Mu Sichen did not enter the game pod from his hotel room. He considered the consequences: if he failed to return and a customer was found dead, it would ruin the hotel’s business. He didn’t want to leave that mess behind.

Instead, he waited for He Fei to leave for work, slipped back into the dorm to return his suitcase, stuffed the octopus plushie into his backpack, and left. He chose not to log in from the dorm either; if something happened, the teachers and staff who had approved his summer stay would face disciplinary action. Mu Sichen was not a man who enjoyed inconveniencing others.

He eventually found a quiet spot by the campus’s artificial lake and sat on a bench. If he never came back, “drowning” would be the most plausible explanation the system could arrange—the path of least impact.

With five minutes left on the clock, he pulled the backpack to his chest and unzipped it slightly, letting the octopus peek its head out. The bag was packed with more than just a divine stowaway; it was stuffed with snacks. Despite the high stakes of life and death in an alien world, he had packed it with Cola and spicy strips.

While packing, he had noticed the octopus lying motionless atop a pile of snacks. When he reached for a bottle of Cola to put in his suitcase, a tentacle had drifted out to gently coil around a second bottle. He had expected a tug-of-war—a divine struggle over carbonated sugar—but when he picked up the second bottle, there was no resistance. The tentacle simply lay there, soft and weightless.

“You like Cola, don’t you? Why didn’t you stop me?” he had asked.

The plushie hadn’t reacted.

Mu Sichen guessed the reason: Qin Zhou was the “Absolute Rationalist.” Even if the entity craved the snacks, logic would always prevail over impulse. It wasn’t the type to throw a tantrum.

Yet, precisely because the doll was so quiet and undemanding, Mu Sichen ended up packing a surplus of its favorites. There was no guarantee these items would even transition to the other world, and he certainly didn’t plan on eating them. Why carry the extra weight?

He wanted to test his own sanity. He felt he was in a dangerous headspace—knowing full well this doll was an avatar of a God, yet finding it uncontrollably “cute.” He enjoyed petting its head when it wasn’t looking, or shaking it awake just to see it suppress its “morning breath” frustration through sheer logic. He feared he was being polluted.

By doing something fundamentally irrational—carrying a bag of useless, heavy snacks—and feeling a sense of quiet joy rather than regret, he confirmed he hadn’t been “overwritten” by Qin Zhou’s logic.

But that realization brought its own mystery: if he wasn’t polluted, why was he so attached to this thing? He was already planning to buy a custom replica of the doll once this was over.

Mu Sichen eventually chalked it up to loneliness. His parents were gone, his relatives were strangers, and while he liked his roommates, he never truly opened up to them. Suddenly thrust into a world of cosmic horror where death was a constant shadow, he had a desperate, subconscious need to confide in someone.

Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo had each other. They had met up in reality to cry on each other’s shoulders. Mu Sichen understood them, but he wasn’t the type to reach out. He chose to carry the weight alone, but that didn’t mean the burden didn’t exist.

The octopus plushie had been there. It knew everything he had been through, it was seemingly harmless, and it stole his food. It was a perfect, silent container for his displaced emotions—a psychological anchor born of the “bridge effect.” He was careful to separate his feelings for the doll from his feelings for the actual Evil God, Qin Zhou.

He poked the octopus’s head and gave a lonely smile. “Once we hit Pupil Town, you’ll go back to being a tattoo on my chest, right?”

The plushie stared back with its giant, watery eyes.

“Last time we’ll see each other like this,” he whispered, rubbing its head.

I hope I survive. I hope Qin Zhou gets what He wants. And I hope we don’t end up as enemies.

The countdown hit zero. He shouldered his heavy pack and tapped the app.

The transition was much smoother this time. Instead of the sea-sickness of the first trip, it felt like standing still for a moment before the lobby of the sanitarium materialized around him. He had logged out in a Safe House, so he returned to a Safe House.

[Welcome back to the game.]

“System,” Mu Sichen muttered, “do you honestly still think we’re just ‘playing’ a game?”

The system was silent.

Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo appeared beside him almost instantly. “Captain Mu!” Chi Lian’s eyes shone with the light of a true believer. She lunged toward him like a fan meeting an idol. Cheng Xubo was more reserved, but his smile was warm and genuine. Mu Sichen merely gave them a curt nod.

He had other concerns: How much time had passed? Had the sanitarium been reclaimed by Big Eye? And… had the plushie returned to his chest?

