The director led them to the ninth floor, where the number of patients was noticeably fewer than on the lower levels, and their conditions seemed less severe—comparable, in fact, to Bai Liu's own. Most tellingly, they were all of similar height.
From Bai Liu's earlier observations, the more gravely ill a patient was in this hospital, the more elongated and spectral their body became, ever closer to the likeness of the Slender Man.
Bai Liu the Sixth's description had been astute; the child's sensitivity to the macabre suggested that, even at fourteen, he had already begun to notice such things.
There were twenty-one rooms on this floor. The director assigned Bai Liu to a room, then excused herself to receive the other benefactors.
Bai Liu's room, 906, was tucked away on the left side of the corridor. As he surveyed the ward, he found the hospital's design increasingly peculiar.
The décor was lavish, almost luxurious, yet the lighting was abysmal. Every room was shrouded in gloom, so much so that even during the day, the lights had to be kept on—though their dim glow barely illuminated anything. High-powered humidifiers filled the air with a perpetual mist, rendering the entire hospital as damp and fog-laden as a southern monsoon. The floors and walls were slick with condensation, and Bai Liu, now tall and long-limbed, found it treacherous to walk without slipping. A foreboding crept over him: should a chase ever break out in this place, he would be at a distinct disadvantage.
He scanned his room and found three humidifiers, but only a single, feeble lamp.
Stranger still was the bed. For all the hospital's opulence—the gilded lion's-head faucets in the bathroom, for instance—the bed itself was a crude straw mattress.
Bai Liu lifted the white sheet and arched an eyebrow at the heap of straw beneath. He had only ever slept on such beds in the impoverished orphanage of his childhood. They were uncomfortable and troublesome, though undeniably cheap. Straw must be kept dry to be tolerable; in dampness, it rots, breeds insects, and even sprouts mushrooms.
Indeed, at the corner of his bed, beneath the sheet, a cluster of gray mushrooms had taken root, spreading toward the wooden bookshelf beside the bed.
In a room with three humidifiers, a straw mattress was little more than a petri dish for fungi and decay, soon to be crawling with all manner of decomposers, their larvae feasting on the flesh of the sleeper.
During the rainy season of his youth, Bai Liu would sooner have slept on the floor than on a straw bed.
[System prompt: Player Bai Liu (Benefactor Identity) Main Quest—Seek a life-prolonging remedy to alleviate your terminal illness.]
A life-prolonging remedy…
Where was he to find such a thing? In a hospital with doctors, he would have ransacked their offices for prescriptions and searched for medicine.
But here, there were no doctors—only nurses pushing trolleys through the halls. When Bai Liu had glanced into the nurses' office, he'd seen no IV drips, no pills, not even syringes or infusion tubes—just a few waist-high stainless steel carts, more like food trolleys from his company's cafeteria, presumably for delivering meals to patients.
How was one to seek a "life-prolonging remedy" in a hospital devoid of doctors, medicine, or anything but patients?
Wait—nothing but patients…
Bai Liu's eyes narrowed as he began to search the bookshelf in his room.
Behind the door, near the bed, stood a bookcase he had previously ignored, filled with old, dusty volumes. There were so many, and so varied—novels, atlases, all manner of miscellany—that he hadn't considered them as potential clues. But perhaps, he thought, the exception was when nearly every book contained something the player was meant to discover.
[System prompt: Congratulations, you have triggered a side quest—Search the medical texts for a life-prolonging remedy.]
As expected.
Bai Liu quickly sorted the books, discarding the obviously irrelevant—such as yellowing women's magazines—and was left with a heavy pile of medical texts and journals, both Chinese and Western, covering every specialty, even some in English. The stack weighed dozens of pounds.
To find a "life-prolonging remedy" among so many medical tomes, when he had no real medical knowledge, was a daunting task.
But as he eyed the untouched books, a sense of incongruity struck him.
There were no doctors here, so these books could not be for their use. Yet they were clearly intended for someone with medical knowledge.
They were for the patients—the benefactors—living here.
This was not a hospital without doctors; rather, the patients themselves were the doctors, self-medicating as they read.
Why would such wealthy benefactors place their trust in self-treatment rather than in physicians? Was it that their illnesses were beyond the reach of medicine? If so, what use were these books, which any doctor would already have read?
It was clear that all the benefactors here suffered from some terminal disease. Surely, someone had already begun treatment—had already discovered the life-prolonging remedy. But the newcomers would not be given it freely; they would have to find it themselves, hidden among the books.
