X
Lin Kuo’s footsteps froze on the spot.
He instinctively tightened his grip on the garbage bag in his hand.
The sharp corner of the death code note, hidden in his palm, pressed into the soft flesh like a thorn.
Lin Zhi noticed his abnormality.
Her gaze locked onto his hand, and the anger from her fruitless search instantly morphed into excitement.
Her fangs reappeared, and her mouth opened unnaturally wide, strands of sticky saliva stretching between her lips.
“Big brother,” she said, her voice dripping with grotesque glee, “are you trying to throw away the death code?”
Lin Kuo didn’t respond.
In truth, he had no such plan.
At this point, the clues he had were pitifully few.
He wasn’t sure how strong the evil god really was, and if he threw away the death code, he’d lose all control over it.
With so many unknowns, he didn’t dare make such a reckless move.
But Lin Zhi took his silence as silent confirmation.
She sprang up excitedly.
Lin Kuo watched her coldly.
Instead of standing, she crawled toward him on all fours like a spider—swift and unnatural.
Her long tongue dragged across the floor, leaving a trail of disgusting saliva along the clean tiles.
When she reached out to snatch the garbage bag, Lin Kuo let go.
He quickly stepped back, widening the distance between them.
The garbage bag hit the floor, spilling the kitchen waste he’d deliberately packed inside.
Still in her twisted spider posture, Lin Zhi clawed through the garbage, her long tongue sliding over the filth without a care.
She murmured in ecstasy, “Bro, has anyone ever told you—I’ve seen so many participants who thought they were clever. The one I remember best was the last one. Do you know where he hid the death code?”
Lin Kuo’s stomach churned at the grotesque sight.
Even though he knew this Lin Zhi wasn’t real—just the evil god wearing his sister’s skin—it still made his chest tighten to see her do something so revolting.
He averted his eyes.
Her saliva dripped down, coating her hands. With every motion, sticky strands stretched and snapped between her fingers.
“He ate the death code,” she said.
Lin Kuo fought the urge to gag, but his instincts told him there was a clue in her words.
Suppressing his revulsion, he asked, “And then?”
“And then?”
Lin Zhi seemed delighted that he’d asked, momentarily stopping her search to look up at him.
“I cut open his stomach and pulled it out,” she said, pride in her voice.
“Big brother, you could learn from him. Otherwise, this wouldn’t be any fun.”
“Ugh…”
Lin Kuo clutched his stomach, dry-heaving.
He ignored her and rushed into the bathroom.
Behind him, Lin Zhi lowered her head again, happily rummaging through the garbage.
Inside the bathroom, Lin Kuo’s expression quickly returned to normal.
His eyes swept the room.
Lin Zhi had already searched here once—the mess was evidence.
Even the toilet lid had been removed. Her search had been meticulous, more thorough than his own.
But that was exactly what Lin Kuo wanted.
This evil god… wasn’t as smart as he’d feared.
In fact, she was kind of stupid.
Lin Kuo picked up the violently detached showerhead from the floor, stuffed the death code note inside, and reattached it.
Because Lin Zhi had already searched here, she probably wouldn’t think to check again—at least not for a while.
That would buy him time to figure things out.
After hiding the note, he bent over the sink and splashed cold water on his face.
He pretended to vomit a few more times for good measure.
When he thought enough time had passed, he pulled out some tissues, wiped his face, and turned off the tap.
Just as he was about to step out of the bathroom, he bumped into Lin Zhi.
At some point, she’d appeared in the doorway, staring at him with a resentful and vicious glare.
“There’s no death code in the garbage bag,” she hissed, the smell of her rotten saliva wafting toward him.
“Bro, where on earth did you hide it?”
The stench was so strong this time that Lin Kuo genuinely wanted to vomit.
He stepped back reflexively, but the bathroom was small—nowhere to run.
His brows furrowed tightly.
But just as he was about to retch, he realized—this was also a clue.
