"Welcome, novice broadcaster! Congratulations on kicking off your very first live stream."
Just then, a voice suddenly cut through the air. Mechanical and even-tempered, it stood out starkly in the otherwise empty dormitory.
"The rules will now be explained to you," the voice continued. "This scenario is a regular, time-limited mode, lasting 10 hours. (The current in-scenario time is 7 PM, meaning you must survive until 5 AM tomorrow to clear the level.)"
Grace: "..."
He glanced down at his ID card and fell into a brief silence.
Well, shoot.
10 hours and 20 minutes. Isn't that gap a little... drastic?
"A card in your possession serves as your identity card, which will unlock more of its details as the plot progresses."
"Your basic survival time has been distributed. Additional time can be acquired through point redemption."
The voice droned on, its tone devoid of any emotion:
"Methods to earn broadcaster points include:
Real-time tally based on the viewer count in your streaming room. (The next point tally time is: two hours from now.) Completing live stream missions. Receiving gifts from viewers."
"As you explore, more ways to acquire points will be unlocked."
After laying out the rules, the voice suddenly took on a passionate tone:
"Viewers are gods; the popularity of your live streaming room is everything! Fight for your stream!"
The dormitory returned to silence.
Grace took a deep breath and steadied himself.
Although the voice slightly eased his tense nerves, he could still distinctly hear his own erratic heartbeat. Though his breathing remained steady out of habit, his lungs seemed to scream for more oxygen.
His fingers instinctively tightened.
The sharp and hard edges of the ID card brought a tangible pain.
Grace was acutely aware of the precarious thread his life hung by, as declared in such an offhand manner about the remaining time.
Twenty minutes.
And he was a man of greed.
Especially concerning the matter of "staying alive."
According to the rules, Grace needed to earn enough points within twenty minutes to sustain his life.
Relying on the broadcast room's viewer count for points was off the table; after all, he wouldn't even make it to the first tally.
That left him with two options...
Clearly, the audience was well aware of his predicament.
The chat became noticeably more active:
"Oh look, the broadcaster wants gifts? Show some sincerity, then."
"How about bowing down to your noble audience first? Maybe I'll feel generous and drop you a few dozen, or even hundreds, of points."
"Speaking of which, this novice broadcaster is quite a looker..."
With each message that floated by, a hidden malice and delight pierced through, viewing him as a mere commodity, excitedly speculating on how to devour him from the bones up.
Broadcasters teetering on the brink of life and death were nothing new to them.
They watched as the countdown inexorably drew closer, like a noose tightening around their necks, their eye sockets shrinking and trembling under the weight of sheer despair and fear, their faces contorting grotesquely.
In such dire straits, they would cling to any sliver of hope, regardless of how humiliating or demanding the audience's requests were.
Kneeling, bowing, self-harm, crying, begging.
Their faces, streaked with tears and snot, were the epitome of ugliness and pity.
Grace let his eyes fall, a faint blue shadow casting over his fair face, adding a fragile dimension to his otherwise composed appearance.
His expression remained unaffected, lips slightly pursed, as he swiftly scanned the live stream interface—
And precisely hit the "hide" button on the chat.
"..."
The chat came to a momentary halt.
In the silence that followed, a message slowly floated across:
"Wait, did I see that right? Did the broadcaster just hide his chat interface?"
Most broadcasters would hide their chat during a scenario, especially when stuck or facing imminent failure, as they often resort to opening the chat.
After all...
Although viewers are prohibited from spoiling scenarios through chat, they can offer tasks with bounty points, providing guidance to their favored broadcasters.
Even the smallest act of gifting felt like a lifesaving straw to a broadcaster.
"Viewers are gods; the popularity of your live streaming room is everything."
Yet, here was a newbie broadcaster, facing the jaws of defeat with mere minutes to spare, choosing to shut out the chat?
What was he thinking?
Or perhaps, he believed that dignity and pride still had value under these circumstances?
What a laugh.
Though unseen by the broadcaster, the viewer count saw a slight uptick.
Now, with about eighty-some spectators, they all eagerly awaited the unfolding drama.
After closing the interface, Grace took another heavy breath.
The musty, dust-laden air filled his nostrils.
Frankly, after seeing those comments, Grace felt...
Nothing, really.
After all, this was how he survived—dignity, pride, morals, ethos... These were luxuries he could ill afford.
As long as it was for survival, there was nothing he wasn't willing to do.
However, Grace caught a crucial keyword in the rules just now.
Time.
Survival was measured in time, points were exchanged for time, and even the initial allocation was time.
Time, time, time.
It was the sole and absolute standard in this scenario.
And also what he was desperately short on.
—Spending these precious twenty minutes begging a handful of viewers for a mere chance at charity...
It was the worst possible trade he could imagine.
Moreover, he knew all too well what kind of response humanity would show in such situations. The audience knew it too.
Those old hands were likely tired of such acts, certainly not inclined to throw money for nothing, especially given their previous remarks.
And things freely given often hold the least value.
Grace understood this well.
That left only one option.
Grace's gaze dropped to the task bar before him.
