking about the clues from the dining room earlier.

But when Li Yinan moved, it interrupted his train of thought.

When he opened his eyes and saw her closing the window, he noticed something off.

From his position, he was facing the piano directly.

The more he looked at it, the stranger it seemed.

The piano itself had no issues.

Though having a piano in a bedroom was a bit unusual, it could be explained by the owner’s love of music.

However, pianos should never be placed in direct sunlight.

Long-term exposure causes the paint to crack.

And the window Li Yinan had just closed?

It was right above the piano.

Therefore, the theory that the room’s owner loved the piano too much to put it elsewhere didn’t make sense.

Lin Kuo’s fingertips brushed the keys. They felt cool.

Then, the piano began to play.

The sound alone was enough to reveal how expensive this instrument was.

After confirming Lin Kuo was okay, Li Yinan let out a breath of relief.

She said sincerely, “Boss, you can play piano too? Are you playing Canon? It’s beautiful.”

But Lin Kuo’s brows quickly furrowed.

Li Yinan, thinking she’d misidentified the piece, said awkwardly, “Sorry, I thought it was Canon…”

“It is Canon,” Lin Kuo said after a pause. “But I’m not the one playing.”