***
Bonus chapter! Thank you to Somebody for the donation! ^^
***
For an ordinary person, a stab through the heart would be fatal—but Xiao Mingyu was no ordinary person. And this was the Nightmare World, where death wasn’t even his to decide.
Yet the pain was real. The blade piercing him carried a power that seared into his very soul, far beyond mere physical injury. 'His' expression contorted further.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. If this man learned he’d revealed the truth to the youth, 'He' would absolutely discard tens of thousands of years of camaraderie and kill him—not just this avatar, but hunt down every last trace of his existence.
Fortunately… it seemed 'He' hadn’t witnessed it?
Xiao Mingyu instinctively glanced at Ruan Qing beside him and caught the faintest tremor of the youth’s eyelashes—a signal. Under normal circumstances, Xiao Mingyu wouldn’t have grasped such subtle cues, but now, he understood with eerie clarity:
*'He' didn’t see.
Some tension drained from Xiao Mingyu—though not much. After all, he’d just tried to murder the youth right in front of 'Him'. That alone was a capital offense.
The only reason he wasn’t dead yet? 'He' wanted to know what they were hiding.
This avatar was beyond saving. Xiao Mingyu steadied himself inwardly and made his choice: self-destruction, channeling every ounce of his power into it.
He was a Primordial Deity, just like 'Him'.
The explosion of an avatar bearing half a Primordial Deity’s power wasn’t something anyone could easily intercept or suppress.
But Xiao Mingyu knew 'He' could.
He’d tried to kill 'His' beloved right before 'His' eyes. This debt demanded repayment—let this half of his power be 'His' to claim.
Consider it… his final act of aid to these two.
When the Enforcer arrived, they would stand on opposing sides, enemies unto death.
***
The man reacted instantly. As Xiao Mingyu detonated, a ring of black light encased Ruan Qing—then the entire sky darkened, as if plunged into midnight.
Look closer, though, and it wasn’t nightfall. A mist of darkness flooded the space, thick with peril, devouring everything in its path—even light itself. The world dimmed into nothingness.
In the end, Xiao Mingyu’s self-destruction barely made a ripple before being swallowed whole by that terrifying power.
However, this dungeon is on the verge of collapse.
If even a normal-level world couldn’t withstand 'His' descent, what hope did a mere dungeon have? At most, it would hold for just a few more hours.
In mere minutes, everything settled. Xiao Mingyu was gone—but clearly, someone else remained.
Ruan Qing still sat slumped on the ground, too weak to even stand. Blood loss had drained him, and the man’s oppressive aura pinned him in place.
The man crouched before him, gazing down with a voice both hoarse and unnervingly dark.
"What couldn’t you tell me?"
Ruan Qing kept his head lowered, but as that shadowed stare bore into him, his slender frame trembled faintly. His delicate face flickered with helpless unease, lips pressed tight as if struggling to speak.
He looked utterly lost—frightened, pitiable, the kind of fragility that begged for mercy.
Yet the man showed none. 'His' fingers gripped Ruan Qing’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. The gesture brooked no refusal; his tone hardened.
"What. Couldn’t. You. Tell. Me?"
Meeting those darkened eyes, Ruan Qing clenched his hands beneath his sleeves. He steadied himself, then answered in a shaken whisper:
"...He... he wanted to kill me."
"He told me not to tell you."
Tear tracks still glistened on his cheeks, lashes damp from crying. Every part of him radiated vulnerability.
But the man’s expression remained unreadable, his silence deafening.
Ruan Qing knew at a glance: 'He' didn’t believe him.
Not that it mattered. Xiao Mingyu was dead. Whatever truth had been spoken now belonged to him alone.
After all—dead men tell no tales.
A faint, icy smirk curled the man’s lips. With a mere flick of his hand—
The scene around them shifted.
Now they stood as spectators, watching every moment of Ruan Qing’s actions after leaving him.
And this time—the man saw everything.
It was clear that the man could replay everything that had happened in the nightmare world.
Fortunately, when Xiao Mingyu had drawn the summoning array earlier, he had shielded himself with his own power—apparently evading the nightmare world’s surveillance.
The playback began from the moment Ruan Qing appeared in the train compartment, alternating between his and Xiao Mingyu’s perspectives.