If Lin Zhi was confronting him like this, then she hadn’t seen him hide the note.
That was a relief.
Still, he didn’t dare let down his guard.
He remembered what she’d said about disemboweling someone.
In myths, the word evil god always made him think of Loki—the Norse god of lies and trickery.
But right now, Lin Kuo was more inclined to believe Lin Zhi wasn’t lying about that.
Which meant she was willing to kill first and ask questions later.
Did she need a trigger to kill, or was it purely on a whim?
Lin Kuo had no way of knowing.
He didn’t want to provoke her, so he played dumb.
“I told you, I’m easy to fool,” he said flatly.
“Maybe I already believed you and told you where I hid the death code?”
Lin Zhi blinked, then let out a sharp laugh.
“Bro, you don’t really think I’m asking you because I need you to answer, do you?”
Lin Kuo mirrored her confusion, keeping his tone steady.
“Then… why ask?”
Lin Zhi was so amused by his expression she actually laughed.
Her monstrous features melted away, and she returned to her human form—dimples and all.
“The process of finding the death code is fun,” she said, eyes sparkling.
“But today was even more interesting.”
She licked her lips, her gaze greedily sizing him up.
“I didn’t find your death code, big brother, but at least I know one thing—it’s not happy death.”
Lin Kuo’s face darkened immediately.
Her reaction clearly showed she wasn’t guessing—she knew.
This pleased Lin Zhi immensely.
She cheerfully said, “That’s enough for today. After a good sleep, it’ll be a new beginning. Bro, good night.”
With that, she skipped away from the bathroom.
Lin Kuo stood still, countless thoughts swirling in his mind.
Why kill before obtaining the death code?
What could possibly be more fun than finding it?
And how the hell did she know his death method wasn’t happy death?
He mentally replayed everything she’d said and done.
It was certain now—Lin Zhi wasn’t as cunning as Loki.
She could have easily found the death code by now, but she kept missing it.
Lin Kuo doubted it was because she wanted to make things harder for him.
More likely, she just wasn’t smart enough.
But then… why transform into Lin Zhi at all?
She wasn’t even trying to maintain the disguise anymore.
Was it because this instance had no time limit? Did she think there was no point in hiding her identity since she’d find the death code eventually?
Lin Kuo quickly discarded that idea.
He looked around.
This was his home.
Everything—the confined space, the environment—was tailored to him.
Every second here felt eerily familiar.
If the evil god had no other purpose, why go to all this trouble to replicate his life?
Why wear his sister’s face?
If Lin Zhi had been acting smarter, the answer would be obvious: to gain his trust and steal the code.
But she wasn’t smart.
She didn’t even care that he’d seen through her.
All of this effort—why?
“If it were me…”
Lin Kuo tried to put himself in her shoes.
In this instance, the roles were clear—one hides, one seeks.
But if the seeker wasn’t capable of playing the game properly, why create this environment?
Unless… there was another purpose.
A flood of scattered clues rushed into his mind, like fish darting away before he could grasp them.
He was still trying to piece it all together when a different smell hit his nose.
It wasn’t Lin Zhi’s saliva this time—it was something burning.
His Coke chicken wings!
Lin Kuo rushed to the kitchen and managed to save the food before it was completely ruined.
He turned off the stove and sighed.
The house was still a mess, but it was his mess.
He dished out the food and served himself a bowl of rice.
As he passed through the living room, he paused, glanced at the trash on the floor, and sighed.
Setting his food down, he grabbed cleaning supplies from the utility room and tidied up the disaster Lin Zhi had left behind.
Once everything was clean, he washed his hands and sat down to eat.
He ate quietly, alone.
Outside the window, the sun had set and the moon had risen.
The soft ceiling light cast a pale glow over his back.
The viewers in front of the livestream felt a pang of emotion.
[The dog streamer is so pitiful.]
[Ah, that lonely back—that’s my lost youth.]
