The player's balloon on the screen grew larger and larger, already a full size bigger than the other players' balloons—yet it still hadn’t burst.
There wasn’t even the slightest sign that it would.
Every player’s balloon had a different limit, but only this one player’s had grown to such an extent without popping.
It was almost as if his balloon had no limit at all.
No—perhaps it wasn’t that there was no limit, but that the player had found a way to keep it from bursting.
Even if the balloon expanded slowly, it still grew faster than the player could complete all the amusement park attractions. If left unchecked, there was no way it would last until the end.
The hardest part of this dungeon was the balloon. Only by controlling it was there any chance of clearing the instance.
The other players in the dungeon had realized this too, and they all came to this player, hoping to learn his method.
The player’s name was Lu Xiuyuan. He was handsome and gentle-looking, with not a trace of aggression—the kind of man who appeared soft-spoken and kind, always wearing a warm, breezy smile that made him seem approachable.
Lu Xiuyuan looked at the players blocking his path and spoke politely, "Is there something I can help you with?"
One of the players jerked his chin toward the balloon loosely tied around the man’s wrist. "Why hasn’t your balloon popped yet?"
Though the question was polite, the way the players had surrounded him made it clear that if he didn’t cooperate, their courtesy wouldn’t last.
Lu Xiuyuan followed their gaze to his balloon and smiled gently. "The material is special. If you smear the staff’s blood on it, the balloon becomes more elastic, slowing down the rate at which it bursts."
He seemed to have no intention of hiding anything, speaking openly and amiably.
But Ruan Qing could tell at a glance that he was lying.
Though the man sounded sincere, there was a faint trace of impatience in his narrowed eyes. He didn’t like being stopped like this, nor did he like the people in front of him.
Unfortunately, that impatience was buried deep—no one noticed his true feelings, and they easily believed his nonsense.
As it turned out, Ruan Qing was right. The first player who tried it died at the hands of the amusement park staff.
The main dangers in this dungeon came from the balloon and the attractions. As long as players didn’t enter the attractions, they were relatively safe.
But once inside, they faced terrifying, deadly rides and staff. Dying there wouldn’t be the least bit surprising.
No one knew that the player had died because he followed Lu Xiuyuan's advice—smearing the staff's blood on the balloon, causing it to explode prematurely.
The only one who did know was Lu Xiuyuan, who had entered the same amusement park attraction.
Lu Xiuyuan walked past the player's corpse without so much as a glance, his clothes untouched by even a speck of filth. The balloon tied casually around his wrist swayed gently in the wind, appearing perfectly ordinary.
But as he moved a few meters away, the balloon turned, its front facing the dead player—its face now wearing a smile identical to Lu Xiuyuan's.
The balloon wasn’t flat; when it grinned, there was none of Lu Xiuyuan’s gentle charm. Instead, it gave off an eerie, spine-chilling sensation, enough to make one’s back prickle with dread.
This was a man who would kill without hesitation, sending someone to their death simply for blocking his path.
Watching the livestream was far better than being trapped in the game’s instance. As long as it was within a player’s line of sight, the stream’s camera would automatically follow any clues, ensuring the best viewing experience for the audience.
But that was all it did—follow. Without sharp observation and careful thought, spotting the clues was nearly impossible.
Take this horror amusement park instance, for example.
Ruan Qing had been watching for a long time but still couldn’t figure out how the man had suppressed the balloon. He chalked it up to joining the stream too late—after all, by the time he tuned in, the man’s balloon was already absurdly large.
Somehow, the man had inexplicably cleared every attraction and became the only player to successfully complete the instance.
The moment the clearance announcement sounded, the livestream abruptly cut off.
Ruan Qing exited the stream and only then noticed that someone in the high-level group chat had replied to him—and the conversation had already progressed quite a bit.
[Shen: This instance isn’t exactly about ghosts. It’s a high school rules-based horror instance with multiple urban legends. Each legend has its own set of rules, and some even contradict each other. Trying to investigate under those conditions makes it extremely difficult, which is why no one’s cleared it yet.]
[Lin: It’s not just that. No top-ranked players have been assigned this instance yet. A zero clearance rate doesn’t necessarily mean much.]
Many instances had terrifyingly low clearance rates before high-level players got involved. That didn’t always mean the instance itself was impossibly difficult—sometimes, it was just bad luck.
