Mu Sichen recalled the moment the octopus plushie fell. He had a sinking feeling it had slipped directly out of his chest.

The ordeal in Pupil Town had made him hyper-vigilant. He didn’t touch the toy immediately; instead, he peeled back his shirt to inspect his skin. The tattoo Qin Zhou had left on his chest was gone.

Mu Sichen hadn’t checked the mirror the moment he returned, so he couldn’t be sure if the tattoo had vanished before the plushie appeared or if he simply hadn’t brought the ink back with him. Logically, the tattoo was a manifestation of Qin Zhou’s power and should have remained in that twisted world. It shouldn’t have followed him.

He knew his roommates well; none of them owned a plushie this simultaneously adorable and unsettling. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment—his left eye felt normal. He hadn’t brought Big Eye’s power back with him. Since both the eye and the tattoo were the marks of “Gods,” it stood to reason that if the eye power stayed behind, the tattoo should have too.

He leaned in closer. The plushie was blue, with large, watery eyes that looked like they belonged in a high-end shoujo manga. Its mouth was a small, perfect ‘O.’ Mu Sichen plucked up his courage and poked the octopus’s head.

It was springy—made of a strange, Q-tip soft material. It wasn’t plush, wasn’t plastic, and wasn’t the silicone used for high-end figurines. Mu Sichen wasn’t a collector, but he had never felt a texture that so closely mimicked the flesh of a real squid, yet with much better structural integrity. A real squid would be a limp mess, but this thing stood proudly on its eight little tentacles.

Meeting that sparkling, wide-eyed gaze, he whispered tentatively, “Qin Zhou?”

The plushie didn’t react.

Mu Sichen felt like an idiot. He stared at it for a long time, but it showed no signs of life. He couldn’t watch it forever, but he was too afraid to move it, so he left it where it was and turned to his computer.

He checked the official website for My Ideal Town. It was still there, the latest announcement still recruiting beta testers. On the forums, people were complaining that the teaser minigame was too simplistic.

Mu Sichen tried to type: “There is something wrong with this game. Do not click the invite link. Do not give them your address.”

He hit enter. The published post read: “I got the invite! The game is totally different from the teaser, it’s amazing! Everyone should try it!”

Mu Sichen: “…”

He tried again: “If you accidentally log in, make sure to exit within the first ten minutes.”

It posted as: “Oh my god, this game is incredible! I played all night and didn’t want to leave. Make sure you use those first ten minutes to explore every corner!”

He nearly smashed his keyboard in rage. He was being used as an unwilling accomplice to lure more victims. He was about to close the browser when he saw a post from a user named Lianyi Fairy: “I got the invite! The game is totally different… it’s amazing!”

It was the exact same script his own posts had been converted into. Based on the ID, he suspected it was Chi Lian. He sent her a private message: [Sha Dayan.]

He was being cautious. If it was her, she’d recognize the name of the “Volunteer” he’d impersonated. If it was a stranger, they’d just think it was spam.

Lianyi Fairy replied instantly: [My savior! It’s me, Chi Lian! My QQ number is XXXXXX, add me!]

Mu Sichen used a burner account to add her. He needed to communicate, but he wasn’t ready to reveal his real-world identity. A digital-only connection was safer.

Once added, Chi Lian’s messages flooded in: [Captain! Mu! Someone in my gaming group just died!]

Mu Sichen’s heart skipped a beat. [What happened?]

[Chi Lian:] We have a group where we share guides. Another guy and I got the invite at the same time. After I logged out, I tried to message him, but he never replied. Just now, his roommate posted that he found him dead in his room. They’re saying it was sudden death from an all-night gaming marathon.

A chill ran down Mu Sichen’s spine. Those four players “purified” by the Apostle… they must have died just like that in the real world. He and Chi Lian were the lucky ones.

[I understand,] he replied curtly.

Chi Lian wasn’t looking for comfort; she was looking for a plan. [Captain, what do we do in three days?]

[What happens in three days?]

[Haven’t you checked your phone?]

Mu Sichen had been too busy inspecting his body, the plushie, and the computer. He opened his phone. In an obscure folder, a new app had appeared: [Game Pod].

The physical pod was gone, but the gateway was now in his pocket. He opened it. A countdown timer stared back at him: 71:45:52.

Seventy-two hours. Their vacation was brutally short.

He tapped the timer. A text box appeared:

[Please log in within 72 hours to execute your next mission. You may enter early if you wish. Enter now?]

Mu Sichen tapped [NO] without hesitation. He wasn’t going back to that hellhole until the very last second.

As he looked down at his phone, he suddenly felt a pair of eyes on his back. He spun around. No one was there—only the octopus plushie.

After Pupil Town, he knew better than to dismiss a “feeling” as a hallucination. He walked over to the desk and measured the plushie’s position against the tile lines.

“You moved,” he said firmly.

The plushie remained still.

“The tiles in this dorm are 80x80cm,” Mu Sichen pointed out. “You were 20cm from that line. Now you’re 10cm away. Do you think I’m blind?”

He had ignored the plushie on purpose, waiting for it to think he had let his guard down before pouncing. Sure enough, it had crept closer.

“You’re the tattoo Qin Zhou left on me,” Mu Sichen deduced. “A clone? An avatar? Why are you here? Big Eye’s power didn’t follow me back.”