For someone who had never been studious, Bai Liu's reading comprehension for such material was abysmal. In school, he had always copied from Lu Yizhan, the model student, whose homework was invariably correct. Here, he quickly decided to do the same—copy someone else's "homework."
But whose?
Who in this hospital could most quickly and accurately decipher the answer from these books?
————————
Mu Ke, too, had been brought to the private hospital by the director. He had triggered the same quest to search the medical texts for a life-prolonging remedy and now sat at his bedside, poring over the pile of books.
He hadn't read anything so dense since graduation, and the room was so dim that he could barely see someone walking a meter away, let alone read. He considered buying a lamp, but the system warned him that high-intensity lighting was forbidden in the ward—he could buy it, but not use it.
He tried to take a book outside to read, but was immediately stopped by a nurse, who sternly reminded him that patients were not allowed to wander on their first day, nor to remove items from the ward.
Resigned, Mu Ke returned to his room and attempted to read by the feeble light.
But after a short while, he found himself exhausted. Though he was a fast reader, the poor lighting made it nearly impossible to glean anything useful from the books, let alone deduce a treatment plan.
He realized that, on his own, he was unlikely to find the answer. Yet the game's prompt was clear: the answer was hidden in the books, and this was supposed to be his forte.
Frustrated, Mu Ke sighed over the book in his hands. He had always been a top student, skipping grades in middle school, and his intelligence stat in the game was a remarkable 85. If only the lighting were better, he could have finished the books and synthesized the clues within three days, presenting Bai Liu with a life-prolonging remedy. But the oppressive gloom only made him more anxious.
An hour had passed, and he had finished only a single book—far below his usual pace.
As he pondered his next move, his system panel vibrated. A new item had appeared in his inventory.
He hadn't bought anything; clearly, Bai Liu had. Bai Liu could remotely purchase items for him—one of their covert means of communication.
Now that they were both in the hospital, this method was both discreet and secure, invisible even to the audience watching their small TVs.
The only risk was if Mu Ke were killed and the item used for communication fell into the hands of his killer, revealing their secret. Even then, they could encrypt their messages, but how to ensure the code was both unbreakable and instantly understood by Mu Ke?
Bai Liu, ever cautious, had not chosen a conventional tool.
He had bought Mu Ke a black keyboard.
A keyboard was a familiar tool for both of them, and unlike a notebook or recorder, it left little trace—one could simply remove and replace the keycaps. The "password" on the keyboard would be instantly understood by two game designers.
Even if Mu Ke were killed and the keyboard dropped, no one would suspect it was a communication device, let alone decipher its meaning.
And, truth be told, Bai Liu had also bought it because it was on sale for less than ten points.
Mu Ke was momentarily stunned when he saw the keyboard.
The [ctrl] and [c] keycaps had been removed—a common shortcut for "copy." Copy what? What was there to copy? Wasn't the priority to find the life-prolonging remedy?
Wait! Mu Ke quickly understood—Bai Liu wanted to copy the remedy!
But from where? Did Bai Liu know which room held the answer?
Mu Ke hesitated, then removed the [ ? ] and [numlock] keycaps, placing the keyboard in his inventory, anxiously awaiting Bai Liu's reply.
[numlock] could be interpreted as "lock a number." With the [ ? ] key, Mu Ke was asking: "Bai Liu, which number should we lock onto?"
The hospital rooms were all numbered; Bai Liu only needed to specify which one.
Soon, the keyboard disappeared from his inventory, then reappeared, this time with [ctrl] and [c] restored, but three other keycaps missing: "1, 7, 0."
Mu Ke was puzzled. Room numbers couldn't start with zero, so the possibilities were 701, 710, or 107.
The seventh floor was the operating theater—no patient rooms.
Room 107 didn't exist; it was a "blank" room, likely used for storage.
But there was an ICU on the first floor, unnumbered, and the only special ward on that floor. Perhaps it corresponded to 107—the "blank" room.
Bai Liu hadn't specified "ICU" because there was more than one in the hospital, and using numbers was more precise. He assumed Mu Ke would follow his logic and equate 107 with the first-floor ICU.
Fortunately, Mu Ke's memory and information-gathering skills were excellent, and he caught Bai Liu's meaning.
Bai Liu wanted to copy the treatment method from the ICU patient!
"Damn," Mu Ke muttered. The ICU housed the hospital's original, native benefactor—a patient over two meters tall, more monster than man, and likely the dungeon's boss.
