Chapter 31: Setting Thirty-One

Setting Thirty-One: Monster Hunter (Part 13)

Everyone deceives themselves sometimes, and Shan Ziwei was no exception. In truth, there had been many signs pointing to “World”‘s abnormality before—the familiar voice, build, and skills, the way he treated him differently—all of it suggested there was some “history” between them. But this particular sufferer had stubbornly clung to the “different name” and comfortably avoided thinking about it.

But the truth was so naked and bare~

Standing across from him, Host was still devastatingly handsome. Shan Ziwei stared at that face like he’d seen a ghost.

“Y-Y-YOU—!!!”

His MP dropped a chunk because he’d bitten his own tongue. Meeting an old acquaintance in a strange land—even if it were Dragon Emperor Unrivaled, Shan Ziwei could have greeted him with a cheerful “How are you?” But facing Host—the one who’d saved him, killed him, and then been “seduced” by him—this particular sufferer could only gasp out a horrified “How are you?!”

Swallowing the blood in his mouth, his voice was so anguished it would make anyone weep.

“Aren’t you ‘World’?!”

Facing Shan Ziwei’s blood-choked accusation, Host answered calmly.

“‘World’ is my title.”

What the hell is a title?! That’s so misleading!

This particular sufferer was shocked, angry, embarrassed, and terrified all at once. Shocked that World was Host. Angry that Host had delivered the finishing blow in the last Chessboard. Embarrassed by all the beastly things his Spirit-Collapsed self had done to Host. And terrified because… damn it, the situation was too familiar—fighting someone, being saved by Host while on a sliver of health—it was a replay of the last Chessboard. Was Host going to finish him off again after he said thank you?!

While Shan Ziwei’s mind was churning with all these emotions, Host seemed completely oblivious to the white-haired youth’s tangled, complicated feelings toward him. He stood there with his usual expressionless face, showing neither joy nor sorrow.

“The monster is about to die.”

Shan Ziwei was still lost in his own emotions and didn’t process Host’s words. He looked at Host blankly, only noticing how dark his eyes were—so dark he couldn’t see anything inside them.

“Thanks to you.”

Host’s words were plain, but they struck Shan Ziwei like a needle to the heart. All his turbulent emotions deflated like a punctured balloon, leaving nothing behind. A vast emptiness and an inexplicable bitterness made him blurt out without thinking: “What do you mean?”

Host looked at him silently. After a moment of blankness, Shan Ziwei gradually came back to his senses.

Yeah, Host hadn’t said anything wrong. If not for his shot, Chunqiu and the others would never have gotten the monster’s Heart SP below 50%. Host was just stating a fact—so why, hearing those two sentences, did he feel a bitter sense of accusation, his heart aching and twisting with pain?

The monster is about to die.

The monster that protected you is about to die.

The monster that was your “child” is about to die.

The monster that always sought affection from you and never truly hurt you is about to die.

…

Thanks to you.

In an instant, a wave of intense emotion crashed over Shan Ziwei, suffocating him. It came so swiftly and filled him so completely that he couldn’t recognize that it stemmed not just from guilt toward the monster, but from another, eerily similar past.

Why kill the monster?

Because an evolved monster would destroy all of humanity, the bald black man said. So you have to kill the monster to save the world.

—Why erase me?

Because you would destroy all of humanity, the people in his memory thought. As the one who started this, I have to take responsibility for you and for the world.

A shadow fell over Shan Ziwei. He looked up dazedly at the monster’s tentacle. It had revived at some point, seemingly aware of its impending death. The massive tentacle rose high, as if angrily intending to crush the one who’d caused its demise—but as it came down, it softened, its tip carefully hooking around Shan Ziwei’s waist and pulling him close, pressing him against its core and refusing to let go.

Shan Ziwei leaned against the slightly firm core. Though the monster made no sound, he could almost hear its aggrieved whimpers, each one striking his heart.

Looking at the core so close, he inexplicably remembered that cramped gap, where a white-haired youth and a monster showing only a tiny patch of its bell had been locked together, the monster hooking its tentacle around his neck, asking for a kiss.

It was ridiculous enough to laugh at—and after laughing, only helplessness and guilt remained.

“Thank you…” Shan Ziwei lowered his head slightly, pressing his lips to the monster for the first—and only—time. “I’m sorry.”

A breeze brushed past, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. It felt as though, in that moment he kissed the monster, someone was standing behind him, pressing a light kiss to his exposed nape. He instinctively raised his head—before he could fully turn, his peripheral vision caught white contrails streaking across the sky.

The nuke had arrived.

That meant Shan Ziwei’s mission was complete. In the last second before clearing, he turned his head. He didn’t see the imagined kisser—only Host standing in the distance. His eyes were still dark, but flecks of gold were lighting up within them, gradually filling the black pupils like clouds parting in the night sky to reveal a galaxy of stars.

The black-haired youth blinked his golden eyes, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s adoration toward you.”

