***
Bonus chapter! Thank you to JustSomeOne for the donation! ^^
***
Humans are truly insignificant—so powerless in the face of so many things.
Ruan Qing had always known he was weak. He understood that effort didn’t guarantee success, but never before had he felt this utterly helpless.
No—that wasn’t true. There had been one other time: during the apocalypse dungeon, when he was chasing that car.
He had exhausted every ounce of strength, only to watch helplessly as the vehicle plunged over the cliff. That same crushing impotence gripped him now.
Unable to do anything. Unable to save anyone.
Slumping to the ground, Ruan Qing stared blankly at his trembling hands.
Weak. Useless. He couldn’t even muster the strength to clench his fists. Fresh blood—from wounds torn open by the ship’s rough surfaces—dripped from his fingertips, as if mocking his incompetence.
He seemed incapable of accomplishing anything.
Screams periodically rose from the lower decks, and now the entire ship had begun lurching violently.
Staying on the open deck during such turbulence was suicide. Gritting his teeth, Ruan Qing staggered toward the door, aiming for the sixteenth floor.
Yet before he could reach it, another brutal sway sent the ship tilting dangerously.
His eyes widened. Instinctively, he reached for support—but too late. Momentum flung him sideways.
This time, however, the tilt wasn’t toward the railing. His body slammed against the doorframe before tumbling down the staircase, crashing into a wall with brutal force. His head took the impact.
"Ugh…" Curled into a ball on the floor, Ruan Qing clutched his skull. Pain radiated through him, his vision blurring as tears welled unbidden.
The agony short-circuited his thoughts. For minutes, he could only lie there, breathing through the throbbing.
At least this fall hadn’t thrown him overboard.
When he finally stirred, his trembling fingers probed the back of his head—and came away slick with blood. His palm was scraped from the stair edges, but the sheer volume of crimson could only mean one thing:
A head wound. A bad one.
His brain was injured.
The realization struck just as Ruan Qing’s vision began to blur. Blood soaked his hair, sliding in thick rivulets down his forehead.
His head spun violently; his eyelids grew leaden. A cold dread settled in his chest as he fought to shake himself awake—
But his body refused to obey.
Consciousness slipped away like water through his fingers.
To black out now was to sign his own death warrant. With his last shred of strength, he activated the Demon’s Eye.
*
Meanwhile, on the third floor—
Xu Jinyan and the others had spotted the figure below. Killing Him was no longer an option; their focus now was destroying the summoning array.
But it was too late.
Once activated, the ritual could not be stopped.
The Evil God would descend.
All they could do was pour every ounce of power into delaying the inevitable—even if only by seconds.
*
Beneath the waves, the figure’s lips curled. His hollow eyes gleamed with mockery as black mist erupted from the array.
Those nearest inhaled the fog—
And turned.
Unlike before, the victims weren’t consumed. Instead, they lunged at the four hunters, eyes vacant, movements frenzied.
Even players fell under its thrall.
Chaos reborn.
*
Ruan Qing woke to white-hot agony lancing through his ribs.
His first act was to scan the room—no immediate threats—before clawing himself upright.
The ship’s violent swaying had battered his unconscious body. Fresh bruises mottled his skin, though nothing seemed broken.
He was a mess: robe stiff with dried blood, limbs trembling.
Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself against a wall and fumbled for his phone.
The screen’s glow illuminated his widening eyes.
An hour. He’d been out for nearly an hour.
His pulse spiked. Frantic fingers checked for signs of corruption—even pulling up his livestream’s chat for confirmation.
No superhuman strength. No mutated flesh. The live stream was still working.
Somehow, against all odds…
He was still in the game.
Only then did Ruan Qing realize the Demon’s Eye had never been activated.
He distinctly remembered triggering it before losing consciousness. Without it, the monsters would have found him instantly. He wouldn’t have survived this long.
…Did someone help him?
His gaze swept the surroundings, but no figures—human or monstrous—revealed themselves. After a futile search, he gave up.
Time was still on his side, for now. He disabled the live-stream’s barrage of comments and began a meticulous self-assessment.
His body was a map of wounds, yet none fatal. Only his waist burned with unnatural intensity, a searing discomfort that rivaled even his throbbing skull.
Gritting his teeth, he lifted his bloodstained shirt. Fingers probed the area—no feverish heat met his touch.
Just aftermath of blunt trauma, he reasoned, letting the fabric fall.
Leaning against the wall, he staggered toward the nearest room.
He failed to notice his sense of touch had long since betrayed him. His plummeting body temperature numbed him even to scalding water—how could he trust what felt like fire beneath his skin?
Nor did he see the epicenter of that phantom heat—a mole just below his sternum, now obscured by dried blood. The stain hid its otherness, leaving only the illusion of scorching flesh.
Then the ship lurched.
Violent tremors rocked the deck—as if some force sought to dismantle the vessel bolt by bolt.
Ruan Qing knew better. This wasn’t mindless destruction.
The third floor had become a battlefield.
Precisely as he’d planned.
Only chaos could chain those predators to their mutual hatred, buying him time.
He clung to the desperate hope of outlasting the countdown—but his body’s deepening chill whispered the truth: You won’t make it.
The tremors escalated. Furniture splintered; glass rained like hail. The ship groaned, a beast on the verge of collapse.
It would have shattered already, had the combatants not restrained their blows for the ship’s sake.
Then—silence.
The cacophony below ceased.
Not from conclusion.
From interruption.
As the tremors stilled, a presence surged from the ocean’s abyss—a crushing weight of primordial dread that permeated every deck, every corridor.
Even the topmost tier wasn’t spared.
The world seemed suffocated by terror—inescapable, inescapable.
It was a fear so absolute that it crushed even the will to resist, leaving one feeling infinitesimal, as insignificant as an ant beneath the heavens.
The Evil God.
The Evil God was about to descend.
Ruan Qing's heart lurched violently in his chest. His slender fingers clenched, knuckles whitening, as he sat slumped in the corner, his face deathly pale. He tilted his head back, taking a shaky breath, then with trembling hands, pulled a small bottle from his robe. Without even looking, he tipped it into his mouth.
He was so weak that half the pills spilled onto the floor, and eventually, even the bottle slipped from his grasp, rolling away.
Because his hand had obscured the label when he grabbed it, the live-stream audience couldn’t make out what kind of medicine it was—until the scattered pills and bottle came to rest on the ground. Then, realization struck.
[Wait… isn’t that medicine familiar? Isn’t that the one that trades life for power?]
[No way! That stuff cuts your lifespan down to three hours after taking it! There’s still at least five or six hours left before the clear condition—surviving seven days—is met!]
[Worse than that. One pill doubles your strength, two quadruples it… but the more you take, the less time you have left. He just swallowed five or six at once…]
[At that rate, he’d have less than half an hour left. Does he… not want to live anymore?]
The Infinite Horror Game’s system shop sold everything—life-saving items and medicines were exorbitantly expensive, but those that burned life itself were cheap enough for even ordinary players to afford.
Ruan Qing had bought ten.
After swallowing the pills, he could already feel his body responding. Strength surged through his limbs, and he pushed himself up, staggering toward the ship’s upper deck.
