The members of Liu Dao's studio stood in stunned silence, completely at a loss for words. None of them had ever encountered a question quite like the one Chen Ge had just thrown out so casually, and the absurdity of it left them momentarily frozen. In the end, it was Liu Dao who finally stepped forward, breaking the awkward quiet with a concerned expression. "Listen, you really have to be careful tonight—safety comes before anything else. We actually went and scouted around the outside of the mental hospital earlier today while it was still daylight, just to get a sense of the layout and any obvious hazards."
Chen Ge's gaze immediately locked onto Liu Dao with intense focus, the kind of piercing attention that made even a seasoned person like Liu Dao shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "You've already been inside the building itself? What exactly did you see in there?" Chen Ge asked, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of curiosity that felt almost too sharp.
Liu Dao quickly shook his head, raising both hands in a placating gesture. "No, no—we only walked around the perimeter outside. We didn't dare set foot through any of the doors or windows. But I did manage to download a rough map of the entire hospital complex for you ahead of time. According to the online rumors, this particular sketch was supposedly drawn by one of the patients who used to be committed there." He turned back to his laptop, opened a saved file, and angled the screen so Chen Ge could see it clearly. The map that appeared was extremely crude—hand-drawn lines, uneven proportions, and scribbled labels—but it still managed to convey the basic structure of the place. "As you can see, the hospital consists of three main buildings that are all connected to one another through covered walkways or internal corridors."
Liu Dao pointed to the different sections as he continued his explanation. "The First Sick Hall and the Second Sick Hall were used to house what they called 'normal' patients back in the day—the less severe cases. Their entrances and most of the windows were deliberately oriented to face the sun, probably to give those patients more natural light and a sense of openness. But the Third Sick Hall is a completely different story; it's far more mysterious and isolated. That one served as the quarantine ward for the most dangerous and unstable patients, and noticeably, both its main door and all of its windows were positioned to face away from any direct sunlight, almost as if the designers wanted to keep it permanently in shadow."
He paused to let that detail sink in before continuing in a more serious tone. "You need to exercise extreme caution if you ever find yourself inside that Third Sick Hall. According to the notes scribbled alongside this map by whoever drew it, the Third Hall was strictly off-limits even to the other patients. If any of the 'normal' patients were ever caught lingering too close to its entrance or trying to peek inside, they would be subjected to some truly horrific form of punishment—though the map doesn't specify exactly what that punishment was." Liu Dao met Chen Ge's eyes directly. "That's why my strong recommendation for tonight is that you skip the Third Sick Hall entirely. If you move slowly and methodically through just the First and Second Halls, we should still have more than enough material to make the livestream gripping and worthwhile."
With that said, Liu Dao gently pushed the laptop closer across the table so Chen Ge could study the map in greater detail and commit its layout to memory before heading out.
Chen Ge's expression grew noticeably more serious as he absorbed the information. "Is the Third Sick Hall really that unique or dangerous compared to the rest? Were you able to dig up any additional details about it from online sources or forums?" he asked, his voice low and focused.
Liu Dao gave a small shrug, though his smile was a little forced. "Not much that's reliable—most of what's out there sounds like pure fabrication or urban legend territory. A few posts claim that some of the patients locked inside there actually murdered one of the doctors, and the body wasn't discovered until several days later when the smell became impossible to ignore. Others go even further and insist the Third Hall didn't house ordinary human patients at all, but rather some kind of strange, inhuman creatures." He let out a short, uneasy laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "Obviously that last part has to be nonsense, right? Just wild exaggeration from people trying to make the place sound scarier."
As soon as Liu Dao closed the laptop lid, everyone in the tent couldn't help but notice a subtle but unmistakable shift in Chen Ge's entire demeanor. The easygoing calmness he had shown earlier was gone, replaced by a deep, quiet tension—as though something in the conversation had genuinely unsettled him and set his mind racing with private concerns.
"Alright, let's check all the camera feeds one last time—we don't have much time left before we go live," Chen Ge said abruptly, breaking the heavy silence. He slung his backpack over one shoulder and began methodically attaching the various pieces of recording equipment: the small chest-mounted camera, the lightweight wrist camera for alternate angles, and the compact audio recorder clipped securely to his collar. After running quick tests on each device to confirm they were functioning and properly synced, he gave a satisfied nod and started walking toward the tent's exit without another word.