Host’s figure had long since vanished, but Shan Ziwei was still dazedly replaying those final words when the system prompt appeared.

[System: You have cleared the Chessboard. Would you like to watch the aftermath? Yes/No.]

Huh?

He looked around—he hadn’t returned to his personal space. Instead, he stood in darkness, facing a frozen frame of the scene he’d just left. It was as if he were the protagonist of a movie, pulled out of the 2D film by some mysterious force, and now being asked if he wanted to watch the rest of the film he’d starred in.

There was a feature like this?

He thought about it. Since he hadn’t cleared the prison Chessboard, and the Toy Town Chessboard was a newbie tutorial that didn’t count, he didn’t know if “watch aftermath” was a special case or standard.

Either way, having encountered it, he wasn’t about to let it go.

After he selected “Yes,” the screen expanded dramatically, surrounding him at 360 degrees. Standing inside it, he felt like a 3D being in a 2D world. He watched the “flat” monster across from him—then the frozen scene began to move.

“BOOM—”

The massive energy blast shook even the screen, blindingly bright even for Shan Ziwei outside it. After the nuclear explosion, a luminous fireball appeared, followed by a mushroom cloud rising into the sky. When he opened his eyes again, all he could see was thick smoke.

The screen thoughtfully faded the smoke to reveal the aftermath. The entire hospital had been leveled, nothing but rubble and debris—and scattered everywhere, chunks and fragments of flesh. Where the monster had been, only a charred black lump remained, unrecognizable as any part of the creature.

He’d known it would come to this, but seeing it still made his heart lurch. He even regretted choosing to watch the aftermath—what was this, witnessing the monster’s death firsthand?

Squelch.

It was a sound like ripe fruit splitting open. Shan Ziwei stared dumbfounded at the arm emerging from the charred lump—an arm, pale and delicate, like some young master’s soft, tender limb.

The arm tore through the flesh, covered in blood and gore, appearing abruptly before his unprepared eyes.

This was only the prelude.

The arm quickly withdrew. Just as Shan Ziwei was rubbing his eyes and trying to convince himself it was an illusion, ten fingers gripped the edges of the hole the arm had made, and pulled—ripped it open—

He reflexively closed his eyes, but still felt as though he’d been splattered with blood and flesh across the entire screen.

“…?”

A discordant buzzing sound reached his ears. He knew instinctively that he shouldn’t keep watching—but the system hadn’t given him a “Stop Playback” option. So he steeled himself and opened his eyes again.

Amid the screen’s crimson, a patch of white stood out. The youth sitting in the pool of blood and flesh was like a narcissus blooming in human remains—evil enough to stop the heart, yet paradoxically beautiful and pure in its extremity.

Shan Ziwei stared at the boy’s features—both familiar and unfamiliar—and went completely numb.

If Shan Ziwei stood next to this boy and met anyone, every person would smile and exclaim to him: “Your son is beautiful.”

The boy was very handsome, but no amount of beauty could erase the traces of Shan Ziwei in his face. That resemblance, born of “blood,” made it instantly clear to anyone: Shan Ziwei and this boy were father and son.

Shan Ziwei had no children. But the setting said he did—so in the game, he did.

Even without the boy doing anything inhuman, his identity was self-evident.

Shan Ziwei watched helplessly as the boy’s blood-red hair moved like a living thing, styling itself into a hairstyle that draped behind him. Looking closely, each strand resembled a bloodline; stepping back, the whole mass looked like multiple tentacles.

—Wait, why did the monster survive a nuclear strike?! And why did it evolve into… this—this thing?!

Shan Ziwei’s mind was reeling from the sudden appearance of a “non-human son.” He’d always known the monster’s in-game role was his son, but since it had always been a flesh-ball, he’d never connected that non-human creature to himself. So when a humanoid monster appeared before him, the shock was indescribable.

The boy in the screen, ignoring the blood and gore covering him, looked around—clearly searching for something. Shan Ziwei was still trying to process the plot twist. He traced back from the bald man’s appearance to Host’s final words.

[It’s adoration toward you.]

His heart gave a violent lurch. A horrifying realization began to form.

The bald man had said the government couldn’t guarantee the nuke would kill the monster—it had to be weakened first… at least to half.

His shot had indeed brought the monster’s Heart SP below 50%. In theory, there was no way for the monster to recover SP, since only relationship role-play could restore it. Though Shan Ziwei knew the monster had an “Adoration (Active)” relationship toward him, he didn’t know which SP it corresponded to, nor what the effect was—so he couldn’t have helped it.

But the living, breathing youth before him proved beyond doubt that in some moment, Shan Ziwei had inadvertently fulfilled the “Adoration (Active)” condition. And “Adoration (Active)” just happened to restore Heart SP. So with its Heart SP pulled back above 50%, the monster had bounced back and survived the nuclear blast… How convenient!

