Chapter 98 Xiao Qing's Challenge Dungeon
Three days have passed.
You can always hear that sound.
creak—creak—creak—
It wasn't the floor, nor the footsteps coming and going in the hallway. The sound was so rhythmic, so heavy, like a pair of boots soaked in snow and frozen into an icy shell, resentfully and stubbornly approaching you from afar, step by step.
You haven't slept well for the past three nights.
No, it was more like I couldn't sleep at all.
At first, you thought it was a hallucination. After all, you felt uneasy after "sending off" your roommate, and you were inevitably on edge. But starting from the second night, you realized that the voice wasn't coming from your head.
It is real.
It started in a dream—she stood in the snow, wearing those white suede boots, walking towards you step by step, her lips frozen purple, her hair hanging down wet, asking as she walked:
Why did you hurt me?
It's not that you want to hurt her, you...
You want to explain, but you have absolutely no ability to speak.
She screamed and yelled, her voice shrill like ice, piercing your eardrums. You woke with a start, your vision blurred, but the sound of those boots continued in your ears.
After that, she stopped saying anything and just kept circling around you, crying and sobbing incessantly.
You can't sleep anymore.
On the morning of the third day, you slap your face hard, look at the bruises under your eyes, and tell yourself that you must pull yourself together.
You open the door, go outside, and intend to go to the library to get closer to other students in the same major.
You have quite a few tasks on your hands; at the very least, you need to figure out how to write that mid-term report on "Practical Applications of Tourism Projects".
You walk through the corridor, downstairs, and head towards the teaching building, facing the howling cold wind.
Although this school is just a diploma mill, there are still quite a few students who attend classes diligently.
It was during the morning classes, and a large group of local students wearing long black down jackets walked solemnly in one direction. You were among them, head down, and followed along.
Different strides, different shoes, mostly black or gray, and then you see—
A pair of white boots.
It blends almost seamlessly into the snow, standing perfectly still at the edge of your line of sight.
No one wears it, yet it stands firmly. The frayed edges are still fluttering slightly, and the cracks on the upper are mottled, like dried bloodstains.
It was the pair you "gave away".
Your heart races, so you quickly walk away, pretending you didn't see anything.
By the time the morning is over, you'll have mostly finished what you need to do, so just grab a quick bite at a convenience store for lunch.
But just as you pass by the convenience store, those boots reappear in the reflection of the shop window, standing behind you, unhurriedly.
It seems... a little closer?
You grit your teeth and tell yourself that it's okay to go back to your dorm; it's your safe haven, and you don't necessarily have to go out.
When you run back to your dorm and step into the hallway, panting, you freeze the moment you look up.
—Those boots are standing right at your door, the tips pointing at you.
It has come knocking on our door.
You let out a long sigh, realizing you had really made a terrible mistake.
Once inside, the heater in the corner was still humming, but the whole room felt unbearably cold.
The light gradually dimmed in your eyes, and the dream and reality almost overlapped. You were already sleep-deprived, and in the hallucination, the edges of the boots blurred in the air.
My mind was filled with her plaintive whisper:
Why did you hurt me?
You want to say, "You violated my boundaries first," you want to say, "I was just following the rules," you want to say, "I'm different from you, I—"
You are still alive; you have never failed.
But that's not the key point.
What is the purpose of this ghost revenge drama?
You look at the bed next to you, which is now completely empty.
That was her bed.
The copies leave no trace. All the belongings and traces of life left behind by those who were "taken away" are erased. Fingerprints on drawers, wardrobes, and mirrors are wiped away; even the dormitory supervisor's registration form will no longer mention her name.
They will disappear naturally.
This is your experience.
But that's clearly not the case right now.
A thought suddenly pops into your head: "If she wasn't completely eliminated... what if she left something behind?"
Thinking this, you squat down and lift up the entire mattress on the other side, leaving no corner unchecked, and then pry open the gaps between the bed boards.
