Mu Sichen refused to give up, tapping the screen several more times, but the “Exit Game” button failed to reappear. Instead, a line of text flickered into view:

[The Newbie Protection Period has expired. By default, the player has consented to enter the game. Please strive to complete the beta missions.]

Mu Sichen: “…”

He had assumed the protection period was meant to give players time to familiarize themselves with the mechanics. He hadn’t realized it was actually a countdown to his last chance to escape.

A wave of impotent rage surged through him, and he felt a primal urge to smash the holographic screen. He caught himself. Doing so was pointless; it would only be a waste of stamina.

Years of experience as a professional gaming companion had taught Mu Sichen how to police his emotions. Getting angry never solved a client’s problem; it only escalated the conflict and resulted in him not getting paid.

He took a deep breath and forcibly pulled the corners of his mouth upward, trying to look as cheerful as possible. There was no sense in losing his temper. Life, like this rigged game, was inherently unreasonable.

When Mu Sichen was a freshman, his parents had died in an accident. As an only child with no siblings, he had no direct blood ties left. He had never been in a relationship; though he had a few close friends and kind relatives, they all had their own lives. Even if he were to vanish suddenly, the ripple effect on others would be minimal.

He was fond of the comforts and entertainments of the real world, but precisely because there were so many distractions, he lacked any singular obsession—no game he had to finish, no novel or anime he had to see the end of.

One could say Mu Sichen was a man with very few anchors.

He had once fantasized about what he would do if he transmigrated to a strange world like the protagonists in web novels. He suspected he would adapt to the discomfort of change quite quickly and find a new reason to survive just as fast.

And so, he accepted reality: he had likely been swept up by a mysterious power and dragged into a sinister world. He needed to understand this environment, find a way back to reality, and—above all—figure out how to stay alive.

He wondered if, as a transmigrated “player,” he possessed any revival or save-game capabilities.

Gripping the pickaxe in one hand to guard against whatever might be lurking in the dark, he used the other to rapidly navigate the system interface, checking for skills.

The personal info and function panels displayed only his attributes and skills. There were no “Save,” “Load,” or “Revive” buttons. The map he had seen earlier had gone completely black, save for a tiny dot representing his current coordinates. Everything else was shrouded in a “Fog of War.”

At least my effort to memorize the map wasn’t a total waste, Mu Sichen thought optimistically. I made the most of those ten minutes.

Only a few minutes had passed; while the layout was still fresh in his mind, he had to record it. The “trash system” clearly didn’t intend to provide further guidance. He was on his own.

When the walls were still glowing, Mu Sichen had caught a glimpse of the room. It was a modest twenty-square-meter apartment, but it was fully furnished. A double bed was pushed against the wall by the window, flanked by a wardrobe-desk combo. A small television hung opposite the wardrobe. The other side of the room contained a bathroom and a compact kitchenette—cramped, but functional.

He recalled seeing several books, a notebook, a few pens, and a flashlight on the desk.

Despite the persistent sensation of being watched from the darkness, Mu Sichen didn’t think he would die just yet. This was the “Newbie Village,” after all; the difficulty shouldn’t be insurmountable. Any danger here should be the kind a pickaxe could handle.

More importantly, the System had gone to the trouble of making a high-end website, shipping him a gaming pod, and using supernatural force to bring him here. It wouldn’t make sense to let him die immediately. If the goal was his death, it could have happened the moment he lay down in the pod.

The System wanted him to perform beta tasks. Killing him the second he arrived would be a gross waste of resources.

Based on this logic, Mu Sichen deduced he was safe—at least within this room.

He moved cautiously, clutching his pickaxe. The feeling of being watched persisted, but he reached the desk without incident. His fingers brushed against the flashlight. He clicked the switch; it was a high-intensity tactical light, bright enough to cause temporary blindness if shone directly into someone’s eyes.

As he touched it, a mechanical voice echoed in his mind: [Obtained Item: “Flashlight”.]

The system screen had turned off when he started moving, but it could still provide mental prompts.

Before his memory blurred, he flipped to a blank page in the notebook and sketched a crude map. The largest town on the original map had glowed with a white light, giving off a sense of security. However, his current location was separated from that “safe” town by two other settlements. He couldn’t reach it yet.

He tore the map page out, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and clipped a pen to his chest.

Almost immediately, he felt something strange. He patted his pocket—the pen and the map were gone.

He didn’t panic. Instead, he focused his mind on the system panel. The screen shimmered into existence. A “Backpack” icon had been added to his personal info. He opened it to find “An Ordinary Pen” and “A Hand-drawn Map” sitting in the slots.

The backpack had ten slots. The pen and paper took up two, leaving eight.

So I do have a “Gold Finger” after all, Mu Sichen felt a wave of relief.