Liu Dao hurried after him, raising his voice so it would carry. "If anything starts feeling too dangerous at any point, just turn around and get out of there as fast as you can. Remember to mark your path clearly as you go deeper—scratch trees, leave small markers, anything that'll help you retrace your steps. I've already set my phone number as your emergency speed-dial contact. I'll call you exactly one minute before the livestream officially begins so you can double-check the connection and see the live chat in your streaming room. And one last thing—no one has set foot inside that place in years, so I honestly can't predict what kind of condition it's in or what you might run into. Please, just be extremely careful."
Chen Ge paused right at the tent's entrance, surprised by the genuine worry in Liu Dao's voice. He turned back, pulled out his phone in front of everyone, and deliberately set Liu Dao's number as his top emergency contact so they could all see him do it. Then he raised a hand in a brief wave. "Got it. But all of you—stay inside the tent the entire time. No matter what happens, do not wander out looking for me, and do not come running if you hear or see anything strange. Understood?"
Sister Lee opened her mouth as if to protest—"But if something really goes wrong…"—only for Chen Ge to cut her off gently but firmly.
"Just focus on keeping the equipment running smoothly. Leave the actual content and scares to me." With those final words, Chen Ge stepped fully into the night, the white cat padding silently at his heels. Within seconds, both man and animal had vanished completely into the thick, suffocating darkness beyond the clearing.
Everyone left inside the tent watched his retreating silhouette until it was swallowed by the shadows. Sister Lee, who up until that moment had remained openly skeptical of Chen Ge's chances, now stood with her arms tightly crossed over her chest. She muttered under her breath, barely loud enough for the others to hear, "This kid… at least when you look at his back walking away like that, he actually looks kind of handsome."
Inside his own mind, Chen Ge was far more nervous than he had ever been before stepping into a genuine three-star horror scenario. He understood—better than anyone else present—just how truly dangerous this abandoned mental hospital really was. The stories Liu Dao had dismissed as ridiculous fabrications weren't inventions at all; they were likely the desperate, fragmented accounts of someone who had witnessed things ordinary people could never see. Perhaps that was precisely why the person who drew the map had been labeled a mental patient in the first place—because he could perceive truths that everyone else refused to believe.
Relying on the mental image of the map he had memorized, Chen Ge pushed steadily through the last stretch of dense brush until, at last, the dark outline of an old, decaying building rose into view directly ahead of him.
"This mental hospital covers a surprisingly large area," Chen Ge thought to himself. When he had first heard it described as a private psychiatric facility, he had pictured something small, rundown, and cramped—barely big enough to hold a handful of patients in grim, claustrophobic conditions. But now that he stood before it in person, he realized how mistaken that assumption had been. The entire complex sprawled outward in every direction, hidden behind layers of thick, overgrown vegetation that had been left unchecked for years.
A high cement wall encircled the whole property, cutting it off from the outside world like a fortress. There appeared to be only one main entrance, and even that was sealed shut long ago, its heavy metal gates rusted and chained. From where Chen Ge stood, the tall barrier blocked most of his view of the interior buildings. But as he drew closer, step by careful step, something caught his eye along the base of the wall—something small but deeply unsettling that sent a fresh wave of cold unease crawling up his spine.
The towering cement walls surrounding the hospital were covered from top to bottom with countless scrawled sentences, each one written in a frantic, uneven hand that looked as though it had been scratched out in desperation or rage. Despite the sheer volume of writing and the chaotic appearance, every single sentence shared one unmistakable common thread—they all revolved around mentioning or calling out someone's name, over and over again in endless variations. When Chen Ge first shone his flashlight across the wall and took in the sight, he instinctively tried to commit as many of those names to memory as possible, thinking they might hold some clue or significance later. But the sheer number of sentences stretched on endlessly in both directions, layer upon overlapping layer, and far too many names kept repeating themselves in slightly different phrasings; eventually, the task felt impossible, and he reluctantly gave up the effort.
Chen Ge stood there silently for a long moment, staring at the wall and wondering whether all those names belonged to former patients who had once been confined behind these very walls. Were they the people who had lived—and perhaps died—inside this forsaken place? The possibility lingered heavily in his mind, refusing to be dismissed.