The moment the flashlight illuminates your phone screen, your heart sinks.
There—in a slanted corner between a dusty crevice—something was clearly tucked away.
You carefully hooked it out with your fingertips.
It is a passport.
The passport cover is worn white, and you can still vaguely see the gold national emblem and English letters. You open it, and the person in the cover photo doesn't look exactly like your roommate, but your intuition tells you: it's her.
That was her original form—not the Western body you saw before, nor the "roommate" with a different personality under the rules of the instance, but someone who, at a certain point in time, truly stepped into this place, embraced dreams, but ultimately became nothing but rubble…
You stared intently at the photo, silently memorizing her name, birthday, nationality, and entry stamp.
Xiao Qing.
Just as you close your passport and are about to put it in your bag, it disappears from your fingertips with a "whoosh," as if it's been pulled away by something.
You were stunned.
My first instinct was to look down, but there was nothing there.
But you know it very clearly: it truly existed. You've seen her real name, you've seen her face without disguise.
You get it, this is the instance's "invitation" to you: you've encountered such a crisis, so you always need to find a reasonable and interesting solution to deal with it.
If you don't even know who your opponent is or what they are, how can you possibly win?
You stand up, panting, as if you've just run several kilometers while wearing a mask.
This disqualified outsider, who is likely already dead but whose copy has "resided" in your life, has failed again in her competition with you. However, her consciousness is still attached to those white boots, and she is trying to restart one more chance.
But you no longer want the dungeon to dominate this elimination game.
You feel like vomiting; you don't want to be a "sieve" that carries out its will.
First, we still need to find out all traces of Xiaoqing, even if she is already a "dead person".
Since she was able to leave a trace here, it's likely that it hasn't been completely erased elsewhere either.
Take out your phone, open the Los Angeles Foreign Student Registration System, log in to your school account, and use the passport number and name you just noted down as keywords to search.
No.
You frown and turn to the missing persons database, the faculty and staff internal address book, international exchange records…
Finally, in a snapshot of a document from two years ago, you found a short record:
"Xiao Qing, an exchange student majoring in Tourism Management, enrolled in the fall of year X."
There wasn't even an official report for their disappearances. This, however, answers a question that has long puzzled you: what becomes of this place when you outsiders die?
—The soul may be recycled and reused to harm other outsiders; the body, on the other hand, is easily forgotten.
It's as if you came here, yet you never did.
You close the document, open a social media platform, and search for her flower name again.
It's still not hard to find.
The account's last update was a selfie taken on a snowy school road, dated exactly two years before the "surface time" of the instance.
The caption reads: "It's especially cold today, but I still have a bowl of hot borscht, so I should be able to get through this."
The girl in the photo smiles reservedly yet sincerely. Even in the virtual world, she seems like an ordinary girl who loves life and is recording her experiences.
She treated every day in the game as if it were real life, experiencing and feeling it without any ambiguity.
You slowly sat down, your eyes stinging, and you felt a deep sense of unease.
She never mentioned the "copy," but simply wrote down her feelings and memories from the real world, one piece at a time.
She came from the south of the Flower Kingdom. This was her first instance, and also her first time living and surviving in an extremely cold place. She was afraid of the cold, afraid of loneliness, and afraid of being swallowed up by this unfamiliar country.
She made mistakes and hurt others in order to protect herself—of course, this does not mean that she was destined to be "sacrificed".
You open your notebook, unsure of the purpose of doing this, but you still start copying, pasting, organizing, and archiving her social media content, creating a "Xiaoqing folder".
Perhaps you're not sure, but it's really possible that as long as you still "remember" her, as long as her information is still seen, organized, and preserved—the copy cannot completely erase her.
But for her, there might be other possibilities.
You open the door and look at those boots.
It still stands quietly at the door, like a lifeless, cold shell.
You whispered, "Xiao Qing, I remember you."
