Mu Sichen exhausted every ounce of his willpower to keep himself from taking a bite out of the octopus’s head. Judging by the way the plushie was trembling, he suspected it had exhausted the collective courage of this entire avatar just to stay within reach.

They had both done their best.

Through their mutual struggle, the tentacle finally managed to press against Mu Sichen’s forehead. His mind instantly cleared.

The octopus wasn’t a permanent fix for madness; even an ordinary person like He Fei would eventually snap back to reality after being away from the doll. As a “Pillar-holder,” Mu Sichen had an even higher resistance to the entity’s influence. Unless he balanced the octopus on his head 24/7, such brief contact would only keep him lucid for a minute at most.

He used that minute to scramble into the Energy Pod and carefully click “Inject Energy.”

The moment he pressed the button, he felt a sickening wrench, as if his soul were being peeled away. Fortunately, the sensation was fleeting, ending before the pain could truly register.

Sitting up, Mu Sichen looked at his badge. The distinct, jarring black streak he had siphoned from the Dragonfly-Eyed Follower had vanished.

The secret of the Energy Zone was finally laid bare.

The kaleidoscopic colors on the badges they received upon entry represented their emotions. A normal human is a walking contradiction—complex, nuanced, and emotionally rich—which results in a vibrant array of colors. Like the despair required by the sanitarium’s Pillar, these were all forms of soul energy.

The difference lay in the method. The sanitarium amplified despair until it drowned out everything else, consuming the soul whole. The processing plant’s Energy Pods, however, siphoned off “expendable” emotions one by one, converting them into fuel.

Mu Sichen had pieced this together after seeing the assembly worker on the road. That man’s badge had been reduced to just three colors, and his expression was utterly vacant. Mu Sichen suspected then that the “work” in this factory was a slow process of spiritual erosion.

Employees started in the Energy Zone with a full spectrum of feelings. Each day, a piece of their humanity was taken. When they reached a certain threshold of numbness, they were “demoted” to Mid-Level and sent to the Assembly Zone—becoming like the hollow man Mu Sichen had seen. He hadn’t quite figured out how one reached the “Breeding Grounds” yet.

He had two reasons for betting that the pod took the least important emotions first: First, while the assembly worker had few colors, they were deep and intense, suggesting only the most core, ingrained emotions remained. Second, humans are both resilient and fragile; they can survive losing almost everything, but losing a “load-bearing” emotion can lead to suicide. To maximize efficiency, the factory had to be gradual—starting with the trivial.

By stealing the Dragonfly-Eyed Follower’s emotions, Mu Sichen had provided the machine with five “useless” feelings (to him), ensuring his own soul remained intact.

He pressed the button four more times, feeding the rest of the stolen traits into the machine.

“Employee Chun Xiaoyan has exceeded expectations, completing five days’ worth of work in a single day. You provided a massive surge of energy to the Assembly Zone. For the next five days, you may enjoy all food and public facilities in the Energy Zone. You may interact freely with other employees, provided they have finished their work.”

A mechanical voice chimed from the pod. He had cleared the first hurdle.

Mu Sichen knew that to act within the factory, one had to “inject” energy first. But using your own emotions meant entering the factory’s ruleset and becoming part of its pollution. He thought of Yao Wangping—a man he didn’t particularly like for his cold, “absolute logic,” but whom he respected. Yao had fought an Apostle even while half-corrupted, proving that being “polluted” didn’t strictly mean failure. Still, caution was better than injury.

Now safe himself, he worried about Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo. They were his followers and his fellow players. He couldn’t leave them to drift.

But how do I reach them if I can’t contact employees who haven’t finished their work?

His eyes fell on the octopus plushie, which was currently trying to crawl back into his backpack. He remembered that Qin Zhou could relay information through totems.

“Can high-level entities send messages to their followers through their totems?” Mu Sichen asked the doll.

The octopus blinked. Mu Sichen took that as a yes.

He closed his eyes and focused on the “Self Totem” on his lower back. Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo both wore his hand-drawn totems, which had been strengthened by the Pillar and their own growing hope. He visualized their marks and felt two invisible channels open—conduits connecting his totem to theirs.

