…All Kin have been purged within Xiangping Town. Xiangping has now been declared a completely neutralized Safe Zone. Survivors in other settlements: hold fast. Do not let the Kin corrupt you. Do not let your towns consume you. Xiangping’s borders are expanding. We must believe in Qin Zhou. For as long as we believe in him, salvation is certain. He is humanity’s final hope… Repeating: Qin Zhou has purged Xiangping Town…”

The vintage radio droned on, repeating the loop. Mu Sichen listened, his brow furrowed.

He had no idea how powerful this man, Qin Zhou, actually was—but pinning the hope of the entire world on a single individual? That felt like an impossibly heavy burden to bear.

Mu Sichen thought back to the journal. Its owner had likely been just like this: trapped in a windowless room, listening to this broadcast on a loop as their food dwindled, waiting for a savior who never came until they finally spiraled into madness.

In fact, reading between the lines of those frantic entries, Mu Sichen had sensed a flicker of latent hatred. Before the owner lost their mind, they had already begun to loathe Qin Zhou for failing to rescue them in time.

Can one person really withstand that much expectation and vitriol? Mu Sichen wondered. Unless, of course, he’s a god.

And in this bizarre game world, the existence of a literal god wasn’t off the table. Mu Sichen shook his head and clicked the radio off.

“Don’t worry, Qin Zhou. I won’t be waiting for you to save me,” he murmured to himself.

After his parents passed away, Mu Sichen had fallen into a deep rut. Back then, he felt like the most pitiful soul on earth. He had craved for his parents to come back to life, to protect him as they always had; he had yearned for a savior to drag him out of the quagmire of his own pessimism.

But self-pity was a currency that bought nothing. Everyone had their own lives and their own burdens. The help others offered was only ever temporary. To truly stand up, one eventually had to rely on their own strength.

That was how he had rebuilt his life back then. Now, stranded in a strange world, he didn’t expect help from “humanity’s final hope.” He would find his own way back to reality.

And if there is no way back, he thought, I’ll carve out a place for myself here.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, Mu Sichen felt an incredibly sharp gaze land on him. He spun around, swinging his pickaxe in a wide arc, but found only empty air.

This was different from the earlier sensation of being watched. The previous “peeping” felt distant—like someone watching a building from across the street, knowing there was a person inside but not knowing their face or exact position.

But this gaze… it felt as if someone were staring directly into his soul, a look so visceral it was impossible to ignore. Yet, there was no one there. Mu Sichen couldn’t wrap his head around it.

[The player’s deduction is correct. You have been “Marked” by an Ineffable Existence.] The system prompted.

“So you are good for something,” Mu Sichen remarked.

[The system only confirms what the player has already deduced. The system will not provide hints for things the player does not yet know.]

“Then what use are you?” Mu Sichen muttered. Aside from leading him into traps, this system seemed utterly incompetent.

[Knowing too much of the ‘Unknown’ is detrimental to the player. You will understand in time.]

“I understand well enough right now.” Mu Sichen picked up the journal and the books from the desk, forming a basic hypothesis about his situation.

When he had first looked at the “Eye” books, the sudden vertigo and mental static had confused him. After reading the journal, the pieces clicked. It wasn’t that the books were “wrong” or the knowledge was “incorrect.” The problem was the act of Knowing itself.

The journal’s owner had repeatedly warned himself not to read the books, yet people outside the house constantly pressured him to recite the contents, testing his “understanding” of that knowledge.

The day the owner finally “consumed” the book—truly internalizing its contents—was the day he went mad.

This was a world of madness and unfathomable horrors. These “Unknowns” were things that could not be spoken of or understood. The more one “understood,” the closer one drew to the source of the horror, eventually falling into the abyss of insanity.

But if he never explored, never “understood,” he would end up like the journal’s owner: rotting in this room until the end.

It was a catch-22. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

And now, he had been “Marked.” Mu Sichen did a quick self-assessment. He could still analyze his surroundings rationally; his mind was intact. This suggested the “Mark” was currently a form of observation rather than active interference.

Since that was the case, he decided to push the thought of the Mark aside. It was possible the Mark itself was harmless, but the more he dwelled on it, the more he would be susceptible to its influence.

Focus on yourself. Stay rational. Listen less, think less. That seemed to be the survival manual for this place.

Mu Sichen put the Mark out of his mind and calculated his next move. Staying in the room was a dead end; he would either starve or lose his mind. Regardless of the dangers outside, he had to leave.

But stepping out unprepared would be suicide. His eyes fell on the journal, and a plan formed.

He sat back down at the desk. He reopened the book about “Eyes” and, simultaneously, turned the radio back on, letting the “Final Hope” broadcast play on a loop.

A broadcast that repeated the same phrase ad nauseam was a form of brainwashing. Similarly, the content of the book was a form of mental restructuring.

The journal owner had used the radio to cling to sanity until his food ran out. This proved that the radio’s “brainwashing” effect acted as a filter or a buffer against the town’s mental pollution. It could counter the vertigo.