As if sensing what you said, the front of the boot creased, and the heel slowly rose.
It started walking, tap-tap-tap, as it walked outside.
Your approach is effective.
Next, you will actively seek out more evidence of her existence.
You know, as long as the evidence is complete enough, you can "resurrect" her in the instance—another kind of existence.
Then there might be a turning point in this ambiguous entanglement between you and her.
You spent the entire night digging up Xiaoqing's social media.
She updates frequently, yet her tone is very restrained. These words are more like a quiet affirmation of one's own existence.
"This was the first time I cooked borscht by myself today, and I added way too much vinegar." "My roommate used my toothbrush today, and even though she's...sigh, I didn't say anything." "My phone broke, all my photos are gone, I'm so sad."
She's not even very good at "arguing".
You are very sad.
The dungeon left her behind, forcing her to fight against those who came after her.
She failed again, and now she doesn't know what she's become, perhaps she can only wait, repeat the cycle, and get entangled again.
You slept for only a few tens of minutes before changing your clothes, wrapping yourself up tightly, and leaving the dormitory.
The snow was still thick, and the sky was a steely gray. You put on your hat and trudged towards the teaching building, your steps uneven.
You need to find that study room she used to go to countless times.
This will also be the place where you observe and take classes later. At the end of the corridor, you knock on the glass door of the classroom. There's only a cleaning lady inside.
You gestured with your phone's translator and asked, "May I go in and take a look?"
She stared at you for a few seconds and then nodded.
The moment the door opens, a wave of warmth washes over you as you survey the entire space.
She once took a selfie here, with a red thermos and velvet curtains in the corner as the background.
And those two things—they're still there.
You hurried over and found a piece of paper under the curtains. You carefully picked it up.
It was actually her handwriting.
You chuckled, but your brows furrowed.
"The geothermal heat is so warm, I'm sleepy."
Such plain sentences, existing so unguardedly, as if she were still here.
After you carefully put the paper away, just as you turned to leave, your aunt suddenly called out to you.
She moved closer, pointed to the chair, and asked in Rosen first, then switched to Eyjafjallajökull when she saw your confusion: "Your friend...why hasn't she come again?"
You asked in surprise, "Friend?"
Okay, that makes sense. You're all from the same country after all. You don't deny it, but you just ask, "Do you still remember her?"
The aunt nodded, her lips twitching slightly, and said, "Every time she sits down, she takes off her shoes, saying it's too tiring to walk in the snow wearing them. I once got her some water, and she thanked me softly. She was very polite."
You're stunned.
Is this a deliberate guidance from the copy's consciousness—that's how you felt when you saw the note—or is it that the copy also has corners it doesn't notice: these are the warmth and connections within real humanity—so, this aunt—she still remembers her.
"She graduated," you said softly.
The aunt nodded and didn't ask any more questions.
As you left the teaching building, you walked with a more determined stride than when you arrived.
You have a new idea.
When I got back to the dormitory, those white boots were back at the door.
"Hello, Xiaoqing," you said, crouching down and gently pushing it aside before unlocking the door with your key.
You didn't let it in, but you didn't try to drive it away either.
It was there, like a soul waiting for a response.
You turn on your computer and compile all the information, records, notes, and screenshots you've gathered about Lin Qingqing into a compressed file called "Her".
You put the USB drive in and locked it in the bottom drawer of your desk.
It's not for commemoration, but to preserve a person's "right to exist."
You look up at the door.
The instance clearly wants you to kill her again, and perhaps even to toy with your emotions, it wants to lead you to learn about her situation and feel her imprint.
Let's give it a try.
You took a nap to give your brain a proper rest before continuing your thinking and actions.
You have a pressing question: "Why is she still able to keep bothering you after breaking the rules?"
You still don't understand this point, so you have to go back to the snowshoe rules, pondering the literal meaning over and over again, and suddenly it hits you hard.
