Despite He Fei’s persistent threats, Mu Sichen stayed holed up in his hotel for the full three days. He kept tabs on his roommate through a friend in the dorm and found that, aside from a limp, He Fei seemed perfectly normal.

He Fei was even attending his internship as planned, only using his lunch breaks and evenings to hunt for Mu Sichen. If he were truly desperate, he likely could have found him in hours, but he didn’t waste the time. His life remained disciplined and orderly; seeking the octopus plushie seemed less like a mania and more like a dedicated hobby. He wasn’t obsessed—he was efficient.

In fact, he was performing better than ever.

Mu Sichen had done odd jobs for He Fei’s company in the past, so he checked in with an old contact. The report was startling: He Fei was doing “impossibly well.”

Despite showing up on crutches, his performance was flawless. He had developed a “poison eye” for detail. Whether it was a massive report or a complex spreadsheet, he could spot a typo, a misplaced comma, or a decimal error with a single glance. Within days, he had become the company’s unofficial lead auditor.

But Mu Sichen knew the real He Fei. The real He Fei was a guy who wrote “loose” when he meant “lose,” who constantly lost his keys, and who once went to a lecture wearing two different shoes. Forcing that He Fei to do proofreading would usually be a death sentence.

The current He Fei was precise, rational, and incapable of error—a “Social Elite” in every sense. It reminded Mu Sichen of a title Shen Jiyue had mentioned for Qin Zhou: “The Absolute Rationalist.”

He Fei’s brilliance didn’t exceed his existing knowledge; it simply made his mind operate like a high-precision machine. Through their texts, Mu Sichen could feel He Fei’s hunger for the doll, but the man suppressed it so he wouldn’t miss work or lose sleep. He was so “rational” it was frightening.

Mu Sichen delayed his return for two reasons. First, he didn’t know if he’d survive the next trip, so he spent his savings on good food, refusing to live his potential last days in misery. Second, he needed to observe the doll’s impact.

The fact that Qin Zhou had breached reality filled him with dread. If Qin Zhou could do it, could other Gods? Big Eye was only a “Star-Hiding” rank entity. Above that were “Sun-Obscuring” and “Sky-Shrouding” ranks. How much stronger were they?

Fortunately, He Fei’s changes were limited to his personality leaning toward Qin Zhou’s nature. But that was just Qin Zhou’s influence. If it had been Big Eye, He Fei might be staring into people’s retinas and spotting microscopic details they’d rather keep hidden.

“If your true body came here, what would happen?” Mu Sichen asked the plushie.

The answer vibrated in his mind: “A God cannot leave His throne for long.”

Mu Sichen felt a small measure of relief. As long as the Gods were tethered to their domains, reality was safe from a total invasion. The plushie also assured him that once it was gone, He Fei would slowly return to normal.

During these three days, Mu Sichen developed a habit of absentmindedly stroking the plushie’s head. He only dared to be this bold because it wasn’t the “main body,” and he’d discovered the doll was surprisingly easy to care for. As long as it was fed, clean, and allowed to sit by the window to gaze at the sun with its watery eyes, it was quite docile.

And the texture was incredible. Its head was silky and springy—cooler than room temperature. Touching it in the summer heat was like poking a refreshing, non-sticky jelly or a balloon filled with ice water, though far more durable.

Mu Sichen used the excuse of “communication” to pet the head and squeeze the tentacles. As he did, he asked if there were ranks above “Sky-Shrouding.”

The octopus hesitated, then pressed a tentacle to his brow. “Only those below ‘Sky-Shrouding’…” Qin Zhou’s majestic voice echoed.

Mu Sichen didn’t even have time to process the sentence before his mind fractured. It was like eating a toxic mushroom. Reality warped. The desk became a dog with wavy legs; the bed became a bubbling, multicolored swamp; the door transformed into a gaping, fanged beast.

He tried to breathe, but saw thousands of tiny people rushing into his nose, threatening to turn his insides into sludge. He held his breath, desperate to escape the kaleidoscopic hall of mirrors. He saw a wide, sunlit road behind a glass door and ran for it, pulling the door open and lunging toward the light.