He felt a weight on his back. He reached back and realized the backpack—and the snacks—had made the journey. He unzipped it. A tentacle was clamped onto a bottle of Cola, which was already half-empty.

The totem had not returned to his skin. It was still a doll.

Mu Sichen felt confused and inconvenienced, yet strangely relieved. He picked up the tentacle and noticed the suckers were now lined with tiny, needle-like barbs. They had pierced the plastic to drink the liquid. In the real world, those barbs hadn’t existed. The game world was “empowering” the doll.

“If you’re going to drink it, finish it. Don’t spill it in my bag,” he warned.

The doll blinked.

“And no blowing bubbles in there.”

The doll blinked again. Mu Sichen took that as a “yes.”

Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo leaned in to look. The moment they saw the octopus, their expressions turned to pure revulsion. Chi Lian covered her eyes. “Ugh! I see something filthy!”

“Disgusting,” Cheng Xubo added, turning away. “It’s uglier than an Apostle.”

Mu Sichen zipped the bag shut without a word. “Let’s move. We need to check the status of the sanitarium.”

“Oh, it’s definitely safe!” Chi Lian chirped. “The air feels so fresh here. Our world is great and all, but the smog back home is so thick.”

Cheng Xubo rubbed his thinning hair. “It really feels like a recovery center. I feel like if I stay here, my hair might actually grow back.”

They looked blissful—dangerously so. If it weren’t for the inherent risks of this world, they looked like they’d never want to leave. But Mu Sichen felt the opposite. He felt a literal, crushing weight on his shoulders that had nothing to do with the backpack. It was a phantom pressure, as if the entire sanitarium was leaning on him.

People began to filter through the lobby: mutated volunteers, normal-looking patients, and doctors in white coats. Everyone was smiling. Everyone looked vibrant.

A volunteer with an eye on his cheek spotted Mu Sichen and rushed over. “Dean! It’s been so long!”

“Dean?” Mu Sichen looked at him, confused.

“Yes! It’s been three days since you left,” the volunteer said. “We’ve missed you. We were worried, but seeing you now, we can finally rest easy.”

Three days. The players shared a look. Time in the game world moved in sync with reality while they were away, but reality froze while they were in the game. The laws of time were completely asymmetrical.

“How have things been?” Mu Sichen asked, suppressing his unease.

“Wonderful! We are happy, prosperous, and full of hope.” The volunteer crossed his hands over his chest, looking serene.

“Exactly! If you’re happy, we’re happy!” Chi Lian grabbed the volunteer’s hand, her warmth bordering on maternal.

Mu Sichen felt a chill. “When ‘The Day’ came… did the Eye of the Sky hurt anyone?”

The volunteer hadn’t lost his memory, only his allegiance. “There were a few earthquakes during ‘The Day,’ but they were minor. We all gathered together, prayed to the Dean with full hearts, and the tremors stopped. You protected us.”

Mu Sichen: “…”

He hadn’t protected anyone. He hadn’t heard a single prayer. At the time, he’d probably been pinching the octopus’s tentacles in a hotel room.

“See? As long as there’s hope, everything works out!” Chi Lian gushed, practically hugging the volunteer.

Mu Sichen watched them, horrified. This was his Pillar. These were the people in his domain. Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo were his followers. If “hope” looked like this—this blank, smiling compliance—how was it any different from Big Eye’s pollution? Was he just another flavor of Evil God?

He realized where the suffocating pressure was coming from. It was the weight of their expectations. He wasn’t a god; he just wanted to help them find their “Self.” He couldn’t carry the psychic burden of an entire population’s happiness.

He remembered the Ideal Town teaser game. The first half was using plants to fight zombies; the second half was rebuilding the home. He understood now. Taking a domain from a God was only the beginning. The real challenge was the reconstruction—not of buildings, but of the soul.

A system prompt appeared:

[Please establish a formal Town System. Address the living requirements of the residents and foster psychological independence.]

Mu Sichen felt a cold sweat. If he let his followers and the townspeople continue like this, he would be crushed by the weight of their devotion until he became a monster just like Big Eye or Qin Zhou. Those entities had divine power to sustain the burden; Mu Sichen was just a man.

The mental pressure from his followers was proving to be just as dangerous as the pollution of his enemies.

Author’s Note:

Qin Zhou (waving tentacles boastfully): I’m telling you, Mu Sichen dotes on me. Look at all these snacks he brought!

Mu Sichen: I have no feelings for you. I just like the doll.