Instances with zero clearances didn’t stay that way for long. Once the game system detected a mismatch between player entries and clearance rates, it would reassess the instance’s difficulty and assign stronger players to break the deadlock.
What’s truly terrifying is that dungeon with hellish difficulty—even players ranked in the top ten of the leaderboard couldn’t clear it.
[Shen: There isn’t much intel on this dungeon yet. The rules aren’t fixed, and the location and trigger conditions vary. Right now, few players survive past the third day. Don’t waste your points on it.]
The three people in the group chat discussed the dungeon, sharing everything they knew. They even thoughtfully tagged Ruan Qing, afraid he might miss the messages.
Clearly, they just hadn’t seen Ruan Qing’s message earlier.
In fact, they probably hadn’t even noticed the group chat had a new member until now.
Ruan Qing noticed three friend requests—all from the people in the group chat.
He hesitated but ultimately didn’t accept them. It was better for this identity not to get too involved with other players.
While Ruan Qing was reading the group chat, the fourth member’s avatar lit up, indicating he’d returned to the game’s main city. After a moment, he sent a question mark in the group.
[Lu (Group Chat Owner): ?]
No one responded. Maybe they didn’t understand his confusion, or maybe they just ignored him.
This was the norm for the group chat—and for high-level players in general. Most top players were incredibly arrogant, rarely cooperating with others.
Since the group chat’s creation, no one had ever spoken in it.
But now, that had been broken. The members seemed like completely different people.
The man narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar name that had been tagged, finally realizing the group chat had a new member.
The group rules required players to set their nicknames, but the other three had ignored the announcement and never changed theirs.
Only this new player had obediently followed the rule.
Fifth group member: Miao Qing (None).
The name itself wasn’t special—in fact, he’d never heard of it. The man’s gaze lingered on the word “None” in parentheses.
The parentheses indicated the player’s specialty.
A high-level player with no specialty? Seems this player isn’t as obedient as he appears.
The change had started with the three messages the new player sent. At first, no one responded—it wasn’t until half an hour later that replies trickled in.
The man’s eyes fell on the withdrawn messages. His instincts told him the problem lay there.
Unfortunately, the message had already been recalled, so he couldn’t find out what it had said.
The man wasn’t particularly interested anyway. After a lazy glance, he was about to put his phone away.
Just then, a new message suddenly appeared in the group chat.
[Miao Qing (None): Thank you.]
The newcomer was clearly polite—nothing unusual about that.
But what the man didn’t expect was how quickly the chat exploded after this message. The speed was unlike anything he’d ever seen—three people talking as if they were dozens.
[Shen: Are you coming to the meetup in three days? Considering teaming up for the dungeon?]
[Shen: I think you should come check it out. Something’s definitely wrong with the dungeons lately, and it’s targeting high-level players. Going in alone is absolutely not a smart move.]
[Lin: Yeah, and dungeon assignments are random. Without knowing what’s changed, entering an unfamiliar one is way too dangerous. Whether you’d even make it out alive is anyone’s guess.]
[Qin: It’s best to figure out what’s going on with the dungeons first. I’ve got a special item that can take people directly into one. Bringing one more person isn’t a problem.]
[Shen: This isn’t about skill anymore. This time, it’s clearly aimed at high-level players. Going in alone really isn’t safe—you might not even know how you died.]
[Lin: I know everyone prefers to go solo and doesn’t care much about helping others, but this situation is different. If we high-level players don’t band together now, things will definitely get worse.]
[Qin: Too many high-level players have died already—way more than normal. This isn’t the time for overconfidence.]
[Shen: Ending up in the same group is fate. At least we can watch each other’s backs. Even if you don’t want to team up for the dungeon, you can come check things out first and decide later.]
[Lu: ???]
What kind of nonsense were they spouting? "Teaming up for the dungeon"? They’d never even discussed that before.
Even for a man who’d seen all sorts of situations, this was baffling.
Ever since its creation, this group chat had been nothing more than a placeholder.
He was the group chat admin, but he hadn’t created it.
The group chat had been made by another high-level player who actually did want to team up for dungeons. But just two days after creating it, that player died inside a dungeon, and the group was automatically transferred to him.
The man had never paid attention to the group chat, and neither had the other members.
Thank you for the chapter!!
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