Chen Ge's mind raced with the realization that the boy was finally beginning to wake up. The faint twitch of his eyelids and the subtle shift in his breathing were unmistakable signs after so much stillness. But Chen Ge had no idea how many broken arms still lurked beneath the bed, coiled and waiting like pale serpents. Worse, there could be other monsters already gathering outside the electroshock therapy room door—drawn by the noise, the blood, or Zhang Ya's earlier rampage. Staying inside this confined space any longer felt like tempting fate. Risking injury from the grasping limbs, Chen Ge plunged into the fray without hesitation. He rushed forward, scooped the small, limp body off the bed, and cradled the boy protectively against his chest.
He immediately placed the sharp edge of the cleaver against the boy's slender neck as he backed away toward the nearest wall. His eyes darted around the room, scanning every shadow, every corner, every possible hiding place. He still could not understand why these broken arms had intervened so fiercely to stop him from harming Men Nan. Their protective frenzy made no logical sense—unless the boy's survival was somehow vital to whatever force controlled this blood-red world.
If they truly cared about Men Nan's safety, why had they strapped him to this bed for more than a decade? Why subject him to years of restraint and isolation in a room designed for electroshock therapy? The contradiction gnawed at Chen Ge even as he kept the blade steady. The boy was leverage—his only leverage—and he could not afford to lose it.
When Chen Ge had first stepped through the blood door, the Trial Mission had spiraled completely out of control. Nothing that followed matched any pattern or precedent he had faced before. He no longer knew what rules governed this place, if any still existed. Tightening his grip on the cleaver until his knuckles whitened, Chen Ge understood one absolute truth: waking this boy was now his only hope of survival. This childhood version of Men Nan held answers—perhaps the only answers—that could explain the door, the monsters, and a way out before dawn.
The instant the cleaver's edge touched the boy's skin, every broken arm in the room froze mid-motion. Then, as though responding to an unspoken command, they all retracted violently toward the door. They pounded against it in a frantic, rhythmic barrage—knock after knock after knock—each impact echoing down the corridor like a desperate distress signal. The relentless noise shattered the fragile peace Chen Ge had fought so hard to maintain.
Chen Ge remembered Men Nan's urgent warning: do not speak inside this world. He had obeyed strictly since crossing the threshold, keeping his mouth shut even during the most desperate moments. He moved with deliberate lightness, footsteps muffled, breathing shallow. The knocking grew louder, more insistent, reverberating through the walls and floor like a summons. A terrible premonition tightened in his chest.
Before he could react, a tall, imposing figure appeared in the doorway of the electroshock therapy room. The old man stood nearly 1.8 meters tall, his head crowned with thick white hair. He wore a doctor's coat, but it was soaked through with blood—turned a deep, wet crimson from collar to hem. The sight of him sent two words flashing through Chen Ge's mind with absolute certainty: Red Specter.
Men Nan's warning had almost certainly been about this entity—to avoid drawing its attention at all costs. But the monster had already appeared. There was no longer any point in caution. Chen Ge's grip on the cleaver tightened until his fingers ached.
"This is surprising," the senior said in a calm, gentle tone that felt completely at odds with his blood-drenched appearance. "I didn't expect anyone else to be able to enter the door besides myself." He smiled warmly, the expression almost grandfatherly—if one could ignore the soaked red coat and the faint smell of copper that clung to him. "This is not a place where you should be. Put the boy down and leave quickly."
Chen Ge did not move a muscle. The boy remained his only leverage; releasing him now would leave Chen Ge defenseless. He kept the blade pressed lightly but firmly against the child's neck and stared the senior down. The longer he looked, the more unsettled he became. The old man's hands were slightly twisted—fingers bent at unnatural angles, as though they had once been crushed by something heavy and never properly healed. Even the kind, approachable face felt wrong, almost artificial—like expertly applied makeup on a corpse.
This man has been dead for a very long time, Chen Ge concluded, drawing on his mortician's instincts. The makeup-like quality of the skin, the faint discoloration at the edges of the features—it was the unmistakable work of someone trying to preserve or present a body long after death.
Seeing that Chen Ge refused to speak or move, the senior took one slow step forward into the room, expression still kind and unchanged. Sensing the advance, Chen Ge instinctively pressed the cleaver a fraction deeper. The boy's eyelids twitched again, stronger this time, as though the pain had finally begun to pierce through his deep sleep.
"Don't hurt the boy," the senior said quickly, freezing in place. His tone carried an odd note of genuine concern. "If anything happens to him, you'll never be able to return."
He snapped his fingers once. Instantly, all the broken arms retreated beneath the bed frame, vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared. Chen Ge watched the movement closely and took a cautious step away from the bed, keeping the boy between himself and the senior.
"You're so tense," the senior continued, voice soothing and almost paternal. "Relax a little. In this place, I'm the only one who can communicate with you. And I'm the only one who can help you."
Chen Ge still did not reply. Instead, he slowly raised the hammer with his free hand and pointed it directly at the door behind the senior.
"You want to leave?" The senior shook his head gently, as though disappointed. "You can leave at any time you wish. But the boy cannot. He must stay inside this room."