Only one live stream mission had refreshed thus far:
[New broadcaster, please explore the scenario and unlock the identity card]
[Completion: 0%]
Grace surveyed the room he was in.
Usually, searching the dormitory was the most straightforward way to understand his current identity and state.
However...
Grace glanced at his ID card again; it had less than 17 minutes left, and the countdown was rapidly decreasing.
His time was too short.
So, it was time for a bold play.
Success or perish!
How else to catch a big fish without risking the bait!
With gritted teeth, Grace pocketed his ID card and strode out.
The hallway was deserted.
Old ceiling lights hung crookedly, dimly flickering, casting the corridor into choppy shadows and light.
It was unnervingly quiet.
Under one of the lights, a partially rusted map clung to the wall.
Grace briskly approached and studied the map.
The greasy fingerprints and peeling corners barely obscured some blurry lettering.
He scanned it quickly, then turned on his heel and sprinted in a chosen direction.
The closed dorm door flew by as he passed, windows pitch black, resembling hollow eye sockets.
A pale, smiling face slowly emerged from one of the windows, eyes tracking the young man as he passed, the smile widening—
"!"
Grace skidded to a halt, nearly tripping over from the sudden stop.
Heart racing, he glanced back at the window he'd just passed.
"..."
Good heavens, that was terrifying!
Other than the flickering light, there was nothing in the window.
Through the thin layer of dust, Grace could faintly make out his own reflection.
Maybe it was just his imagination...
But this face seemed closer than before, as if inching closer to him.
Grace felt goosebumps spread over his arms.
"Ha ha ha, seems like death is drawing closer."
"Yet, how bizarre, he didn't even flinch at that sight, just kept running..."
"Any broadcaster who's been targeted by ghosts in this scenario starts screaming. Was he not scared, really?"
Grace raced down the stairs.
The first-floor lobby, though wide, was cramped and dim, walls and floors greasy and engulfed in shadows.
Through the murky windows, an endless darkness stretched beyond.
The main door was closed but unlocked.
The young man maintained his pace.
"Ah, I thought we had a promising new broadcaster here."
"Running at the first chance? Boring."
"What suspense is left? I'm out."
The online viewer count started to plummet from eighty.
Just before reaching the door, Grace abruptly slowed and turned—
Positioning himself in front of the duty officer's room.
Unlike the main door, this one was locked.
He knelt, fingers deftly fishing in his sleeve, producing a wire from seemingly nowhere. Grace bent the wire, expertly working it inside the lock.
"Click."
The lock gave way with a crisp sound.
In mere seconds, the duty room's door slid open.
"Phew..."
Grace stood, the wire disappearing as magically as it had appeared.
"..."
"..."
Viewer count, which had been declining, momentarily stalled, falling into a brief silence.
Grace pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Based on the map, this old dormitory had just three floors—first floor for the lobby and utilities, second and third for dorms, and the fourth floor was unclear, obscured by red-brown rust.
Given its limited number of dorms, this school couldn't have been large.
Grace was somewhat familiar with such underfunded, old-school setups.
That is...
They'd have limited places to store important items.
This room offered the best chance to gather the most information in the least amount of time.
Like the rest of the dormitory, the duty room was sparsely furnished.
A narrow bed against the wall for napping teachers, a shelf cluttered with books, a wall schedule, and a desk by the window, usually for speaking with students, now also locked.
Without a moment's delay, Grace began a swift search, rifling through locked drawers and cabinets, each carefully restored after his quick inspection.
Student rosters.
Teacher duty schedules.
A continuous stream of "Information Acquired" notifications played.
Chat realized his stratagem:
"Ah, he's going for exploration points."
"Many broadcasters only learn about exploration points after several scenarios. He figured it out without hints, promising."
"Hey, he might actually redeem enough time to survive!"
"Don't jump to conclusions just yet. Look how little time he has left."
The chat fell silent.
Time was always cruel, especially starting with just twenty minutes.
Though Grace was quick, no one could stop time from slipping away.
Above the live stream, the broadcaster's remaining survival time dwindled to under six minutes.
In the scenario, the final five minutes were critical. Broadcasters with less than five minutes attracted the scenario's non-human entities—both monsters and NPCs—like moths to a flame.
It was akin to waving a flag while shouting, "Here I am! Come and get me!"
Once a broadcaster landed in such a bind, danger multiplied rapidly, leaving most unable to last even five minutes.
At the stroke of 05:00, the digits were suddenly stained a glaring crimson.
Grace stood by the desk, flipping through files with a slight pause in his movements.
He could keenly sense the temperature dropping around him without warning, the already chilly and damp room turning bone-chillingly cold in an instant. The cold seeped in like a steel blade, piercing through every pore, creeping into the marrow of his bones.
A strong, unsettling sensation of being watched crept up from behind.
Almost involuntarily, Grace slowly turned his head—
In the vanity mirror on the desk, he saw a blurred silhouette of himself in the darkness.
A pallid hand silently and slowly extended from the partially open cabinet behind him, pressing against the wall.
Beyond his shoulders, Grace saw a face emerging from the shadows.
It was a smiling face.