Ruan Qing watched expressionlessly as the scenes showed Xiao Mingyu being killed by him over and over, but inwardly, his anxiety spiked. His fingers clenched so tightly his nails nearly drew blood.
Yet the thing he feared most didn’t happen. It was as if those moments of despair—and the boy who had vanished—had never existed at all.
Xiao Mingyu had been smart enough to erase that segment... but not smart enough.
The timeline didn’t add up. Anyone paying attention would notice a missing half-hour.
Ruan Qing didn’t give the man a chance to notice. Trembling, he raised his hand, revealing the wound on his palm.
"He… When he fought you, he forced me to use my blood to draw a pattern."
A vicious gash stretched across Ruan Qing’s palm, stark against his fair skin—a lurid, bloody red, horrifying to behold.
Fresh blood still seeped from it, so vivid it seemed to scorch the eyes.
The moment the man saw it, murderous intent erupted from him, so thick it felt like he might lose control at any second.
But the culprit had already chosen to self-destruct. There was no one left to vent that rage upon.
Gritting his teeth against the fury, the man took Ruan Qing’s hand—then slowly lowered his head and began to lick the wound.
With each pass of his tongue, the injury faded, and even the blood Ruan Qing had lost seemed to replenish.
Apart from lingering weakness, Ruan Qing felt no other discomfort.
As the master of this nightmare world, the man ruled over it absolutely—a god within its bounds. Healing a wound was nothing to him.
If 'He' willed it, the nightmare world would bend to his thoughts… with the sole exception of the person before him.
Darkness churned in the depths of the man’s eyes. Even after the wound vanished, he didn’t stop—only grew more unrestrained.
Ruan Qing instinctively tried to pull back, but the man’s grip was ironclad. 'He' couldn’t retreat an inch.
His face, delicate and flustered, flushed with helplessness. In the end, he could only press his lips together and endure the man’s ministrations.
But his docility and pitiful state didn’t make the man relent. If anything, it spurred 'Him' on.
This man had never learned the meaning of restraint.
But perhaps it wasn’t just Ruan Qing’s obedience—even if he resisted, the outcome would likely be the same.
The man seemed intent on revisiting the unfinished business from the classroom, his fingers tracing a path that made Ruan Qing’s breath hitch. His expression froze, eyes widening as he instinctively shrank back, trying to evade the touch.
Since he was already sitting on the ground, the recoil sent him tipping backward. Only his quick reflexes—palms slamming against the floor—kept him from collapsing entirely.
The man’s hand hung in the air for a moment before he lowered his gaze to the slender fingers bracing against the ground. With deliberate control, he gripped Ruan Qing’s chin, tilting it up, and closed the distance between them in a kiss that brooked no refusal.
“Mmn…!” Ruan Qing pushed at the man’s chest, but his strength was laughable in comparison. 'His' hands fisted in the man’s shirt, crumpling the fabric in helpless frustration.
This time, there were no barriers—no desks, no interruptions. Just the two of them, utterly alone.
The kiss deepened, stealing Ruan Qing’s breath until his head spun. In the nightmare world, the man’s dominion was absolute—and that included Ruan Qing himself.
Resistance was futile. Escape, impossible.
Even if he screamed for help, no one would come. The realization seemed to settle over Ruan Qing, and when shoving proved useless, he went still, letting the man claim his lips without further struggle.
Silence enveloped them, thick and intimate, as if the world had narrowed to this single point. Around them, the ruined classroom had already transformed. The shattered walls and grime were gone, replaced by a scene so serene it felt surreal—fluffy clouds like cotton candy, a sky so tranquil it could lull one into forgetting this was still the nightmare world.
No horrors lurked here. No threats. Just the sound of ragged breaths and the occasional rustle of leaves in a breeze too gentle for such a place.
The man studied the dazed, glassy-eyed figure in his arms, his voice a rough whisper.
“Be good. Let me hear you.”
“Like you did on the call.”
Ruan Qing would never comply so easily—but the man wasn’t asking. 'His' next move tore a muffled cry from Ruan Qing’s throat, identical to the sounds he’d made during that fateful phone call.