[This is why you pick a five-star instance over solo mode.]
[He talks so little. I can’t figure it out unless he analyzes. Is there a master in chat who can explain how to clear this?]
[??? Are you trolling? Don’t forget there’s a room manager now.]
[Room manager election is open! I’m going for it.]
[+1]
Sheng Wen stared at the screen.
He was about to apply for room manager using his ‘S‘ account, but his hand paused.
After a moment’s thought, he switched to Sweet as the Wind.
Just to be sure, he double-checked it was the right account, then sent:
[Sweet as the Wind]: Big brother, I’m here to be your room manager~
Choose me, choose me, choose me.
The buzz of his phone snapped Lin Kuo out of his thoughts.
Since he’d seen through Lin Zhi’s identity, his phone now displayed the livestream normally again.
He saw Sweet as the Wind’s message, along with several others.
[Wu Qiao has applied to be your room manager.]
[Zhang Le has applied to be your room manager.]
[Sweet as the Wind has applied to be your room manager.]
Lin Kuo hadn’t read the streamer rules in detail, but he could guess how the system worked.
In the first instance, only ‘S‘ had applied. He’d had no choice.
But now the system was giving him options.
He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to pick Sweet as the Wind, but because…
Well, it was complicated.
Maybe she could tell through the livestream, because soon her messages flooded in:
[Sweet as the Wind]: ?
[Sweet as the Wind]: Big brother, don’t you want me to be your room manager?
[Sweet as the Wind]: Do you hate me now…?
Lin Kuo’s heart tightened.
[Lin Kuo]: No.
[Sweet as the Wind]: Then why won’t you pick me? o(╥﹏╥)o
[Sweet as the Wind]: Big brother just hates me! Sob sob sob.
[Lin Kuo]: No, I don’t.
[Lin Kuo]: It’s just… not convenient…
[Sweet as the Wind]: Eek?
[Lin Kuo]: I’m a boy.
On the other end, Sheng Wen finally understood.
Looking at Lin Kuo’s flustered expression through the screen, he couldn’t help but smile.
Adorable. Completely his type.
But he didn’t want to interfere with the instance, so he held back.
Still, he typed:
[Sweet as the Wind]: I get it!
When big brother wants privacy, just send me a ‘1’.
If you’re gonna shower, send me a ‘2’.
I’ll only help when you want me to. Choose me, choose me, choose me!
Lin Kuo’s face flushed.
He quickly operated for a moment and confirmed ‘Sweet as the Wind’ as his room manager.
He had been single since birth and, besides Lin Zhi, had no experience interacting with the opposite s*x, let alone actively reporting his physiological situation to a member of the opposite s*x.
He was a little shy.
Afraid that Sweet as the Wind would say something else, after confirming her as his room manager, Lin Kuo quickly sent a message to end the chat and then put down his phone.
[Lin Kuo]: I’m going to eat now.
On the other side, Sheng Wen grinned.
He decided not to tease the little streamer anymore—for now.
He really was too cute.
And besides, Sheng Wen didn’t want to interrupt his progress.
After finishing his meal, Lin Kuo threw away the leftovers and washed the dishes.
It was dark outside, but unlike the oppressive gloom of The Intruder, tonight’s darkness was normal.
Stars twinkled, and the moon hung in the sky.
There were even a few people still out for a late walk.
He glanced at them, then looked away.
The clock in the living room pointed to nine.
Lin Kuo wasn’t tired yet.
He cleaned the kitchen, then the living room, then the dining room.
Two hours passed.
Eventually, he turned his attention to the bedroom.
Lin Zhi’s room was off-limits, so he went to his own.
It was the messiest of all—blankets turned over, pillow stuffing scattered everywhere, his painting supplies knocked over, the paints mixing into a dirty smear across the floor.
Lin Kuo cleaned silently, bagging up piles of trash.
His small apartment felt even smaller with garbage everywhere.
