Mu Sichen walked over quickly and saw Cheng Xubo writing on the supplementary rules board: “Family members are not allowed to load patients and their beds into handcarts to transport them around.”

Mu Sichen: “…”

The mental image of Cheng Xubo’s “violation” was disturbingly vivid.

As Cheng Xubo finished, the words flashed with a crimson light and etched themselves into the paper. Looking at them, Mu Sichen felt an immediate, phantom sense of restriction. Cheng Xubo tilted his head as if listening to something invisible, nodded with satisfaction, and hung the pen back on its wall hook. The moment he let go, the pen vanished.

Only then did Cheng Xubo notice Mu Sichen. “Brother! I finally found you! This game is cursed—let’s team up, okay?”

Mu Sichen glanced at his name tag. Unsurprisingly, it read: Family Member: Cheng Xubo.

He also noted a subtle distinction: Chi Lian called him “Savior,” while Cheng Xubo called him “Brother.” Without an Ego Sticker, even with high trust and favorability, Cheng Xubo was not his “Follower.”

Mu Sichen nodded toward the board. “What did you do?”

At the question, Cheng Xubo turned pale. “I just got here, and the intercom told me to take care of a patient. I went to the ward and saw… god, it was too scary to describe. And the worst part is, it’s contagious! Look at my arm!”

His pollution was even worse than Mu Sichen’s had been; half his arm was covered in fish-eye blisters.

“And then?”

“Then? It’s a plague! The patient was screaming on the bed about how he wouldn’t take the cure, how he’d rather die and ‘return to the Lord of Night-Bloom.’ He pulled a knife out of nowhere and tried to slit his own throat! The intercom started screaming at me to protect the patient’s life and assist the doctor. I knocked the knife away, but he kept howling. I hit the call button, but no one came. I couldn’t wait, so I used my skill to stuff the guy and his entire bed into my handcart to find a doctor.

“I tried to get into the elevator, but that volunteer with the eye-stalks kicked me out. The intercom told me that until discharge, a patient must be tethered to their bed. I hadn’t technically broken a rule, but since taking the bed out was ‘unprecedented,’ the system called it a loophole. It let me off this time, but forced me to write a rule to close the gap. If I do it again, I’ll be punished.”

“I thought you were some kind of genius who figured out how to add rules on your own,” Chi Lian said, stepping forward. “Turns out you’re just a troublemaker!”

“Chi Lian! You’re here too?” Cheng Xubo exhaled with relief. Seeing a familiar face seemed to halt the spread of the blisters on his arm.

“We’re lucky,” Chi Lian chirped. “To find each other in that fog…”

“It wasn’t luck,” Mu Sichen said firmly. “The sanitarium was summoning us.”

Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo shared a look. Recalling their journey through the mist, they realized he was right. The joy of reunion faded, replaced by a cold unease. But Chi Lian’s mental state was far better than Cheng Xubo’s. She glanced at Mu Sichen and felt a surge of confidence. “It’s okay! Captain Mu is smart. He’ll get us through this.”

“Captain Mu? Isn’t his name Sha Dayan?” Cheng Xubo asked.

Chi Lian explained the pseudonym, and Cheng Xubo slapped his forehead. “You can use fake names? I used my real name! I got scammed!”

Seeing that Cheng Xubo was completely in the dark, Chi Lian dumped everything Mu Sichen had told her onto him. He nodded along frantically. “Oh, I see. Wow. I’m so glad I found you guys. This place is a death trap.”

“It is,” Chi Lian said. “But you’re actually pretty impressive, being able to add a rule. We were looking for a way to do that. Captain, how exactly does the rule-adding work?”

Mu Sichen had already puzzled it out. “It’s simple. The intercom gave it away: it’s a ‘loophole.’ Cheng Xubo added a rule because he did something the sanitarium didn’t want, but hadn’t explicitly forbidden. He triggered a ‘program bug,’ and the system needed a patch.”

Essentially, locking patients to beds implied they shouldn’t leave their rooms. But because the locks usually worked, the hospital hadn’t bothered to write it down. By physically moving the bed, Cheng Xubo exposed the flaw.

“But why make me write it?” Cheng Xubo scratched his head. “I’m just ‘Family.’ Where are the bosses? Where’s the Director?”

“There don’t seem to be any leaders here,” Chi Lian noted. “We haven’t even seen Apostle Feather-Eye yet.”