The rules themselves never said who would die, not even in Tamara's explanation that day; they simply designed the conditions for 'substitute death'.
To put it simply, this rule means that if you wear snow boots that don't belong to you, and there's a 'spirit' in the boots, your body will be controlled by the boots, and your consciousness may disappear as a result.
This is simply a rule that operates on the condition of "substitution".
And you, by using "fake boots" to lure your roommate into wearing the wrong ones, did indeed stuff the remnant spirit of Xiaoqing, this "loser," into another container, completing a wrong transfer.
You are not the game-changer; you are just turning someone who is looking for a scapegoat into a scapegoat once again.
That's why she comes back again and again, treading on blood-stained snow, crawling back through the cracks in the rules—because "substitution is not valid," just as her death has never been acknowledged.
You suddenly sit up straight, feeling as if you've grabbed something.
In fact, there are several other rules governing this kind of "scapegoating" logic, such as these two:
"Don't drink the last glass."
"Don't refuse a drink offered by someone."
The last drink, the "inviter" and the invited...
Isn't this just a clear exchange of identities?
You went to a small supermarket and bought a few bottles of vodka, some sandwiches, decorative lights, a small speaker, and a piece of faux marble sticker that had been returned—to decorate the dormitory's common room.
You visited the dormitory supervisor again.
The dorm supervisor has a very good impression of you; she always smiles when she sees you.
This time you brought a box of freshly bought tea and some fruit. When you handed it to her, the auntie happily said to you, "Why are you always so polite?"
After exchanging a few polite words, you smiled sheepishly and said, "Auntie, I'd like to use the activity room for a small party, just the two of us. I don't want to make the dorm room a mess, so..."
A cryptic look flashed in the aunt's eyes, but she didn't ask any further questions. She simply said, "Don't stay out too late, leave before ten o'clock."
"Okay, I promise." You nodded.
In the evening, you walk into the common room carrying a bag of wine, along with sticky notes and a pen.
The room was old and empty, with a yellowish incandescent light. You drew the curtains, installed colored lights, and played that old song you'd seen on Xiaoqing's social media—the Rosenborg version of "The Lonely Traveler."
You set out two chairs, placed two vodka glasses in the middle of the table, and lit a red candle.
She likes red.
You pulled your chair further away, made sure Xiaoqing's spot was warm and tidy, and even used the same type of pen she usually used to write on a note: "Come have a drink."
You put a sticky note under that cup.
Then, you sit across from her and start waiting for her.
Midnight.
Suddenly, the stereo emitted a slight electrical hum, the lights began to flicker, and the air suddenly cooled by three degrees.
The door wasn't open, but you knew she was there.
You hear the sound of boots—creak, creak, the soft sound of footsteps on the snow, so clear even though you're indoors.
With your eyes closed, you whisper, "You don't need to walk here in your boots anymore. This time, you're here to keep your appointment."
*Smack*
You open your eyes and see the cup opposite you filled to the brim, then gradually dwindled.
You didn't move.
The glass in front of you is also full of wine. Only then do you reach out and pick up your own glass. At the bottom of the glass... there is a blurry eye staring at you.
You did not dodge.
You look at it, raise your glass, tilt your head back, and down it in one gulp.
The strong liquor burned your throat, but you didn't flinch.
You slowly put down your cup and stare directly at the empty chair opposite you.
Suddenly, the chair seemed to move slightly, and a faint sigh echoed in the air.
As the candlelight flickers, you see the fleeting figure of a girl briefly appear on the chair—she's wearing a down jacket, her hair is loose, and her expression is calm.
She didn't say anything.
She simply nodded at you.
The next moment, the curtains billowed up suddenly, the flames flashed, and all the light went out at once.
bring it on.
This is your plan.
If you can create a "perfect substitute" so that the copy recognizes her as the "inviter" and then personally drink the last cup for her, you can free Xiaoqing from the stigma of being an "incomplete substitute."