The pallid base color seemed like molten wax, simple features smoothly coming together on the surface like an eerie smiling mask, now silently grinning at Grace.
Black hair, like wet, sticky serpents, with droplets cascading from the strands.
Drip, drip.
It inched out from the wardrobe, slowly advancing towards the young man.
One step, two steps.
As the distance closed in, the details on the smiling mask gradually became more defined.
More and more resembling... Grace himself.
Just then, heavy and dragging footsteps resounded from outside the slightly ajar duty room door. Each step echoed through the dead silence of the room, casting an ominous atmosphere, as if each step was crushing on someone's heart.
"Thud," "Thud," "Thud."
A sporadic humming gradually approached from afar.
The melody peculiar and cheerful, growing clearer with the footsteps in the desolate, dark environment, adding to the eerie setting.
At the sound of this distinctive tune, the knowledgeable audience in the bullet comments immediately got excited.
"It's the old witch! It's the old witch!"
"This newbie's luck is really terrible, encountering the most troublesome monster and NPC right off the bat. I've never seen a streamer have such luck."
The footsteps halted at the door of the duty room.
In the next moment, the humming abruptly ceased.
A suffocating silence descended suddenly.
Grace, as if awakened from a dream, swiftly crouched down, darting towards the half-open cabinet under the table.
The previously quiet bullet comments section finally burst into fervor.
"This is hilarious, the newbie is so naive."
"Usually, hiding in a cabinet, under a bed, although it may not evade ghosts, the chance of escaping NPCs is high, but now he's a hundred percent attracting NPC attention, definitely going to be found."
"Such a pity, if it weren't for this extreme start, the streamer actually had great potential."
"Stop complaining, at least it's interesting now."
"Bang—"
The duty room's door was forcefully pushed open from outside.
A tall, hefty woman appeared at the doorway, her thick glasses unable to mask the malice and gloom in her eyes, grey lips tightly pressed, drool hanging from the sagging corners of her mouth, the muscles on her face twitching slightly, emanating a strong sense of chill on her brutish face.
"Who's there?"
"Thud!"
After a light noise as if hitting something, the young man, grimacing, propped himself up, holding the back of his head.
His glasses were askew, a bit of dust smudged on his profile.
"Ah!"
As if seeing a savior, the young man's eyes sparkled slightly: "Teacher Aaliyah, you're here!"
A flicker of confusion passed over Teacher Aaliyah's face, evidently not expecting this turn of events.
"The headmaster gave me the key to come and collect the roster for the new boarders who just arrived."
Grace scratched his cheek, flashing a shy smile at her: "I heard there's a student who hasn't reported in. Mr. Shen urgently needs the roster updated, so I took the liberty to come in, I'm really sorry..."
Watching the new streamer on screen spouting nonsense with a straight face, the bullet comments section fell silent.
The young man, with the cracked glasses he just retrieved from under the cabinet, though slightly askew, combined seamlessly with his previous actions, not appearing abrupt, but rather as if he had been startled into disarray a moment ago.
The earlier alertness and aloofness had vanished.
Somewhat sheepishly, he pressed his lips together, a bit of dust clinging to his handsome face, his glasses giving him an earnest scholarly air, making him seem naïve yet sincere, his light brown eyes blinking behind the lenses, radiating unmistakable sincerity and apology.
Teacher Aaliyah narrowed her eyes, her malevolent gaze piercing through the thick lenses, glaring at the young man.
It finally dawned on Grace: "Oh, I haven't introduced myself yet!"
He stepped forward, extending his hand towards her, but seemingly realizing something midway, hastily wiped his dusty palm on his trousers, looking embarrassed and shy:
"I'm the new intern teacher here, you can call me Grace."
He extended his hand again.
Teacher Aaliyah lowered her gaze, glanced at the outstretched hand, her expression unreadable.
The young man blinked in confusion, asking with concern:
"Is something wrong? Are you feeling unwell? Do you want to go to the infirmary?"
Just as he finished speaking, he seemed to recall something, frowning in embarrassment: "But Miss Kylie isn't here today..."
Finally, the old witch emitted a heavy, cold grunt from her nose.
With agility unfitting her bulk, she moved forward, retrieving a crumpled little booklet from a dark box deep in the cabinet.
The sound of pages rustling filled the narrow duty room.
Licking her greasy fingers, she flipped open the booklet and asked:
"Which student hasn't reported in?"
The bullet comments section erupted at her words.
"Oh my god, she's buying it, she's buying it, she's buying it!"
"This is next level play!"
"I can't believe it! How does the streamer know so much information?"
"Didn't he just flip through the staff roster and duty schedule? Is he new here?"
"Although, who can come up with such a smooth lie in such a short time, unbelievable!"
Grace remained oblivious to the audience's reaction.
He leaned in, his distinctively long fingers gently tapping a page, his fingertip landing on a particular name.
"Tyler"—that was the name on the identity card he had drawn.
The young man smiled: "This one."
The old witch took a pen from her pocket, writing three words after Tyler's name: Hasn't Reported In.
The once lively bullet comments suddenly fell quiet for a few seconds.
"..."
"..."
"Damn, the master of deception."