Mu Sichen wanted to live and complete the system’s missions. He couldn’t afford to see nothing and know nothing. But if he looked, he would go mad.

The only solution was to fight fire with fire.

Mu Sichen raised his flashlight and focused intensely on the book. Dizziness immediately washed over him. But then, the radio spoke: “…Qin Zhou… Hope… Safe Zone… Xiangping…” The words acted like a splash of cold water, snapping him back to clarity. Using these brief windows of lucidity, he devoured the text.

He felt like a high school student again, struggling to stay awake during an English listening exam—drifting between sleep and wakefulness, catching half-sentences and relying on pure intuition to guess the answers.

Under this mental tug-of-war, Mu Sichen managed to get through half the book.

The book wasn’t actually about biology. It was a hagiography of a “Great Existence” who watched over humanity. The Great Existence saw the suffering of the world—the people’s thirst for protection and light—and, moved by compassion, cast His “benevolent gaze” upon the realm.

The area where His gaze fell became “Pupil Town.”

Under the Great Existence’s watch, the residents of Pupil Town would forever be happy, peaceful, and blessed. But the Great Existence grew weary; He could not keep His eyes open forever. Whenever He closed His eyes to rest, Pupil Town would plunge into darkness and despair.

To keep the Great Existence awake, the townspeople decided to become His eyes.

They protected their sight, made their eyes brighter, and sharpened their vision. Those who loved the Great Existence most fervently sought to increase the number of eyes they possessed, offering their sight to Him. These people became His “Kin.”

As the love between the townspeople and the Great Existence deepened, He stayed awake longer. “Day” grew longer; “Night” grew shorter.

Of course, there were always “Degenerates” who misunderstood or mistrusted Him. They weren’t bad people—just ignorant. Thus, the residents had to embrace the Degenerates, showing them His greatness and sacrifice, preaching His stories until they were converted.

One day, universal understanding would be achieved. The Great Existence would never sleep, and Pupil Town would finally become the “Ideal Home” for all!

Mu Sichen rubbed his eyes in agony. He had seen the word “Eye” so many times it had lost all meaning.

Moreover, he realized he had been subconsciously scribbling all over the desk. Under the beam of his flashlight, he saw the surface was covered in crooked, jagged iterations of two words: EYES and QIN ZHOU.

When his mind slipped toward the book’s influence, he wrote “EYES.” When the radio snapped him back, he wrote “QIN ZHOU.”

He looked away immediately, not daring to stare at the desk. He felt as if he had successfully transferred the mental pollution into the wood of the desk through his writing. If anyone were to try and read the scribbles now, they would likely lose their mind instantly.

What a chaotic, psychotic world.

In this place, it seemed only the mad could be happy. The sane were doomed to suffer.

But is that “happiness” even real?

Mu Sichen carefully recalled the text. Some phrases were chilling upon second thought. “Kin will find ways to increase their eyes”—how exactly? And “The Great Existence watches Pupil Town whenever He is awake”—does that mean His eyes are everywhere?

He didn’t dare dwell on those questions. If he did, he felt an uncontrollable urge to start drawing eyes on his own skin.

Thank god for the radio.

Thinking of the name “Qin Zhou” plastered all over the desk made Mu Sichen feel a bit sheepish. He had just declared he wouldn’t rely on the man, only to immediately use his name as a psychological anchor against the pollution.

“My bad. I’ll try to overcome the pollution with my own strength as soon as possible, Qin Zhou,” he promised himself.

No sooner had he spoken the name than he felt that same sharp, piercing gaze from before.

It was as if someone had glanced at him—and then glanced again.

A sudden thought struck him.

The fact that he subconsciously wrote “Qin Zhou” to counter the influence of Pupil Town… did that mean Qin Zhou possessed a power equal to that “Great Existence”?

And every time he spoke the name “Qin Zhou,” he felt that gaze.

“Is the person watching me… Qin Zhou?” he tested, saying the name once more.

Sure enough, the sensation of being watched returned, though this time the gaze felt a little less sharp.

“Does he look at everyone who calls his name? The journal had his name written several times—did he look at that guy every single time?” Mu Sichen asked aloud.

Immediately, he felt four distinct flickers of attention.

“Qin Zhou, Qin Zhou, Qin Zhou, Qin Zhou…”

Since he was already “Marked” anyway, Mu Sichen lost his fear. He began chanting the name like a mantra, testing just how accurate this “pinging” system was.

This time, however, he felt nothing.

Apparently, Qin Zhou had grown bored of him.

Author’s Note:

Mu Sichen: Qin Zhou.

Qin Zhou: Someone is calling me. I’ll take a look.

Mu Sichen: Qin Zhou.

Qin Zhou: I’ll look again.

Mu Sichen: Qin Zhou Qin Zhou Qin Zhou Qin Zhou Qin Zhou!

Qin Zhou: Qin Zhou is tired. Qin Zhou is going to sleep.