Sharing the space with an evil god was bad enough—he refused to live in a dump too.
Just as he was carrying the garbage to the entrance, Lin Zhi appeared again.
He wasn’t surprised.
She’d been lurking the whole time. The fishy smell was hard to miss.
“Bro,” she said, staring at him intently, “are you going out?”
Lin Kuo immediately caught the word “going out.”
That answered part of the question he’d wanted to test earlier:
At least in this Death Code instance, he wasn’t restricted to just the house.
But how far could he actually go?
Lin Kuo decided to find out.
He replied with a simple “Mmm,” then said,
“Throwing out the trash.”
With that, he opened the door and stepped one foot outside.
When he turned back to close the door, he caught Lin Zhi staring at him with a look of deep resentment.
After thinking for a moment, he asked,
“Want to come along?”
Lin Zhi’s face twitched, anger barely concealed.
“Bro, you’re trying to play tricks. No matter where you hide the death code, it will be found.”
“Oh.”
Lin Kuo casually closed the door with a bang, then carried the trash downstairs.
The community garbage collection point was about three or four hundred meters away from the building.
Lin Kuo walked slowly, thoughts racing the entire way.
It was obvious Lin Zhi didn’t want him to move the death code outside, but she also hadn’t accepted his invitation to come along.
Why?
Lin Kuo could only think of one possibility:
Lin Zhi had activity restrictions.
After tossing the trash into the bin, Lin Kuo didn’t head back right away.
Even though he knew he was in his second instance, the environment felt disturbingly real.
The cool evening breeze brushed past him, momentarily washing away his tension.
After disposing of the garbage, he kept walking, eventually reaching the entrance of the community.
The security guard at the booth smiled at him and said,
“Be careful going out so late, young man.”
Lin Kuo strolled around the neighborhood.
Most of the shops had already closed for the night.
Cars passed occasionally on the road.
A taxi even stopped when it saw him standing by the roadside.
“Need a ride?” the driver asked.
It was so realistic—so real that Lin Kuo briefly thought about just staying outside forever.
But he quickly vetoed that idea.
There was no way he could tolerate the evil god hovering around him in Lin Zhi’s face forever.
The taxi driver, seeing Lin Kuo hesitate, honked twice.
Lin Kuo snapped out of his thoughts, then walked over and opened the car door.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Anywhere.”
“Huh?”
The driver turned his head to look at Lin Kuo in the backseat.
“Kid, it’s not easy making a living at night. If you’re not going anywhere, don’t waste my time.”
Lin Kuo just wanted to test his range of activity. But with the death code still hidden in the showerhead at home, he couldn’t go too far.
So he compromised and gave the driver an address about ten minutes away.
The driver glanced at him.
“You sure?”
“Mmm.”
Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up to the destination.
The driver tapped the meter with his finger.
“Sixty.”
“…”
The driver’s impatience flared.
“What?”
Lin Kuo hinted tactfully,
“I’m local.”
“…”
Lin Kuo added,
“Sixty can get you a round trip.”
The driver craned his neck.
“Night fee.”
“It’s included.”
The driver looked a little embarrassed.
Lin Kuo offered him a way out,
“Eighty. Take me back.”
The driver muttered “Psycho” under his breath, but since he was in the wrong, he had no choice but to agree.
On the way back, Lin Kuo checked his phone.
The screen was full of bullet comments.
The livestream was still in Walled City mode, so there was no Alipay—he couldn’t pay the fare electronically.
In the end, he had to borrow 100 yuan in cash from the security guard to settle the payment.
After thanking the guard, Lin Kuo went back inside.
It seemed his range of activity wasn’t restricted.
Or at least, it was much broader than he’d thought—unlike Lin Zhi, who was confined to a 90㎡ apartment.
On the way back upstairs, Lin Kuo pursed his lips, brows slightly furrowed.
Why was his movement unrestricted while Lin Zhi’s was not?
That didn’t make sense.