The presence of Qin Zhou in the real world terrified him. The game was one thing—a dangerous, metaphysical space where you could die—but reality was supposed to be the sanctuary. It was where you could sleep with your back to the door. He didn’t want the nightmare crossing the threshold.

The plushie didn’t move. Mu Sichen poked it again. “Can you even talk?”

When it remained a silent doll, he reached for its eyes, intending to poke them. Just before his finger made contact, the plushie’s eyes squeezed shut.

“So you can move, but not speak?”

Realizing it couldn’t play dead anymore, the plushie tapped a tentacle against the desk, signaling him. Mu Sichen remembered their communication method. He picked it up and pressed the tapping tentacle to his forehead.

“You did not keep your promise,” a majestic, booming voice echoed in his mind. The contrast between the cute toy and the god-like voice was jarring.

Mu Sichen remembered the deal: Qin Zhou’s power in exchange for more followers and the destruction of the Pillar. He had technically “mined” followers for Qin Zhou, but he’d immediately swapped them back to Big Eye to farm stickers. As for the Pillar, he hadn’t destroyed it for Qin Zhou—he had stolen it for himself.

He’d definitely played the God for a fool.

“My apologies,” Mu Sichen said. “But at that moment, the Pillar was the only ‘antidote’ to my impending madness. I had to take it to survive. Not just for me, but for Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo too.”

He tried to sound reasonable, but he knew his argument was weak. His Big Eye powers were system-granted, so they were “stored” by the system when he logged out. But his bond with Qin Zhou was a direct deal, bypasssing the system. Because he hadn’t fulfilled his end and still carried the mark, Qin Zhou had used it as an anchor to follow him home.

One should never break a promise to a God.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Mu Sichen promised solemnly. “What else do you need? I’m stronger now. I can be more useful to you than before.”

The plushie lifted a short tentacle, but it couldn’t reach his head. Mu Sichen lowered his brow to meet it.

“The Pillar itself is secondary,” Qin Zhou’s voice vibrated in his skull. “The goal is to shatter the domain barrier of Pupil Town. There are two Pillars left. You must destroy at least one of them.”

Mu Sichen knew he had to go back anyway, and the system would likely target the remaining Pillars. His goals aligned with Qin Zhou’s—for now.

“Should I destroy it with your power, or seize it like I did this time?”

He kept his forehead pressed to the tentacle. He needed to be on his best behavior to convince this “plague god” to return to the other world.

“The barrier and the Eye of the Sky are what matter. Not the ownership,” Qin Zhou replied.

Mu Sichen recalled Shen Jiyue’s words: the Pillars maintained the domain. Without the domain, Big Eye would be defenseless against Qin Zhou.

“So, just one more?” Mu Sichen asked. “If two out of three are gone, the barrier becomes unstable, right?”

Qin Zhou didn’t respond. The tentacle went limp. Apparently, the God had finished his conversation and didn’t care for small talk.

Mu Sichen carefully placed the octopus on his desk, gave it a respectful bow with his hands clasped, and said, “I’ll get it done.”

The plushie closed its eyes, seemingly done with him.

He finally had time to check his phone. Chi Lian had sent dozens of messages: [Captain? Are you there? Oh god, did you log back in already?!]

He quickly reassured her and suggested they all log in five minutes before the countdown hit zero. She agreed immediately, promising to follow his every command.

Mu Sichen sighed. He wanted to plan for the next mission, but he knew too little about the remaining Pillars.

Forget it. I’m on vacation.

But even a vacation requires money, and Mu Sichen was broke. He took a two-hour gig as a gaming merc, boosting a client’s rank. By the time he finished, it was dark and he was starving. He pulled out a pack of instant noodles for a cheap dinner.

As the noodles were steeping, the dorm door swung open. His roommate, He Fei, was back.

“Why are you here?” Mu Sichen asked. It was summer break; most students were home.

He Fei tossed his suitcase aside and flopped onto his bed. “My parents got sick of me. Said I was becoming a ‘useless person.’ They told me to get an internship and experience life. I found a spot nearby, so I figured I’d stay in the dorm to save on rent.”

“That’s… good. Internships are good.” Mu Sichen looked away, thankful the game pod had shrunk into an app.

“Better than being nagged at home. Man, those noodles smell amazing. Give me a bite? I haven’t eaten since I got off the train.” He Fei eyed the desk.

“You can have the soup. The noodles are off-limits,” Mu Sichen said, shielding his bowl. He knew He Fei’s “one bite” could clear half a bowl.

“Don’t be stingy, I just—” He Fei stopped mid-sentence.

His gaze locked onto the octopus plushie sitting next to the noodles. The plushie stared back with its giant, manga eyes. He Fei walked over and dropped to his knees by the desk, staring at the toy with a look of pure, star-struck adoration.

Mu Sichen realized something was wrong and slapped the back of He Fei’s head.

He Fei blinked, snapping out of it. “Where did you get this? It’s so…”

Mu Sichen expected him to say “cute” or “cool.”

Instead, He Fei whispered, “…so divine.”

Mu Sichen grabbed the plushie and stuffed it under his blanket. “It was a bonus for a game top-up,” he said coldly.

Author’s Note:

Qin Zhou: Mu Sichen didn’t keep his promise, but he let me sleep in his bed!

Mu Sichen: I need to find a way to send this “Plague God” back where he came from!