The ground was pristine, as if the four players had never existed.

Mu Sichen wasn’t sure if they would respawn, and he wasn’t optimistic. He could only hope for their sake that death wasn’t permanent. The other three “obedient” players shared his dread; they kept their heads low, silent and still. When the Followers finally permitted the crowd to stand, Mu Sichen saw the trio’s SAN values plummet below 50. They were spiraling, their terror becoming visible and uncontrolled.

The ordinary residents, however, showed no change. Their eyes remained vacant, their interest in the world around them extinguished.

What truly shocked Mu Sichen was the mystery man. His SAN value hadn’t dropped; it had climbed from +528 to +543.

Sanity was inherently volatile, tied to one’s emotional state. In a normal environment, a 20-point fluctuation was standard. But in the face of such horror, most people would lose points. How did this person gain them?

Mu Sichen suppressed his curiosity for the moment and continued to observe.

Apostle Feather-Eye’s voice rang out across the plaza. “Residents of Pupil Town, who protected us after the Great Cataclysm?”

“The Great Existence,” the residents droned in unison. Their voices were flat, devoid of emotion—the sound of organic machines.

“Indeed,” the Apostle continued. “Without the gaze of the ‘Sky-Pupil,’ we would be wanderers, unclothed, starving, and lost. Give thanks for His protection.”

“Give thanks for His protection,” the residents echoed, their voices gaining a slight, unsettling edge of fervor.

Mu Sichen mimicked the mouth movements without making a sound. Even so, the collective vibration of their voices made his head swim. His SAN began to slip. The death of the four players had already cost him 10 points due to a lingering sense of shared humanity; now, this spiritual assault was pushing his mind toward chaos.

“Even when ‘Night’ falls, under His grace, we still have food, clothing, shelter, and a safe town,” the Apostle declared.

As he spoke, the phantom choir in Mu Sichen’s head accelerated. They sang a frantic, breathtaking hymn directly into his ears, drowning out his ability to think rationally. To fight the confusion, Mu Sichen began to pick apart the Apostle’s words. Questioning requires logic; logic stabilizes Sanity.

Basic goods require labor, he thought. Nothing appears from thin air. Yet, according to the town’s lore, they didn’t farm, didn’t manufacture, and didn’t trade. Everything was a “gift” from Big Eye. This was fundamentally unscientific—unless this town really was a game instance where resources were spawned by a program.

For a heartbeat, the illusion of “it’s just a game” took root. He felt a surge of reckless confidence. Then, the hallucinations began.

The Apostle dismissed the crowd with a benevolent wave. Mu Sichen looked toward the spot where the four players had died.

In a daze, he saw them standing there again, revived and unharmed. They were huddled together, discussing boss mechanics.

The gunman sighed. “We messed up. We’re under-leveled. Can’t rush the dungeon boss; we need to grind. My gun only has six shots—that’s a huge handicap. I need to find more ammo.”

The hammer-wielder nodded. “We should pick off the trash mobs first—take out the Followers one by one. Once we hit a higher level, we’ll take on Feather-Eye.”

“We need a full party,” the rope-user added. “Gun and Hammer are DPS, I’m CC and Support, and Shears has the heal. We need a tank to pull aggro.”

“I’ll check the ‘Nearby’ list for other players,” the shears-user said. She tapped the air, then looked up with a bright, welcoming smile at Mu Sichen. She reached out a hand. “You’re a player too! What’s your build? Come join our party!”

Mu Sichen felt a wave of relief. His fingers twitched beneath his cloak, reaching out to grasp her friendly hand.

Just then, a man stumbled past him, mumbling incoherently. “My starter tool is a wheelbarrow… I can flip it up as a shield… high defense… I…”

The voice was tiny, audible only to Mu Sichen. But that small, pathetic sound of real human struggle snapped him out of it. He clapped his hand over his right eye. His blood-red left eye saw a terrifyingly different reality.

There were no revived players. Instead, four streams of multi-colored vapor were rising from the ground, drifting through the mist toward the massive, closed eyelid in the sky. The colors were intense—the concentrated essence of a human’s final emotions: grief, excitement, panic, and the visceral terror of death.

Big Eye was drinking their souls.

Mu Sichen saw the worm-like lashes of the celestial eye twitch as it absorbed the essence, as if it were on the verge of waking. Fortunately, the tremor subsided. Big Eye remained asleep.