The Walled City instances were never this considerate.
Unless…
Lin Kuo froze mid-step.
His face went stiff.
The Main God System didn’t allow participants to kill or be killed prematurely—it would ruin the viewer experience.
Likewise, if an opponent was too powerful and the participant had no chance of resistance, that would also affect the viewership.
So this range of activity thing was probably just a way to balance the game.
Was Lin Zhi powerful?
Lin Kuo gave himself a firm no.
He glanced around, walked to a lawn in the community, broke off a branch, and started drawing circles on the trampled grass.
He wrote down four key words:
Powerful
Retarded
Purpose
Restriction
Then he listed the questions gnawing at his mind one by one.
Under the dim streetlight, he forced himself to come up with at least three answers for each question.
Even if some answers were absurd, he wrote them all down.
Why would Lin Zhi kill someone before getting the death code?
What was more interesting than finding the death code?
How did Lin Zhi know his death code wasn’t happy death?
When he got to this point, Lin Kuo’s face darkened.
He erased the answers that felt wrong, brushing away the dirt with the branch.
In the end, when he connected the remaining answers, the sentence that emerged was:
Lin Zhi can skip the process of finding the death code and directly test the answer.
“…f*ck.”
The moment this line formed, Lin Kuo couldn’t help but agree.
Why did this instance go to such lengths to construct a “real world”?
Why did the evil god, who clearly wasn’t good at hiding her identity, take on Lin Zhi’s appearance?
Why wasn’t the participant’s movement restricted?
The answer was obvious.
When he opened the confinement room door, the evil god had already skipped the search phase and was testing his death code directly.
The rule said:
“When the evil god finds your death code, it will kill you using the method you wrote.”
At first glance, this sounded fair.
But this rule was a trap—designed to lure participants into exploiting it.
Everyone would think of writing things like:
“Die of old age”
“Die of happiness”
“Die of laughter”
Thinking that even if the evil god found the death code, it wouldn’t be able to do anything.
But that was exactly the abyss staring back at them.
The real trap wasn’t the death code itself—it was the state of mind the code created.
Lin Kuo’s expression grew more solemn.
The evil god had gone through all this trouble to construct a familiar world, to make him happy the moment he opened the door.
If his death code had been “happy death,” he wouldn’t be here drawing circles in the grass right now.
He’d already be dead.
That also explained why Lin Zhi didn’t care about exposing her identity—because in her eyes, the outcome was already decided.
The instance had no time limit.
The evil god could test his death code once per day.
This was even more hopeless than he had imagined.
And what did the instance give him as compensation?
Freedom of movement.
But Lin Kuo glanced down at the word “powerful” circled on the grass.
Maybe this freedom wasn’t really for his sake.
Knowing the Main God System, this so-called “compensation” was probably just for increasing entertainment value.
After all, he could choose to stay away from Lin Zhi, but there was no guarantee there weren’t other dangers waiting for him outside.
Still, that was a problem for later.
At least his death code wasn’t happy death.
He’d used the loophole, sure—but his code was more complex than that.
After thinking it through, Lin Kuo estimated he was 80% confident that unless Lin Zhi found his death code, she wouldn’t be able to test or eliminate it easily with her current IQ.
So the first priority was simple:
Get the death code out of the house.
With that thought, Lin Kuo went back upstairs.
As soon as he opened the door, he found Lin Zhi waiting at the entrance.
Her anger made her look even more grotesque, eyes like poisoned blades sweeping over him.
“Bro, you’ve been out for a long time.”
“Just went for a walk.”
Lin Kuo stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Lin Zhi followed closely, her tone sweet but sinister:
“Bro, why don’t you believe me? I’ve told you—no matter where you hide the death code, it’ll be found.”
Lin Kuo looked around.
The house was still tidy.
She hadn’t searched it again while he was gone.
At the entrance, there was a puddle of saliva—
Lin Zhi must have waited there in her alien form the entire time.
