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Bonus chapter! Thank you to --- for the donation! ^^
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When the System saw Ruan Qing give the jade pendant to the player and leave on his own, overwhelming ecstasy flooded his core, as if his entire being was set ablaze with boiling blood.
Yet in the end, it was nothing but an illusion—a fleeting dream. The leap from euphoria to despair had never felt so cruel.
Humans are greedy, never satisfied. In the past, he had been content just to stay by Ruan Qing's side. But now, he longed for more.
Perhaps the moment Ruan Qing proposed their collaboration, the System’s tightly caged desires had broken free, spreading wildly like unchecked weeds.
Unstoppable. Uncontrollable.
This time, the System’s voice announcement was unusually cold, as if the temperature in the system space had dropped several degrees.
[Congratulations to Player Ruan Qing for clearing the dungeon <Miao Village>. Reward: 600 points.]
[Due to character breakdown, points deducted: 300.]
[Final points: 460.]
Ruan Qing pressed his lips together slightly but said nothing. His downcast eyes fixed on the control panel before him, his slender, elegant fingers gliding across it. The entire system space fell into dead silence.
This was the first time it had ever been so quiet—the first time the System hadn’t asked him anything.
His lashes trembled faintly. After a few seconds, he closed the panel and chose to enter the game’s main city.
The main city was as lively as ever. Even with players dying daily in dungeons, the population never seemed to change much.
Old players perished; new players arrived.
It seemed no one could leave this place—except through death.
Rest was nearly impossible in dungeons. Returning to the system space only healed physical wounds, not mental exhaustion.
Ruan Qing was likely at his limit. Instead of checking the game forum immediately, he found a secluded inn, took a shower, and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He slept soundly—for so long that his mental fatigue almost completely faded.
The main city was probably the safest place in the entire infinite game, the only refuge where players could catch their breath.
After waking, Ruan Qing ordered food and picked up his phone, opening the forum dedicated to the Infinite Horror Game.
The exorbitant bounty notice still sat pinned at the top of the forum, though the multiple listings had now merged into one.
The name signed at the bottom was—Su Zhen.
Ruan Qing frowned at the name. After a few silent seconds, he closed the bounty and browsed the forum instead.
The change in the sky-high bounty naturally sparked players' curiosity. Right now, the forum is flooded with posts about it.
[What’s going on? What’s going on? Why is the bounty getting lower and lower? Did the top players die in a dungeon?]
[Probably. I checked the player rankings, and a bunch of top players’ names are gone. Almost half of the top 50 have been replaced.]
[No way! They really disappeared? So those top players actually died? How did so many die at once? That’s terrifying.]
Over half of the top 50 players replaced? Ruan Qing saw this and opened the rankings, confirming that most names had indeed changed.
Even the top 10 weren’t spared.
The player rankings were dynamic, shifting constantly, but the top 10 had remained stable for a long time.
Yet now, as the sky-high bounty vanished, several names from the top 10 disappeared too—even some who weren’t on the bounty list were gone.
Normally, the death of even one top 10 player would cause an uproar, let alone several.
Ruan Qing scrolled down the rankings, trying to memorize the new list, but an unexpected name caught his eye near the bottom.
46th place—*Qing.
Though the surname wasn’t displayed, Ruan Qing’s gut told him it was him—his livestream profile was the same way.
His surname, his age, none of it showed up properly.
Under normal circumstances, such a display issue would’ve drawn attention from other players.
Luckily, with half the top 50 reshuffled, everyone was too focused on the missing players to notice.
When the first high-ranking player disappeared, the forum exploded with speculation. But as more and more names vanished, the players gradually quieted down, sensing something dangerous and ominous.
[Did the game get harder recently? Or did something happen? How did so many top players die?]
[I didn’t notice any difficulty spike, but the dungeon NPCs have been acting weird—way more emotional than before.]
[Yeah, yeah! I noticed that too. Key NPCs used to be cold and emotionless, but in recent dungeons, you could clearly feel their hatred and killing intent.]
[I’ve cleared two dungeons lately. The difficulty hasn’t changed—no harder, no easier. But like others said, the NPCs’ emotions are more pronounced now, which honestly makes them feel less scary.]
Recently, players entering dungeons have vaguely sensed something unusual, though a few have had very different experiences.
[What kind of joke is this?! The dungeon difficulty just jumped straight to hell mode!? On my very first day, the final boss woke up—there were no rules at all!!!]
When the player typed this reply, his face was twisted, still etched with raw terror. Even his hands trembled uncontrollably as he typed.
Though the Infinite Horror Game was notoriously cruel to players, it had never outright denied them a chance to survive—yet his last dungeon did exactly that.