As for yourself, you have your own ideas.
Now you know how arrogant your expression was.
Your adrenaline surges.
But you were genuinely disgusted.
Even if you died right now and had to become the next person to take your place, you would still feel satisfied.
Why should we play you and all of you like this?
Let's take a look...
Nothing happened.
Ha! You knew it!
Xiaoqing offered the next drink, and her logic faded away. But as the initiator of this gathering, how could you be "marked" as a new invitee? Naturally, we can't arrest you based on the logic that you drank the last drink.
The copy's "logic" couldn't find an executable branch in the gaps you created, so... it could only produce some terrible effects in its impotent rage before slinking away in disgrace.
That's just how it is.
You neither defeated it nor resisted it.
You simply wrote down Xiaoqing's name, arranged a reasonable farewell, and dutifully followed its "standard procedure"—drinking that last cup.
However, the instance cannot determine whether you are "active" or "invited".
It doesn't understand that your actions, not for victory or self-preservation, are guided by some human emotion. It doesn't understand why you're willing to take this risk, just for "someone who has already failed." An unknown entity that manipulates human emotions can only acquiesce to this vague but effective exchange.
Thus, Xiaoqing found a way to leave.
Instead of becoming her successor, you avoided the chain of punishment by enforcing the rules.
This is also the first time you'll truly see the "other side" of the dungeon.
You stand up, ready to leave, but find that everything in the activity room is slowly becoming blurry—the colored lights go out, the tablecloths become old, the red velvet on the chairs falls off, and the frost on the glass bottles condenses into an unfamiliar pattern.
Alarm bells rang in your mind, but you still carefully stepped forward, hesitated for a moment, and then wiped away the pattern.
That's when I realized it wasn't a letter, not a symbol, but something like—
A face.
An extremely blurry face, like a distorted human figure reflected on the water's surface.
You suddenly realize: this is an afterimage of a copy.
It's not Xiaoqing, nor is it you, but "He" who "watched you accomplish all of this".
*Sizzle*
You even stepped forward and, facing the distorted reflection in the glass, softly said:
"Get lost."
The face slowly faded away.
Hahaha, you're laughing hysterically inside.
When you got back to your dorm, it was already daylight.
In your mind, only a few minutes have passed, yet time has been distorted to this extent.
The snow was still thick, the wind was still blowing, and the whole world seemed unchanged.
But you know everything has changed.
The copy consciousness truly exists; it must have remembered you.
The days ahead are going to be tough.
Whatever.
Turn on your computer and insert the USB drive you just used.
All of Xiao Qing's documents remain intact.
You even typed in your actions and thoughts from today, using some ambiguous words to obscure the existence of the copy, and then uploaded it to various websites and forums.
If someone wants to search for it, it should be easy to find.
You don't know Xiaoqing's ending, but at least in this instance, her existence has been cybernetics immortalized. You also hope that more people can see that the rules of the instance can not only be challenged, but also that there are "gaps in human nature" to exploit.
You don't know if anyone will see it, or who will believe it.
But you know, one day, this record will come in handy.
Some people will read it, remember it, and see the true essence of the copy—
He is neither God nor the Judge.
It is simply a self-renewing, logical, and compulsively operating cyclical system.
And you, in the system's blind spot, left "her".
She was no longer a defeated outsider, no longer a lingering shadow who died in her place.
She is a life that will be remembered.
This is your victory as a "human being".
You turn off the computer, draw the curtains, and walk to the bedside.
The boot that had lingered outside the window, "waiting" for you for so long, has finally disappeared completely.
You lie down, close your eyes, and finally you can get a good night's sleep.
This time, the sound of snowshoes won't accompany you into your dreams.
Only the last note she left behind echoed softly in my mind:
"The geothermal heat is so warm, I'm sleepy."
You smiled.
Answer softly:
Goodnight, Xiaoqing.
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