As he explored the game’s mechanics, his dread began to ebb, replaced by a faint, underlying excitement. Having accepted the reality of being scammed, he found himself savoring the thrill of this “real-life” game.

He tried putting the flashlight into his pocket; it transitioned into the backpack smoothly. The system description read: [A flashlight with considerable offensive potential. Surprisingly well-suited for this town.]

When he needed light to explore the room, the flashlight reappeared in his hand. Retrieving items was as simple as a focused thought.

The notebook was mostly blank, but since his inventory was empty, he tossed it into his backpack as well. He could use it to record findings and discard it later if space became tight.

Next, he turned his attention to the books on the desk. They all seemed to be popular science texts about the importance of eyes—how to protect your vision, the dangers of darkness, and the necessity of maintaining a brightly lit environment.

However, Mu Sichen had only read a few lines before a wave of nausea and vertigo hit him. He slammed the book shut. For a moment, his mind was flooded with the word “EYES” repeated over and over. He couldn’t think of anything else except various ways to maintain ocular health.

It took a long time for his cognitive functions to return to normal.

When they did, he realized with a shock that the memory of the map had been replaced by the contents of the book. He couldn’t remember the map’s layout at all.

If he hadn’t drawn the map first, it would have been lost forever.

This game is full of traps, he realized. Simply glancing at a book can cause mental instability.

Mu Sichen became even more cautious. His nerves were taut, his senses sharpened to the point where he felt he could hear a pin drop.

Remaining vigilant, he searched the desk drawers and found a small radio. Given what had happened with the books, he didn’t dare turn it on immediately. If the first thing he heard was “How to Protect Your Eyes,” he’d be in serious trouble.

With the desk cleared, he didn’t rush to open the window or leave. He needed more information. The room wasn’t very dusty; it showed signs of recent habitation. Even if the owner was gone, they hadn’t been gone long.

Following standard RPG logic, one had to thoroughly loot the starting area.

He reached under the pillow of the bed and found a handwritten journal. He hesitated, then opened it, ready to slam it shut the moment he felt even a hint of dizziness.

Fortunately, the journal didn’t shatter his mind, but the contents were chilling:

“I’ve drawn the curtains and locked myself inside. I don’t dare allow even a speck of light. I’ve lost all sense of time; I don’t know how many days it’s been or how many more I must endure.

Even in the dark, I feel eyes on me. Why? I’ve smashed every mirror in the room. Why can I still feel their gaze?

The food is almost gone. I’m going mad. Every day, people come to my door, demanding I recite ‘Essential Knowledge.’ I’m starting to think joining them wouldn’t be so bad.

No one talks to me. The survivors I could once contact have vanished. ‘Day’ is getting longer; ‘Night’ is getting shorter. Will the night eventually disappear?

Now, the only thing keeping me alive is this broadcast. I can’t give up. I have to hold out here and wait for Qin Zhou to save us.

Qin Zhou, Qin Zhou, Qin Zhou… when will you come?

I’m so hungry. I ate a book.

The eyes are the windows to the soul. Eyes are so important. How can I stay in the dark forever? I need to be in the light. It’s good for the eyes. It’s so bright outside. I want to go out—”

Mu Sichen slammed the journal shut.

Though the final line wasn’t as potent as the textbooks, it still triggered a slight discomfort. Reading further would undoubtedly compromise his mental state.

However, the journal had provided a wealth of information.

This place was dangerous, and the brighter it was, the more dangerous it became. The source of the threat wasn’t the light itself, but “Eyes”—or rather, “The Gaze.”

Knowledge related to eyes caused mental derangement, even madness. And the writings of the mad could infect the sane.

Rule Number One: Do not meet “Their” gaze. Do not fall into “Their” line of sight.

Mu Sichen pulled out his notebook and jotted down his deductions, heavily underlining the words EYES and GAZE. If he were to accidentally lose his sanity or forget details, these physical notes would be his lifeline.

The journal also mentioned someone named Qin Zhou. The owner seemed to have used that name as an anchor for their sanity. On the cover of the journal, a string of numbers was scribbled—a radio frequency.

After a moment of deliberation, Mu Sichen decided to trust the lead.

He tuned the radio to the frequency. As he did, he positioned the pickaxe so that the handle was propped up; if he lost consciousness or went mad, his grip would slacken, and the heavy metal head would drop onto his own skull.

It would hurt, and it might cause an injury, but the pain would serve as a “reset” to keep him grounded and prevent him from ending up like the journal’s owner.

Mu Sichen solemnly pressed the “Play” button.

Author’s Note: Journal Owner: I’m mad, but I’m happy! Mu Sichen: Exactly. Who in their right mind writes in a journal anyway!