Even though the precise meaning behind the sentences remained completely unclear to him, one thing was undeniable: they carried an intensely strange and unsettling energy. Nothing about the way they were written felt ordinary or rational. These weren't casual graffiti tags or idle doodles left by bored trespassers; they had clearly been produced by someone—or something—far removed from normal thought patterns.
Chen Ge couldn't shake the growing suspicion that these words were trying to convey a message, perhaps a warning, a plea, or even a threat. But whatever they intended to communicate, it remained locked behind layers of madness and repetition that he couldn't yet decipher. Standing there alone in the dark, he felt an irrational but powerful sense of anxiety creeping over him, as though the sentences themselves were alive and actively directing their malice toward him personally—like a chorus of silent curses aimed straight at the intruder who had dared to approach.
"White Tiger, don't stray too far from me," Chen Ge said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper now that the two of them were completely alone outside the wall. In this isolated moment, away from the skeptical eyes back at the tent, he no longer felt embarrassed about using the grandiose nickname he had given the white cat. As they drew nearer to the hospital's perimeter, the cat's behavior had changed noticeably; its ears flattened, its tail bushed out, and every step became hesitant and alert. This animal, which had always shown an uncanny sensitivity to things ordinary people couldn't perceive, was clearly picking up on some kind of presence or danger emanating from within the abandoned grounds.
"Don't worry," Chen Ge murmured reassuringly to the cat as he lifted the live rooster that had been bound gently by its legs. "We aren't going in completely defenseless—we've got our own trump cards ready." He reached into his bag and pulled out the heavy mallet, gripping its handle firmly while keeping his eyes fixed on the sealed gate ahead. Rather than rushing forward impulsively, he chose to wait patiently in the shadows, giving Liu Dao time to make the final pre-broadcast call.
A few moments later, his phone vibrated softly. Liu Dao's voice came through the earpiece, calm and professional. "Everything on our end is working perfectly—the picture is crystal clear, the feed is completely stable, and we've officially started the livestream. You can pull it up on your own phone right now to double-check how it looks from the viewer side."
"Okay," Chen Ge replied simply. He quickly opened the streaming platform on his device. The very first thing that loaded on the screen was a large, eye-catching advertisement banner promoting Qin Guang's concurrent livestream. Out of curiosity, he tapped on it. The feed showed Qin Guang sitting in what appeared to be the driver's seat of a vehicle, looking sincerely apologetic as he addressed his audience directly. According to the explanation he was giving, his entire team had encountered an unexpected accident just outside the gates of Mu Yang High School—the equipment van had somehow veered off the road and ended up stuck in a ditch. Qin Guang claimed the driver had suddenly panicked after seeing something large collapse directly onto the windshield, causing him to lose control for a critical second. Chen Ge watched the clip in silence. So they actually went to Mu Yang High School after all. Clearly my warning didn't make the slightest difference. Still, even this last-minute apology video had already racked up close to 400,000 views in almost no time. The man's pull with the audience really couldn't be underestimated.
Closing the ad, Chen Ge navigated to his own livestream room. Thanks to the hard-won level-two platform recommendation, the viewer count had climbed rapidly and was now hovering steadily around 250,000 people—an impressive number for someone essentially unknown until tonight.
The livestream interface was divided into multiple windows for better monitoring. The largest, central feed came from the high-definition chest camera, capturing everything directly in front of him with sharp clarity. In the bottom-left corner was a smaller inset window showing the live view from his wrist-mounted camera, which functioned almost like a wearable watch—its angle adjustable at will simply by moving his arm. By raising his hand slightly, he could even catch a glimpse of his own body and backpack reflected back in the feed.
The time on his phone read exactly 10:00 pm. It was time to begin.
Chen Ge lifted his wrist so the smaller camera pointed directly at his face. He stared straight into the lens for a few seconds, letting the viewers see his expression clearly, then spoke in a calm but slightly self-deprecating tone as he glanced at the rapidly scrolling chat messages flooding the screen. "Honestly, I never imagined I'd be doing something this completely insane tonight."
After giving his backpack one last reassuring pat to make sure everything inside was secure, he carefully lifted the white cat and placed it gently on top of the high perimeter wall. Then, with a steadying breath, Chen Ge gripped the rough edge of the cement, hauled himself up, and swung his legs over. In one smooth motion, he dropped down onto the other side—officially crossing the boundary into the abandoned Jiujiang Third Psychological Convalescence Centre.