He sent a focused thought through the link: The “Inject Energy” button steals emotions. Do not use your own. Find a way to steal the feelings of a Follower.

As the link began to fade, he added: Meet at the basketball court when finished.

That single sentence left Mu Sichen drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted. He was baffled; his followers used his power effortlessly, yet a simple telepathic message nearly drained him dry.

He dragged the now-vacant Dragonfly-Eyed Follower into the bathroom. Without Malice, Diligence, or Appetite, the creature was a limp rag. It didn’t fight back, nor did it care that it was being locked in a stall. It still believed in Big Eye, but it had become a biological machine—incapable of taking any initiative beyond a direct order.

Seeing the creature, Mu Sichen knew one thing for certain: in this factory, you could not afford to lose even the smallest part of yourself.

Once the creature was stowed away, the adrenaline faded, and a sharp, throbbing pain flared in his left arm. He had forgotten the fracture in the heat of the moment. Finding a well-stocked first-aid kit in the suite, he disinfected his scrapes and fashioned a makeshift splint with bandages. It was rudimentary, but it would prevent further damage.

He swallowed a painkiller. While it didn’t fully dull the fracture, it made the rest of his body feel strangely light and energized.

He turned on the TV and selected the film Wolf Warrior. Seeing familiar actors on the screen, his heart sank. It wasn’t just a similar world; these were the exact movies from home.

He shouldered his pack with his good arm and limped toward the basketball court. A few “High-Level” employees were playing—likely those who still had enough emotion left to enjoy sport. Mu Sichen sat on a bench and closed his eyes.

He would wait thirty minutes. If his team didn’t show, he’d move on alone. Exhaustion took over, and he drifted into a light, restless sleep.

He was jolted awake by a presence nearby. His right hand shot out, clamping onto the intruder’s wrist.

Opening his eyes, he saw a handsome, familiar face.

It was Shen Jiyue.

Mu Sichen almost called his name, but remembered he was currently wearing He Fei’s face. He bit his lip and stayed silent.

“Did I startle you?” Shen Jiyue asked with a friendly smile, holding an energy drink. “You looked exhausted, so I brought you something.”

Mu Sichen released him and took the bottle but didn’t drink. He had eaten the factory’s bread once out of ignorance; now that he knew the “energy” came from souls, he wasn’t touching a thing produced here.

Shen Jiyue noticed the splint on his arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you were injured.” He reached out, took the bottle back to twist the cap for him, and set it back down.

Mu Sichen noticed Shen Jiyue’s badge. It was colorful, meaning he hadn’t lost much, but the pattern was strange. Usually, emotions on the badges blended like a gradient—red bleeding into orange, blue into purple. It reflected the messy, overlapping nature of human feelings.

On Shen Jiyue’s badge, the colors were sharp and distinct, like a mosaic of Tangram tiles. A red diamond sat next to a blue triangle with a hard, unwavering border. He looked like an incredibly compartmentalized person.

Mu Sichen dismissed the thought; perhaps it was just the influence of Qin Zhou. Qin Zhou was the God of Absolute Rationality, and both his followers—Yao Wangping and Shen Jiyue—seemed to share that cold, distinct clarity.

Just as he thought of the God, his backpack shifted. A tentacle reached out and shoved a can of Cola from his own stash into his hand.

Mu Sichen was stunned. The octopus was notoriously possessive of its snacks; for it to voluntarily give up a can of Cola was a minor miracle.

“I brought my own, thanks,” Mu Sichen said to Shen Jiyue, popping the tab with one hand.

“Ah, my mistake. We’re in the Energy Zone—how could we ever lack for food?” Shen Jiyue tapped his bottle against Mu Sichen’s can in a toast and took a long drink. His manner was effortlessly charming.

Mu Sichen drained the Cola. The sugar and caffeine hit his system, clearing the fog in his head.

A moment later, two figures burst into the court area. They scanned the crowd and sprinted toward him.

It was Chi Lian and Cheng Xubo.

Seeing them approach, Mu Sichen let out a long sigh of relief. Neither of them showed signs of corruption; they had passed the test.

Author’s Note:

Qin Zhou: Don’t drink other people’s drinks. Here, I’m giving you my vintage 1982 Cola.

Mu Sichen: I literally bought that with my own money.