Their conversation sparked a realization in Mu Sichen. He remembered Yao Wangping rummaging through rooms without being stopped. Chi Lian had swapped identities, and he had converted ten volunteers into patients—all without a single warning. Yet, moving a bed triggered an immediate alarm.

“Why is harming the hierarchy okay, but moving a patient isn’t?” Mu Sichen asked.

“Exactly,” Cheng Xubo added. “You guys were ‘mean’ to doctors and volunteers, and nothing happened. I tried to help a patient and got flagged. I felt like I was doing the right thing!”

Mu Sichen’s eyes sharpened. “There are two differences. First: Cheng Xubo was being ‘kind’ to a patient, while we were being ‘cruel’ to staff. Second: His action involved the patient, while ours involved other roles.”

“So…” Chi Lian mused, “either we aren’t allowed to be kind to anyone, or we specifically aren’t allowed to be kind to patients. This place is twisted.”

“And it’s not very ‘smart’ either,” Cheng Xubo said, looking at the rule he wrote. “There’s no manual oversight.”

“That’s it!” Mu Sichen exclaimed. “It’s not smart enough!”

If Big Eye knew he was siphoning followers to Qin Zhou, He would have obliterated them instantly. But the sanitarium allowed it.

“I think I know why,” Cheng Xubo said sheepishly, hiding his blistered arm. “I’m a mediocre programmer. Sometimes, the code I write technically works and hits the end goal, but the way it gets there is a total mess—going from A to C to D back to B just to get the result. I don’t know how it’s running, but as long as it’s running, I don’t touch it.”

Following that logic, the sanitarium was an automated program Big Eye had “written” to run while He slept. Big Eye wasn’t a great “coder”; the program was buggy and required constant patches—supplementary rules.

“Then what is the program’s goal?” Chi Lian asked.

Mu Sichen didn’t tell them about the Pillars; he wasn’t sure they could handle the truth. Instead, he thought about the “Bottom-Tier Elimination System.”

The Pillar needed negative energy: despair, grief, and agony. The sanitarium generated this by creating a hierarchy. The “Patients” were the bottom tier. Everyone else saw their suffering and lived in terror of falling into that role. To avoid becoming a patient, or to escape being one, you had to play by the hospital’s logic—which polluted your soul and fed the Pillar.

It made sense now. The hospital wanted more patients because they were the primary fuel source. That’s why Mu Sichen wasn’t stopped when he converted volunteers. But patients had to be miserable and stationary to maximize their despair. Therefore, Cheng Xubo’s attempt to “comfort” or “move” a patient had to be patched out.

Mu Sichen explained this simplified version to his teammates. “As long as this elimination system exists, the hospital doesn’t need a manager. It’s self-sustaining.”

“So the only way to survive is to oppress others or go mad?” Cheng Xubo looked at his arm with disgust. “This is vile.”

“I just want to go home,” Chi Lian whispered, her voice cracking. “Can we even go back?”

“I’d even go back to unpaid overtime,” Cheng Xubo sighed.

As the three of them sank into despair, Mu Sichen suddenly felt a gaze brush over him—not a direct stare, but a glance from the corner of an eye. He stood up, but the lobby was empty.

“Did you feel that? Someone watching us?”

“Yes!” Chi Lian hugged her arms. “I’ve felt it since the plaza. It was strong during the ‘Day,’ but it just came back.”

“I felt it too,” Cheng Xubo agreed.

“Big Eye is asleep, so it’s not Him,” Mu Sichen analyzed. “Is it the sanitarium itself?”

“Did we do something to trigger the ‘program’?”

Mu Sichen realized what had changed. “It’s the despair!”

Their sudden dip into hopelessness had attracted the program’s attention like a shark sensing blood. But because it was only a brief moment of sadness, the “eye” had merely glanced and moved on.

“Then I have to stay positive!” Chi Lian slapped her cheeks. “Chi Lian, you are the prettiest patient in this whole hospital!”

“Well,” Cheng Xubo joked, “given the competition, you’ve definitely won that pageant.”

As they joked to ward off the darkness, Mu Sichen had a radical thought. Yao Wangping’s search of the rooms, Shen Jiyue’s focus on the discharge office, his own theory about the four identities—they were all missing something.

What if the Pillar isn’t inside any of the rooms at all?

Author’s Note:

Qin Zhou: Excuse me? I have so much presence that even without Big Eye, I’d be the brightest star in the room. Chen-chen would spot me instantly.

Big Eye: Without me, Mu Sichen wouldn’t even know you exist!

Mu Sichen: Big Eye has a point.