Suddenly, something cold pressed against his eyes. His forehead felt a rush of clarity. Mu Sichen froze.

He touched the cold object—it was the octopus’s tentacle. The springy texture grounded him. He exhaled, his vision clearing. He was standing on the windowsill, one leg dangling over the edge.

They were on the sixth floor. If he had “run for the light,” he would have been a puddle on the pavement. He stepped back, closed the window, and stared at the room in horror. It was just like looking at Big Eye, only worse. Just knowing the existence of a higher rank had nearly driven him to suicide.

The tentacle remained on his brow. “I thought you could handle it,” the voice said. It sounded regal, but there was a hint of… apology?

Mu Sichen didn’t blame it. In a way, he had handled it. Even while hallucinating, he’d sought a way out rather than giving in to the monsters.

“You always answer in riddles… is it because the truth would break me?”

The doll said nothing. Silence was its own answer.

Mu Sichen felt a profound weight. Why was he going mad from information about a game world while standing in the middle of a hotel in reality? The power was leaking. Reality was no longer a total “Safe House.”

“You and the system both keep me in the dark to protect me,” Mu Sichen said bitterly. “I guess ignorance really is bliss.”

Seeing him so despondent, the doll hesitated, then patted his forehead with a tentacle. “Be rational,” the command echoed in his mind.

Whether it was a divine ability or just the sheer authority in the voice, Mu Sichen’s depression evaporated. “You’re surprisingly good at comforting people,” he smiled. “But could you get off my head? You’re so cold my brain feels like it’s in an ice bath.”

The doll elegantly retracted its tentacles from his hair and slid down.

“One day at a time,” Mu Sichen sighed. “I go back tomorrow. Before I worry about the world, I should worry about myself.”

He checked his messages. Chi Lian had been busy. She’d contacted Cheng Xubo and started a small group chat. She had found three other players who had received invites.

They were all dead.

One had choked on a meal; one had tripped and hit their head on a sharp stone; one had been struck by lightning while standing under a pole. Their deaths were “accidental,” but the timing was unmistakable.

Chi Lian had tried to warn other potential invitees, but just like on the forum, her warnings turned into praise for the game. She’d even traveled to meet a player in person, but when she tried to speak the truth, her throat locked up. She couldn’t even write it down. The game was a closed loop.

[Chi Lian:] I tried Morse code, but the moment I wrote it, the message changed. I’ve tried everything. I’m helpless. [Cheng Xubo:] We’re on an island. We go back tomorrow. I feel so hopeless. [Mu Sichen:] Maybe it’s better not to know some things. [Chi Lian:] Don’t be afraid! There’s always a way. We have to have hope. Hope might not guarantee a win, but without it, we’ve already lost!

The word “Hope” made Mu Sichen flinch. He had named his town “Hope Town.” He wondered if his teammates were being influenced by his “faith” in the same way He Fei was influenced by Qin Zhou.

He took a photo of the octopus plushie and sent it to the group. [How does this doll make you feel?]

[Chi Lian:] Ugly. Not nearly as good-looking as you. [Cheng Xubo:] Looks annoying. Doesn’t have your charm.

Mu Sichen: “…” He was glad they weren’t being brainwashed by the doll, but why were they comparing him to an octopus? Was he the benchmark for beauty now?

He looked at the doll. It was currently dunking a tentacle into a fresh coconut Mu Sichen had bought, slurping up juice and blowing white, coconut-scented bubbles. It looked adorable.

He checked the phone again. [Chi Lian:] I deleted the photo. Looking at it felt like I was betraying the team. [Cheng Xubo:] Captain, send more photos of yourself. I feel sick looking at that thing.

Mu Sichen realized the truth. The doll was attracting them, but their existing “faith” in Mu Sichen was fighting it off, resulting in a physical repulsion toward the doll.

“I’m sending you back tomorrow,” Mu Sichen said firmly.

The octopus stiffened mid-slurp, looking remarkably reluctant.

Author’s Note:

Qin Zhou: I thought you said I was cute? Why send me back? I can be your personal AC unit!

Mu Sichen: In summer, maybe. In winter, you’re a paperweight. Use them and lose them—that’s the player way.