The nurses had said the ICU patient never left the ward. How were they to get in and copy the remedy? And was there even a remedy to be found?
Bai Liu, however, was certain the ICU held the system's so-called "life-prolonging remedy."
If the patients were all doctors, then the most likely to have devised a treatment would be the oldest, most gravely ill among them.
But whether they could obtain it was another matter entirely.
The ICU patient was inhuman, never left the room, and entering might provoke a violent attack. Bai Liu was not there to help, but to steal—an inherently risky endeavor.
Yet the potential reward was great. If successful, Bai Liu would be the first to obtain the remedy, giving him leverage to trade with other players. But there were two main obstacles:
First: How to get in? The corridors were patrolled by nurses, and any infraction was swiftly punished. The nurses' speed and vigilance were formidable; Bai Liu doubted he could outrun them on the slick floors.
Second: How to search once inside? The patient was likely a monster, and searching in their presence would be perilous.
As Bai Liu pondered his next move, night fell.
At nine o'clock, the nurses announced curfew; all patients were forbidden to leave their rooms.
The only sounds were the squeak of trolleys and the click of high heels as nurses patrolled the misty corridors. If they saw light under a door, they would knock and order the patient to turn it off, as strict as any dormitory matron.
But these nurses were far less friendly. When Bai Liu cracked his door to peek, he saw them pacing the foggy halls, faces frozen, eyes glowing catlike in the dark. One spotted him, and her trolley rattled rapidly toward him, heels clacking. Bai Liu slammed and locked the door just in time.
The trolley screeched to a halt outside his room. The nurse pounded on the door, her voice low and menacing: "Patient in room 706, did you just open your door? Have you not read the hospital regulations? No one is to leave their room after nine p.m. Doors may only be opened after nine in the morning."
She continued to berate him, banging on the door.
Bai Liu, of course, did not open it.
After a while, the nurse's tone grew strange. "If you insist on opening your door during these hours, and something slips into your room, the hospital will not be responsible for your safety."
With that, she left.
Something? Bai Liu frowned. It seemed that at night, something dangerous prowled the halls.
But the timing was curious: patients were forbidden to leave their rooms from nine at night to nine in the morning—the very hours when children were allowed to call their benefactors.
The time for children to make calls coincided with the time when benefactors were forbidden to leave their rooms. And if the "something" the nurse mentioned was a monster, it would be active precisely when the children were out making calls.
It seemed that for Bai Liu the Sixth to call him, he would have to risk a great deal.
At nine-thirty, just as Bai Liu thought he would not receive a call, his walkie-talkie buzzed.
He answered. The ancient device crackled with static, and he heard the sound of someone running, breathless.
Bai Liu said nothing, waiting until the breathing calmed.
"Wait a moment, something's chasing me," came Bai Liu the Sixth's voice.
At that instant, Bai Liu's system interface popped up:
[System prompt: Congratulations, your secondary identity has triggered the Monster Book.]
["Loving Welfare Home Monster Book" update—Deformed Child (1/3)]
[Monster Name: Deformed Child]
[Traits: Fast movement (350–600)]
[Weakness: ??? (to be discovered)]
[Attack: Enjoys playing with the player's secondary identity; during play, the secondary identity may vanish from the orphanage.]
After five minutes, the sound of rustling fabric returned. Bai Liu the Sixth whispered, "It's gone for now. You can speak."
Though his voice was uneven, there was no trace of fear.
"What was chasing you?" Bai Liu asked.
"A child," came the reply, still breathless. "It crawled on all fours like a monkey, thin, drooling, grinning strangely—looked like one of those mentally disabled kids."
Bai Liu understood at once. He had seen such children in the orphanage—Down syndrome patients, with their distinctive features: slanted eyes, flat noses, wide mouths, chubby cheeks, short necks, and wide-set eyes that often drifted upward. The other children had cruelly nicknamed them "frogs."
A child like that, crawling after Bai Liu the Sixth, drooling and giggling… It was a wonder the boy, so fixated on money, hadn't hung up in terror.
"Is it gone?" Bai Liu asked.
"No." Even as he spoke, Bai Liu heard the soft, rapid scuffling of fabric and stone—the child was still in pursuit, moving with a serpentine speed.
There was silence, save for the sound of running, labored breathing, and the innocent laughter of the child behind him.
The sound grew louder, the contact between cloth and floor increasing. The child was dragging its lower body, closing in fast.
Bai Liu waited, not interrupting the chase.