The players hadn’t respawned. It was a trap. Only his left eye—the one that had “peeked” and survived the divine strike—could see the truth.

The wheelbarrow player walking past him was in mortal danger. His SAN was dropping, yet he looked blissful, radiating an aura of intense joy. That joy was turning into a vibrant red vapor, leaking from his eyes and floating toward the sky.

If Mu Sichen did nothing, the man would be harvested. Whether his soul was consumed by the deity or he was discovered by the Apostle as a “Degenerate,” the result was the same: death.

Mu Sichen wasn’t the type to throw his life away, but he wasn’t cold enough to watch a man walk into a meat grinder. He had failed the first four, but this man was right here. Mu Sichen knew that if he let him die, his own emotional stability would fracture—and in this world, an emotional break meant a SAN collapse.

Help him, but don’t get caught.

The plaza was crowded. The Apostle was focused on his sermon. Some residents listened with vacant intensity, others obsessively performed the eye-touch gesture, and some knelt in prayer. Amidst this chaotic devotion, a single person moving slightly out of sync went unnoticed by the Followers.

But if the wheelbarrow player reached the “death zone” and started talking to thin air, he’d be dead in seconds.

Mu Sichen reached into his inventory and manifested the pickaxe beneath his cloak. The handle was only about a meter long—easy to hide if he didn’t swing it wide. He gave the wheelbarrow player a sharp, painful jab on the foot with the iron head.

The man let out a sharp gasp of pain.

Instantly, Mu Sichen despawned the pickaxe and grabbed the man’s arm. He opened his mouth and let the indoctrination flow: “Praise the Eyes. Praise the Light. Praise the Greatest Existence.”

“Huh?” The player blinked, dazed.

Mu Sichen continued, reciting the dogma like a hollowed-out zealot: “Anything can deceive you—touch, sound, the things you feel and hear may all be lies. Only the eyes, under His protection, see the Truth. Cherish your eyes. Protect them. They are His gift.”

The phantom choir was still screaming these lyrics in his head. Mu Sichen didn’t even have to think; he just channeled the voices. He reached up and covered the man’s eyes with his hand, physically blocking him from looking at the “revived” players.

Aside from the initial jab with the pickaxe, Mu Sichen looked more like a brainwashed fanatic than the Followers themselves. To any observer, he was simply a devoted resident preaching to a newcomer.

Apostle Feather-Eye, with his multitude of eyes, glanced their way. But hearing the fluent, perfect recitation of the dogma, he shifted his gaze elsewhere, satisfied.

The pickaxe’s “Undermine” skill had triggered. While Mu Sichen lacked the power to convert a true Follower without Qin Zhou’s help, “poaching” a confused player from the deity’s influence was much easier. The pain from the jab had jolted the man’s nerves, and Mu Sichen’s “preaching” helped him realize the hallucination for what it was.

The man’s face went pale. He wasn’t stupid; once he regained his senses, he realized he had been inches from the grave. He blinked rapidly and whispered back, “Thank you… thank you.” He didn’t even dare specify who he was thanking.

As the man snapped back to reality, Mu Sichen felt a small weight in his hand: a new Ego Sticker.

It was much smaller than the one from the Follower and felt weaker, but it was still a prize. His gamble had paid off.

Mu Sichen slapped the sticker onto his neck. The cooling sensation surged through his spine. His left eye felt a wave of relief as the redness receded into a dull blur, and the screaming choir in his ears finally went silent.

He had essentially equipped a fresh piece of mental armor. He exhaled slowly. His SAN stabilized at 62—just above the passing grade.

Because he had played the role of a brainwashed resident so perfectly, the wheelbarrow player couldn’t tell if Mu Sichen had saved him intentionally or if it was a lucky accident. Not daring to speak further, the man shrank back, keeping a cautious distance but staying close enough for safety.

Mu Sichen felt a momentary sense of peace.

But then, he felt a gaze. Not from the Apostle, and not from the sky.

He turned his head. The man with the +543 SAN value was looking directly at him. He held Mu Sichen’s gaze for a fleeting second, his expression unreadable, before quietly looking away.

Author’s Note:

Qin Zhou (fiddling with a tentacle): I didn’t appear today, but Mu Sichen thought about me once.