Chapter 11: Fear is the Secret in Our Hearts

Fang Jing’s right arm was almost completely severed by the fan blade.

The ceiling fan had fallen too fast. Even though Zhang Guan and Mao Ziyu had reacted instantly, they had only managed to save Bei Tongyu’s life, knocking the fan off course but failing to stop the sharp metal blades from slashing into Fang Jing, who hadn’t even had time to react.

Thankfully, the redirected fan blade missed any vital organs. But its razor-sharp edge still sliced through Fang Jing’s arm, sending a spray of blood splattering across the couch.

One could only imagine what would have happened if the fan had landed directly on Bei Tongyu’s head.

Bei Tongyu’s face was deathly pale. She bent over, gasping for air, drops of liquid dripping from her face—whether they were sweat or tears, she wasn’t sure.

Zhang Guan was the first to rush over and stop Fang Jing’s bleeding, followed closely by Mao Ziyu, who tossed him a roll of bandages from who-knows-where. “Wrap her arm together with the severed part.”

Gu Ziyan, realizing she couldn’t be of much help with Fang Jing, hesitated before walking over to Bei Tongyu and gently patting her back. “Tongyu, are you okay?”

Sang Chen reached out and patted Chang Ting’s trembling fingers. “It’s not your fault. This is all part of the game’s design.”

“Y-Yeah… I know!” Chang Ting nodded rapidly, eyes locked onto Fang Jing, but his hand had instinctively latched onto Sang Chen’s wrist, gripping it tightly.

Sang Chen: “……”

The grip was so strong he couldn’t shake it off, so he simply gave up and turned his attention to Fang Jing’s condition, his gaze briefly sweeping over the identical furnishings in this eerily familiar house.

The bandage Mao Ziyu had given them was miraculous. Zhang Guan aligned Fang Jing’s severed arm and wrapped it tightly. Soon after, the bleeding stopped completely.

Zhang Guan’s furrowed brows relaxed slightly as he nodded at Mao Ziyu. “Thanks.”

Mao Ziyu let out a breath. “Don’t mention it. The Blood Medic gave it to me. Fang Jing’s arm should be salvageable.”

Instead of looking relieved, Zhang Guan’s expression only grew more serious.

Mao Ziyu patted him on the shoulder, his eyes curving into a crescent-shaped smile. “Come on, Old Zhang, don’t be so rigid. Who cares where it came from, as long as it saves lives?”

A long silence followed before Zhang Guan finally muttered, “Mm.”

With Fang Jing stabilized, everyone turned their attention to Bei Tongyu—the only one who had survived an otherwise fatal accident. She might be the only person who knew the truth behind these deaths.

Mao Ziyu, the most impatient of the group, spoke first. “Adorable Xiao Bei, right before the fan fell, I saw you look up at it. Was there some kind of death warning or premonition?”

“It… It wasn’t really a warning,” Bei Tongyu stammered, still shaken from the near-death experience. She swallowed hard, trying to steady her voice. “Back when I was in school, I used to daydream a lot in class, especially on hot summer days. I’d stare at the spinning ceiling fan, thinking, ‘It’s moving so fast… what if… what if it suddenly fell? Would the people underneath be decapitated?’”

She took several deep breaths, but the air in the room felt thin—windows shut tight, tension suffocating. She was struggling to breathe. “Because of that weird fear, I never liked sitting directly under the fan whenever we switched seats.”

Even though she was still flustered, her explanation was clear. She didn’t want to miss any details, knowing they might be important. Perhaps it was also a trait of Zhang Guan’s team—since their captain came from the past, they had to be extra thorough with unfamiliar concepts.

“Just now, when Chang Ting turned on the fan, I saw it start spinning and immediately remembered that fear from years ago. And then… it happened.”

Chang Ting instantly apologized. “I didn’t know this kind of fan turns on the blades when you press the switch twice! I thought it was just adjusting the light.”

Bei Tongyu shook her head quickly. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Mao Ziyu nodded. “So it could be considered a premonition. But more precisely, your childhood fear just materialized into reality.”

Gu Ziyan, ever the internet junkie, chimed in, “Not necessarily just imagination. I’ve seen news articles about ceiling fans falling and injuring people. Tongyu, have you ever heard of such cases?”

“I… I don’t really remember. I just know I thought about it too many times when I was in school,” Bei Tongyu admitted. “Every time I saw a spinning fan, the thought popped into my head.”

Zhang Guan said, “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Fears can stem from imagination, but they can also be based on real experiences. Like Fang Jing—her fear of sound is absolutely real.”

That was the safer assumption.

Take the first death, for example. Cai Chang might have once feared slipping on icy roads and getting impaled on something sharp. So when he walked past the metal fence in the snow, that fear surfaced—and then it happened.