That confirmed it again: she wasn’t smart.
So Lin Kuo played along, showing just the right amount of fear:
“…Really?”
Sure enough, Lin Zhi grinned, eyes full of malice:
“Bro, you’ll soon find out everything you’ve done is useless. It’s dark. Time to sleep. Tomorrow is a new beginning.”
Seeing Lin Kuo too frightened to speak, she left satisfied.
When her bedroom door closed, Lin Kuo’s expression returned to normal.
But he stayed silent.
If he remembered correctly, Lin Zhi had said “tomorrow is a new beginning” twice now.
He only needed two seconds to figure it out.
When Lin Zhi said that phrase, she was excited—just like when she’d talked about “something more interesting.”
What was more interesting?
Lin Kuo had just gotten the answer.
So he translated it directly:
Tomorrow is a new beginning = Tomorrow, I can test another death method.
Lin Kuo didn’t have much of an emotional change to this.
Anyway, the rules clearly stated that only the method on the death code could cause death.
As long as Lin Zhi didn’t guess his death code, he wouldn’t really die.
Although he didn’t know if the wrong death code would cause him pain, but… it was a mixed blessing.
At least he had learned another clue: the evil god could only test a death code once per day.
The house reeked of fishy saliva.
Even though Lin Kuo wasn’t exactly a clean freak, the smell made his scalp tingle.
He grabbed the mop, disinfectant in hand, and cleaned the entrance over and over again until the sharp scent of disinfectant finally overpowered the stench.
After confirming the smell was mostly gone, he returned to his room, found a clean set of clothes, and headed for the shower.
In the bathroom, he carefully removed the showerhead—the death code was still hidden inside—and set it aside.
He planned to shower directly using the metal hose.
While waiting for the water to heat up, Lin Kuo took out his phone, preparing to send a “2” to Sweet as the Wind as usual.
But just as he glanced at the screen, he noticed the barrage of bullet comments flying by:
[The dog streamer’s analysis is god-tier.]
[I’m seriously about to have a heart attack—are you sure this is just a two-star instance?! This is literally unplayable!]
[The dog streamer’s still chill enough to take a shower? If it were me, I’d be curled up under the covers right now.]
[The person above knows nothing. Did you forget the room manager is Sweet as the Wind?]
[Huh? What’s that got to do with anything?]
[Bro, you’re single, right? You wouldn’t understand. The room manager can block the livestream, but she’s got the dog streamer’s Walled City Chat. She can open a private video call for a few points. And don’t forget, Sweet as the Wind is rich. This tiny expense is nothing to her.]
[!!!]
[LMAO, still flirting at a time like this. Dog streamer stays dog streamer.]
[I wanna watch the dog streamer shower too, hehehe.]
[Yeah, share the view, bro.]
[This instance scared the shit out of me. Dog streamer, you better take responsibility. Don’t block us while you shower!]
Lin Kuo frowned at the screen, retorting coldly:
“You’re not worthy.”
[Ah, there it is—the dog streamer’s back at it. My youth has returned.]
[Yup, not worthy 🙂 ]
[Eating soft rice with a hard attitude. Classic.]
[I’ve been watching you since the beginning. Do you even realize how much time I’ve spent here? Don’t forget your roots, bro. Show some conscience!]
Lin Kuo was just about to type “Did I ask you to watch?”, when his phone vibrated.
The screen changed.
A notification popped up:
[Sweet as the Wind is video calling you.]
[Accept / Decline]
Lin Kuo’s finger almost hit Decline instinctively.
But his fingertip hovered midair.
A bullet comment just now had mentioned that video calls cost points.
Knowing how the Main God System worked, it probably wouldn’t refund the points even if he refused.
In that case, wouldn’t that just waste her money?
Lin Kuo hesitated.
What if Sweet as the Wind actually had something important to say?
Besides, he wasn’t naked yet.