On the first day, the dungeon’s ultimate boss appeared immediately. The NPCs acted like they’d gone mad, slaughtering players in a one-sided massacre. There was no chance to resist, not even enough time to use revival items.
He’d only barely managed to activate his own revival item in time.
But the forum was flooded with replies, and his post quickly drowned in the chaos, unnoticed by almost everyone.
Even Ruan Qing missed it.
Too many high-ranked players had died. Nearly half of the top 50 on the leaderboard had been replaced—an unprecedented event. Naturally, the forum buzzed with over 100,000 discussions about it.
Sifting through that many posts for useful information was next to impossible.
Yet Ruan Qing couldn’t shake a strange unease. His fingers absently tapped the edge of his phone as he stared at the screen, deep in thought.
If the dungeon difficulty hadn’t increased, this many high-level player deaths made no sense. Something in the game must have changed.
Maybe beginner and intermediate dungeons were unaffected, but advanced dungeons… that was another story.
Most players active on the forum were beginners or mid-tier. High-level players rarely showed up, making it hard to find clues about advanced dungeons.
A few had considered this, sparking scattered discussions:
[If the game didn’t get harder, how did all those elites die? One or two, sure—but this many? Did they just get bored and collectively off themselves?]
[Maybe they found a way to escape the Infinite Game and left?]
[If they escaped, their names vanishing from the leaderboard would make sense… but I doubt it. A lot of top players—like Lu Rufeng—probably prefer this game over reality. Even if he knew how to leave, he wouldn’t. My guess? Some dungeons are just… broken.]
Being able to rank on the leaderboard in an infinite horror game is proof that someone is far from ordinary—calling them "abnormal" wouldn’t even be an exaggeration.
Most of these abnormal types revel in the thrill and excitement of terror, freely indulging their bloodlust in the game.
People like this have long since become unfit for a world bound by rules—they would never thrive in a society governed by law.
[I also think it’s more likely that the dungeon malfunctioned. If even high-level players died inside, then regular players wouldn’t stand a chance—they’re probably all dead. That’s why no news has leaked out.]
If a group of players gets wiped out in a dungeon, there’s naturally no way for others to know—unless someone happened to spend points to watch that dungeon’s livestream.
But the odds of that are astronomically low, practically negligible.
If someone had actually been lucky enough to record it, the player forums would’ve exploded by now.
Other players in the thread agreed with this reasoning, and one even posted comparison screenshots of clearance rates for several high-level dungeons.
[I’ve been keeping an eye on these dungeons, and recently, their clearance rates have been dropping way too fast—suspiciously fast. I think these dungeons might be bugged too. There’s a good chance the last few runs ended in total party wipes.]
[I checked the numbers. These are all dungeons for seven or more players. Based on your screenshots, it’s not just likely—the drop in clearance rates suggests at least three full wipes, with zero survivors.]
[Does anyone have the entry tokens for these dungeons? Can we pinpoint and enter them directly?]
[I have a token for one of them. It lets me enter when the dungeon opens next, but there’s something unusual about it.]
Ruan Qing read carefully, scrolling through the entire thread until he found a group number posted at the very bottom by the thread’s creator.
He searched for the group and discovered that only high-level players could apply to join.
This confirmed that the original poster was a high-level player—and likely many of the commenters were, too.
But the thread had few replies and was buried deep in the forum, unnoticed by most. No one had realized it was posted by a high-level player.
After surviving so many games, Ruan Qing was a high-level player himself. After a moment’s thought, he decided to apply to join the group.
Groups with entry requirements like this were automatically verified by the system.
[Welcome, new player! Please check the group rules and update your nickname~]
This message wasn’t from a member—it was the group’s automated greeting.
It was probably because he had just joined, so the previous chat history didn't load. The group chat interface showed nothing but that system message—no other messages, no other members appearing.
Most veteran players were extremely indifferent. Unless it involved changes to the game, they probably couldn’t be bothered to join this group.
Ruan Qing didn’t dwell on this issue. After a quick glance, he tapped on the group announcement.
There were two announcements. One stated that members should note their name and area of expertise in their nickname, while the other notified everyone of an offline meetup three days later in the afternoon. The purpose was to discuss the disappearance of veteran players’ names and to organize a joint dungeon run five days later.
Attendance was optional—there was no requirement forcing members to participate.
After reading the announcements, Ruan Qing checked the member list. There were only four people, none of whom he recognized. Even their listed areas of expertise were unfamiliar.
These four players were all strangers to him.
Ruan Qing’s long lashes fluttered slightly like feathers before his eyes lowered faintly.
That offline meetup in three days… maybe it was worth checking out.