“Father…”

For a single moment, Shan Ziwei’s heart stopped. He stared blankly at the youth in the screen. At some point, those crimson eyes had fixed on him. He couldn’t help stepping back—though they were no longer in the same dimension, he had the gut-wrenching feeling that the boy had found him and was about to crawl out of the screen.

Thankfully, the youth looked away. Shan Ziwei exhaled. With indescribable emotion, he watched the boy search, calling out that title. As the search stretched on, a red line appeared between his brows, growing more vivid and bright with his worsening mood, until it looked like blood might seep through.

His neatly styled hair came undone again. The fine tips dripped red fluid, which turned into bloodlines and spread in all directions. The boy showed no awareness that he was about to destroy all of humanity—he bared a small fang, just like the monster that had once been provoked by its hunter, and snarled viciously.

“Don’t think you can run!”

Shan Ziwei shuddered violently. Even sitting on the throne in his personal space, the hairs on his back were still standing.

He’d already cleared it, this particular sufferer thought heavily. So whether it was “monster hunter” or “monster hunting him”—none of it had anything to do with him anymore… right?

—Dammit, why did I watch that aftermath?! QAQ

Little Gaia jumped off his shoulder, landed on the ground, lifted its mask, and spat out a toy wolf identical to Sha Polang’s. The little wolf was palm-sized, wooden and stiff like a real toy, staring blankly up at Shan Ziwei. When he picked it up curiously, the wolf’s mouth emitted Sha Polang’s voice.

“Message from Sha Polang: Fanzi, did you make it out? Ugh, those bastards killed me ’cause I didn’t agree with their plan ╮(╯_╰)╭ My online time’s almost up, so I’m logging off. Let’s play again next time~”

Hearing Sha Polang’s message, Shan Ziwei only then realized he hadn’t seen her for a while—his companion had been killed by Chunqiu and his group an hour ago!

Though he didn’t regret killing Chunqiu and his team, that didn’t stop him from adding another mark against them.

He wanted to share the good news of taking down Chunqiu with his friend, but he wasn’t sure how to communicate in-game. Before he could ask Little Gaia for help, he noticed his Toy Box squatting in the corner, facing away from him.

“…”

He looked at the little wolf in his hand, then at Little Gaia radiating negative energy.

#My Toy Box is really unfriendly to outsiders—what do I do?#

He decisively put down the little wolf and walked over to pick up Little Gaia. The silver-haired, black-robed doll sat in his arms, still wearing its serious little face—but the mask on its head was already smiling. Shan Ziwei stroked its smooth silver hair and remembered the main event from this Chessboard.

“Give me the settlement report.”

In this Chessboard, Shan Ziwei had endured physical pressure (being teased by the monster) and mental shock (seeing Host), overcome numerous obstacles, and finally cleared it as expected. This particular sufferer had high hopes for the rewards—and the system didn’t disappoint. The moment he opened the parchment, he leveled up instantly.

[Congratulations on reaching Level 3! Your Mental Power has increased to 140.]

[You have reached Level 3. Story Mode is now unlocked.]

Following the system’s second notification, the floor-to-ceiling window directly in front of him—the one at the 12 o’clock position—lit up.

Story Mode?

Though it seemed significant, he decided to finish reading the settlement report first.

[Settlement Report
Chessboard: Slaughter Hospital
Clear Rating: A
Experience Gained: 222/380
Chessboard Clear Rewards: MP Recovery Potion ×3, Relationship Setting Card ×2]

Shan Ziwei’s heart bloomed at the “A” rating. The rewards were generous too—three potions and two Relationship Setting Cards. He glanced at them, and whether by coincidence or design, both were “Adoration” cards—one passive, one active.

[A Adoration
Type: Active Relationship
Effect: When you show affection to him and he shows affection to you afterward, restore 10% Heart SP.
Description: Daddy, Mommy—kiss me, hold me~]

[A Adoration
Type: Passive Relationship
Effect: When he shows affection to you and you show affection to him afterward, restore 10% Club SP.
Description: Good child, come here—give me a kiss, there’s a good one~]

…Alright, Shan Ziwei finally understood how the monster had recovered its Heart SP.

After reading the front of the parchment, he hesitated. This one was double-sided too. The discomfort from last time’s back side was still fresh, but people had a masochistic streak—like knowing a horror movie would scare them but wanting to watch it anyway. After a long pause, he steeled himself and flipped it over.

Compared to the lengthy passages from before, this one was especially brief—just three words across the entire page. But they filled his entire field of vision.

[Don’t think you can run
Don’t think you can run
Don’t think you can run
Don’t think you can run
Don’t think you can run
…]

A single “Don’t think you can run” was slightly unsettling. But when it covered the whole page, it became an inescapable curse. The sea of words turned into blades, stabbing straight into his brain and dredging up a nightmare.

On a sunny afternoon, someone ran desperately, without rest.

Ahead.
—Don’t think you can run—

To the left.
—Don’t think you can run—

To the right.
—Don’t think you can run—

Behind.
—Don’t think you can run—

In that life-or-death pursuit, no matter where he fled, “he” was always there.