Ruan Qing didn’t want to surrender, but the overwhelming tide of unfamiliar emotions drowned him completely. Tears had long since spilled from the corners of his eyes, dampening his beautiful lashes and streaking his delicate cheeks.
It was a feeling beyond control—inescapable, all-consuming, dominating his mind and body until all he could do was instinctively try to flee.
But there was no escape. Nowhere to run.
In the end, all he could do was whimper softly, pleading with the man before him:
"No… more… please…"
"Really… no… more…"
A muffled sob caught in his throat.
"Call me 'husband'."
The man’s voice was coaxing, but beyond this near-command, he offered no promises—not even the pretense of one.
Yet Ruan Qing was far past rational thought. Helpless, he obeyed.
"H-Hus…band…"
The livestream had cut off the moment the man kissed him—though it hardly mattered. From the audience’s perspective, the screen had gone dark the instant Ruan Qing encountered Xiao Mingyu, leaving no one to witness this shameful scene.
By the time it was over, Ruan Qing lacked even the strength to lift a finger. His gaze drifted to the man above him before his eyes finally fluttered shut.
***
[System Notice: <Death Call> —Permanently Closed]
The dungeon finally collapsed. <Death Call> would fade into history—unless 'He' chose to rebuild it.
But 'He' would never design another dungeon again. In fact, 'He' had withdrawn nearly all of 'His' power, subtly lowering the overall difficulty of the Infinite Horror Game.
Not that the change was obvious. Even without 'His' presence, the dungeons remained far from easy.
Ever since those players entered <Death Call> , the community had been monitoring the dungeon’s status. Soon, someone noticed a shift—
Clear rates were rising.
Players were surviving <Death Call> . Multiple players.
Yet the survivors were baffled. None understood how they’d cleared it.
They hadn’t met the survival time limit. They’d never found 'Him'. They’d just been running—until suddenly, the system announced their victory.
This was probably the most bewildering dungeon they had ever cleared.
As soon as the players exited, they rushed to the game forum, ready to ask what the hell had just happened—only to find it already flooded with posts.
The earliest threads were all asking why there had been no livestreams for the <Death Call> dungeon. Since a group of players had entered, everyone initially assumed the dungeon simply didn’t allow streams, or that the participants had chosen not to broadcast.
That was the only logical explanation.
But the survivors froze when they saw these posts. They had definitely enabled livestreams. And they hadn’t seen a single viewer comment.
So why couldn’t players in the main hub see their broadcasts?
Before they could process it, the threads were buried under an avalanche of new replies:
[HOLY SHIT CHECK THE STATS—<Death Call>’s clear rate just spiked! The big bosses actually did it! They cleared the dungeon in under seven days!]
[Kneeling before the gods. When will I ever be this strong? Others treat dungeons like playgrounds, while I’m always the one getting played. Worst part? I can’t even quit.]
[Knew the big bosses would pull through. Too bad no one streamed it. Would’ve killed to watch.]
[Seriously, so pissed. If the top players won’t stream, fine, but those other clowns couldn’t hit ‘Go Live’ either? Would it kill them to let us spectate?]
[Wait… hold up. The ones who cleared it… might not be the big bosses?]
[??? Are you high? If it wasn’t them, then what—the big bosses died in there?]
[NO FUCKING WAY—IT MIGHT BE TRUE! Just asked someone with the big bosses’ contacts. Their names are GRAYED OUT. And we all know what that means.]
[HOW!? HOW DO MULTIPLE TOP PLAYERS JUST DIE!? This has to be a glitch!]
[Confirmed. A friend has one of them on their list. The avatar’s dark.]
[What the actual hell is happening? Is the game collapsing?]
[AAAAH CHECK THE LEADERBOARDS—SU ZHEN’S NAME JUST VANISHED!!!]
[SOMEONE EXPLAIN! IS THE GAME DYING!? ARE WE NEXT!?]
Even high-level players had fallen in this dungeon—what hope did ordinary players like them have?
From the moment they entered this endless nightmare of a game, every player knew death was inevitable. But when that moment truly loomed, no one could face it calmly. Panic spread like wildfire.
The game’s forums descended into chaos. Players trembled with dread, as if they could already see their own deaths staring back at them.