At worst, they could exchange a few words and he’d hang up when it was time to shower.
After psyching himself up, Lin Kuo finally reached out and clicked Accept.
The video call connected.
The screen was pitch black.
Only a vague human silhouette could be seen.
Lin Kuo frowned.
“What happened? I can’t see you.”
No response—only a low chuckle came from the other end.
The sound floated through the warm, steamy air of the bathroom, curling into his ears and making his eardrums tingle.
Lin Kuo reached out to turn off the faucet.
Then came the voice:
“Big brother.”
The tone was strange—like a man deliberately pinching his throat to imitate a soft, syrupy female voice.
“Does big brother want to see me?”
The question was so direct that Lin Kuo momentarily overlooked how odd the voice sounded.
He wasn’t the type who cared much about appearances.
Honestly, he’d never had a particularly strong urge to know what Sweet as the Wind looked like.
But… she was his creditor.
So yeah, he was curious.
Lin Kuo didn’t know how to respond for a moment.
The person on the other end chuckled again:
“Big brother’s not talking? Is it because my voice isn’t sweet enough and your illusion’s been shattered?”
Lin Kuo shook his head.
Even though the voice didn’t match his expectations at all, he really wasn’t bothered by it.
He wasn’t a face-con or a voice-con.
And Sweet as the Wind had helped him so many times.
If he turned around now and complained about her voice, wouldn’t that just make him a jerk?
At that moment, Sheng Wen—the real person behind Sweet as the Wind—spoke again:
“I do have something serious to tell you.”
His tone softened, but there was a deliberate coaxing lilt to it:
“Little streamer… no, big brother, while you shower, point your phone camera at the bathroom door.”
Lin Kuo didn’t understand what he meant at first.
It took him two or three seconds to catch on.
Then it clicked.
It was almost midnight.
Once the clock struck twelve, it would be a new day, and Lin Zhi would be allowed to test another death method.
But he was about to take a shower.
If Lin Zhi attacked while he was distracted, he wouldn’t be able to react in time.
So Sweet as the Wind’s suggestion was simple:
She’d help him keep watch.
Sure enough, Lin Kuo’s guess was correct.
Sheng Wen had also picked up on the meaning behind Lin Zhi’s last words.
In the Walled City, if no one cleared an instance, it stayed in circulation until someone completely solved it.
Sheng Wen had checked the data for Death Code.
Although the livestream didn’t save past footage, Guan Miao’s side kept the stats.
The survival rate for this instance was currently zero.
Average survival time?
Less than 24 hours.
Even though the rules said “wrong death codes won’t cause death,” Sheng Wen couldn’t guarantee there wouldn’t be side effects.
Especially with so few clues available to crack the instance.
The less pain Lin Kuo suffered, the better.
But because Lin Kuo was about to shower, he’d blocked the livestream.
Without the live feed, Sheng Wen couldn’t see him or hear his voice—that made him uneasy.
So he took the risk and called directly.
On the screen, Sheng Wen watched Lin Kuo.
Without the stream chat acting as a buffer, Lin Kuo’s gaze was directed at him alone.
If you looked closely, you could even make out Sheng Wen’s reflection faintly in Lin Kuo’s brown eyes.
Sheng Wen whispered:“Be good.”
That made it even harder for Lin Kuo to refuse.
Feeling slightly awkward, Lin Kuo finally obeyed, positioning his phone so the camera faced the bathroom door.
In the process, his hands occasionally brushed into view—long fingers, clean and slender, the joints distinct.
“His hands are nice too,” Sheng Wen thought absently.
But out loud he just said,
“Go ahead and shower. I’ll call you if anything happens.”
Lin Kuo nodded, voice low:
“Okay… I’ll be quick. And… thanks.”
Sheng Wen smiled.
“Accepted.”
Then came the soft rustle of clothes being taken off.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it had a strangely magnetic pull.
Sheng Wen’s throat went a little dry.
He licked his lips.
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