After another five minutes, Bai Liu the Sixth spoke, panting, "It's fine now."
"You lost it?" Bai Liu asked.
"No, it went after someone else." There was no sympathy in his tone. "Another child came out to make a call and got chased. Now it's their turn to run and cry."
Bai Liu understood: there was only one such monster prowling the orphanage, and it had simply shifted its attention.
He asked, "What happened after the director took you inside?"
"Standard procedure. We were assigned rooms—me and three other new boys in one, a blind girl in another building across from us, all on the first floor." Bai Liu the Sixth's account was clear and methodical.
"Our phones were supposed to be confiscated, but since we're new, they gave us a week's grace. We're allowed to call only at certain times, and not in the room, so as not to disturb others."
"All the staff warned me not to follow the sound of the flute at night. They said the piper would abduct children." His tone was cool. "At three minutes past nine, I heard someone playing a recorder outside, piping out strange nursery rhymes."
"I didn't want to go out, but the piper timed it perfectly. Still, you said you'd pay me by the minute for calls, so I went."
Don't follow the flute… Bai Liu recalled a similar story from the real orphanage, where four children had vanished after hearing the piper's song.
He thought of a fairy tale.
"What does that remind you of?" he asked.
There was a pause. "If you're asking, you must be thinking the same thing: 'The Pied Piper of Hamelin.'"
"That's right," Bai Liu replied. "An English nursery rhyme."
The tale tells of a town plagued by rats. A piper arrives, promising to rid them of the vermin for a fee. The townsfolk agree, and the piper's music lures the rats to their deaths in the river. But when the townsfolk refuse to pay, the piper plays again, and this time the children follow him, never to return.
"Did you see who was playing?" Bai Liu asked.
"No. The sound came from everywhere. There was more than one, I think. The playing was clumsy, off-key, and went on for half an hour, just the same few tunes. It sounded like a beginner."
"Did any children go out?" Bai Liu pressed.
"No. Only our rooms, without staff present, could go out to make calls."
In the background, children's cries and the idiot laughter of the pursuing child echoed. Then Bai Liu the Sixth remembered, "By the way, the one being chased is Xiao Miao Feichi, another benefactor's child."
"Xiao Miao Feichi?" Bai Liu asked, amused. "Why did he go out? Oh, right, that child has a rather unsavory habit. Stay away from him."
"What habit?"
"He likes to eat human flesh."
There was a pause, then Bai Liu the Sixth's calm voice: "That explains why he went out. He saw the crawling child and wanted to hunt. I thought he was making a call, but now I think he was just using it as a pretext to feed."
But he'd met his match.
"I have a grudge with that child's benefactor. Don't get involved with him," Bai Liu said.
"Do you need me to do anything? Trip him, let him get caught and killed?" Bai Liu the Sixth's tone was disturbingly even, not at all like a boy of fourteen. "But if I help, you'll have to pay me."
"No need for now. Just keep yourself safe—you're more important to me than he is." Bai Liu chuckled. "I don't recall being so bold at your age, willing to do such things."
"Maybe you never met a benefactor who'd pay you for mischief, and who was clearly no good," Bai Liu the Sixth replied.
Bai Liu paused, reflecting on his own youth. If not for Lu Yizhan's unwavering guidance, and if he'd met a benefactor who paid for wrongdoing, he might well have done the same.
"Don't worry about Xiao Miao Feichi, but if you can, help two others: Mu Ke and the blind girl. Of course, I'll pay you for it."
Bai Liu the Sixth's tone was odd. "You want to save those two? What's your relationship with them? They are good-looking…"
"What are you thinking? She's a child a friend of mine wants to adopt." Bai Liu was exasperated. "I'm not that depraved. I have no interest in children."
But, recalling his own mercenary nature, he added, "But your safety comes first. You're the most important to me—remember that."
There was a brief silence, then Bai Liu the Sixth said flatly, "Seventeen minutes and three seconds. I'll round down to seventeen. At a hundred yuan per minute, that's one thousand seven hundred. You said it—don't forget to pay me."
"And don't bother with those caring words. They don't suit your character, benefactor."
With that, he hung up.
Bai Liu: "…"
A minute later, the walkie-talkie buzzed again. The voice was as polite and emotionless as ever: "By the way, benefactor, I fell three times tonight. Please reimburse my medical expenses. I'll have the director send you the bill. Good night."
Click.
Bai Liu set down the walkie-talkie, muttering in disbelief, "Was I really this insufferable at fourteen?"