The second victim, Xu Feng, might have had a long-standing fear of something grabbing him from the toilet. Maybe he had thought about it while using the bathroom before. That night, when he glanced at the toilet twice before sitting down, the fear became reality.

The third victim, the girl on the escalator, might have been scared of stepping onto a malfunctioning escalator or falling through a broken step. And the moment she hesitated, it happened.

The fourth victim, the team captain, might have had a morbid fear that swallowing seeds would cause plants to sprout inside his stomach. He probably even checked his orange for seeds but, distracted by the bloody deaths around him, still ended up eating one. And then it happened.

All of them had looked directly at the thing that killed them—not because of any game clue, but because they had once feared it, whether as a passing thought or something they had actually read or heard about. And in that instant, the fear took shape.

Even if they had hesitated, they still acted. Because people have all sorts of irrational fears, they hear about rare and gruesome accidents, but the likelihood of those things actually happening is slim.

This connected all the deaths.

The only exception was Fang Jing. Her fear of sound was real. Maybe she had even thought about it when the noises overwhelmed her. But she was still alive.

When Mao Ziyu pointed out that Fang Jing’s survival didn’t quite fit the pattern, Bei Tongyu offered a possibility: “Maybe… sound alone isn’t enough to kill. More importantly, Fang Jing protected herself—she covered her ears the moment the noise started.”

Mao Ziyu nodded. After all, Bei Tongyu had just barely escaped death—if anyone could confirm the death rule, it was her. And based on the previous deaths, everything checked out.

They had been in the game for a while now, and finally, they had made progress. They had figured out the rule governing death. That should have been a relief—but it wasn’t.

Because this rule didn’t seem to have anything to do with leaving Xiangyang Town. Even if they managed to dodge every single death, the air in the town wouldn’t last much longer. In the end, they’d still suffocate.

And besides, this death rule was ridiculously hard to avoid. The more afraid people were of something, the more likely they were to think about it. And once they thought about it, it was already too late.

Mao Ziyu squinted playfully. “Come on, don’t stress too much. You all know what you’re afraid of, right? If you see something that triggers that fear, just stop whatever you’re doing or get the hell out of there. And if worst comes to worst—well, that’s what teammates are for.”

Zhang Guan said, “When faced with danger, people don’t always react fast enough. To be safe, we should figure out our fears now. It’s best if we tell each other, so we can watch out for one another and remove any potential hazards in advance.”

Some fears were universal—like being afraid of ghosts.

But others were unique, shaped by personal experiences, sometimes buried so deep that even close friends wouldn’t expect them.

They needed to know each other’s fears. That way, in a crisis, they could react fast—especially the stronger players, who had to be aware of the weaker ones’ fears so they could help them survive.

They started by clearing out an empty room, making sure there was nothing inside that could be remotely dangerous. While doing so, Sang Chen noticed that the layout was almost identical to the rooms they were staying in—only the bedding was different, and there was a random soccer ball.

Mao Ziyu frowned. “Weird. Why does it look exactly the same? Wonder what the other rooms are like.”

Zhang Guan said, “We don’t know if there’s any pattern to the layout yet. Let’s focus on the task at hand.”

And this task was crucial—it was about staying alive.

Once the room was cleared, they sat in a circle and started listing their fears—their weird, irrational thoughts, the things they had read or heard about, anything that might come back to haunt them.

For some reason, Chang Ting was the first to look at Sang Chen. Then, Mao Ziyu and Zhang Guan also turned to him.

Sang Chen: “…”

He had been trying so hard to stay under the radar, to keep a low profile—so why was everyone staring at him?

After a moment, he sighed and said seriously, “I’m most afraid of losing my job. And being broke.”

“…”

Sang Chen insisted, “I mean it.”

Chang Ting said, “Be specific. Like… uh, last night, didn’t any of you see ghosts under your bed? Aren’t you scared of something like that?”

Sang Chen actually had no idea if there had been ghosts under his bed. Since everyone else had seen something, maybe he had, too. He thought for a moment and said, “Imagining something under the bed is pretty common, isn’t it? Everyone’s thought about it at some point. And since no one actually died from that, it means it’s not one of those fear-triggered deaths.”

That part made sense. The others were nodding in agreement when he added, “But still, losing all my money is way scarier.”

“…”

Mao Ziyu couldn’t take it anymore. He tried again. “Something specific—like a particular fear that’s tied to an actual event.”

Sang Chen thought about it seriously. “One time, I went to work and found out the company had shut down. I was unemployed.”

“…”

Sang Chen: “I missed a train on a business trip.”

“…”

Sang Chen: “Woke up and couldn’t tell what time it was. Forgot to set my alarm the night before.”

“…”

This guy was the ultimate corporate drone.

Finally, Sang Chen said something different. “Oh, here’s one—I’ve thought about this a lot. What if one day, after working so hard and saving all my money in the bank, I check my account, and the balance is just… gone?”

“…”