The electroshock therapy room was the most soundproof space in the entire hospital—completely isolated from the outside world. No scream, no cry, no sound of struggle would ever escape its walls. Being trapped here with a Red Specter sent fresh waves of panic through Chen Ge. His arm flexed involuntarily. The blade pressed another few millimeters deeper into the boy's neck.
The senior's face twitched—just once—but he quickly smoothed the expression back into calm kindness. "I'm not threatening you," he said softly. "Just give me a chance to explain myself. Then you can make your own decision."
"You might not believe this," the senior continued, his voice calm and measured despite the blood-soaked coat clinging to his frame, "but we are currently living inside this boy's nightmare. If anything happens to him—or if he wakes up—we will be trapped here forever, unable to return to the real world."
"Nightmare?" Chen Ge spoke for the first time since stepping through the blood door. The single word felt strange on his tongue after so long in silence. He watched the senior's reaction closely, searching for any sign of deception or hidden intent. When nothing immediately alarming appeared—no sudden lunge, no shift in the old man's posture—Chen Ge allowed himself to relax slightly. The tension in his shoulders eased just enough to keep his arms from trembling.
"Yes, a nightmare," the senior repeated gently. "The boy grew up entirely within the walls of this mental hospital. Due to a combination of traumatic experiences, isolation, and the twisted environment he was exposed to from birth, he developed an extremely sickly, distorted worldview." The senior's tone carried a strange mix of sympathy and clinical detachment. "You've already seen the dolls made from pillows and bedsheets wandering the corridors. In the boy's eyes, those dolls represent the patients who once received treatment here. Dulled by heavy medication, stripped of personality and will, they slowly transformed into lifeless, hollow shells—dolls that move without purpose, smile without emotion, exist without truly living. They spend their days trapped in a waking dream, unaware of their own emptiness."
"This is all just his imagination?" Chen Ge asked, glancing down at the unconscious boy still cradled in his arms. The child's face remained slack, eyes closed, breathing shallow. "Then how do you explain the broken arms? They don't exist in the real world. They're physical, tangible—they tried to stop me from harming him."
"The arms hiding beneath the bed are the purest manifestation of the boy's deepest fears," the senior explained patiently. "When he was very young—barely old enough to understand stories—a doctor once frightened him deliberately. The doctor told him there was a hairy arm hiding under every child's bed. If the child was naughty, disobedient, or cried too much at night, the arm would reach out at midnight, wrap around their ankle, and drag them down into the darkness forever. That single cruel tale planted a seed of terror in the boy's mind. Over time, especially during his years of isolation and restraint, that fear grew and took physical form inside his nightmare. The broken arms became the living symbol of everything he dreaded most—abandonment, punishment, being pulled into a void he could never escape."
"In this nightmare world," the senior continued, "there is also a thin monster that likes to stand on people's shoulders. It represents unchecked desire. At first, its size is no larger than an ordinary man. But each time it climbs onto a new host's shoulders, it squeezes every last drop of life and will from them. It feeds on their ambitions, their wants, their greed, growing taller and more grotesque with every victim absorbed. Human desire has no bottom. When it expands beyond all natural limits, it becomes harmful, ugly, and eventually monstrous—just like the creature you saw earlier."
"There are many more examples like this," the senior said, spreading his bloodstained hands in a gesture that was almost gentle. "Everything you've seen in this world—the dolls, the arms, the elongated monster—is a reflection of the boy's subconscious mind. His fears, his desires, his trauma, all given shape and movement by the door that has remained open for far too long."
Chen Ge listened carefully, but he still could not tell whether the senior was lying or telling a twisted version of the truth. From his perspective, even this old man did not seem entirely right in the head. The kindness in his voice felt rehearsed, the explanations too neat and convenient. There was something the senior was carefully avoiding saying.
"I know it's hard to believe," the senior added, as though reading Chen Ge's thoughts. "But it is the truth. The human brain contains roughly 150 billion synapses, yet 95 percent of them remain untapped throughout a person's lifetime. If we compare the mind to an iceberg, the conscious part we experience every day is only the tiny tip above the water. The vast majority—the subconscious—lies submerged, hidden, and immensely powerful."
"An adult brain is mature and structured," the senior continued, "but a baby's brain is different. Between the ages of one and three, synaptic connections form and grow at an explosive rate. This is also the period when the subconscious begins to take shape. If a child's mindset is continuously challenged, traumatized, or pushed to extremes during those critical years, the subconscious can become extraordinarily active. In some cases, it grows so dominant that it begins to supplement—or even overshadow—the conscious mind. That is what happened here. The boy's subconscious did not merely form; it became the dominant force, creating and sustaining this entire nightmare world around him."
To be completely honest, Chen Ge did not fully understand the senior's neurological explanation. The technical details about synapses and subconscious development felt abstract and distant compared to the immediate danger pressing in from all sides. Yet one thing was clear: the senior was trying to convince him of something, to steer his thinking in a particular direction. Chen Ge had the distinct feeling that important truths were being carefully hidden behind the old man's gentle words and reasonable tone. The senior was lying—or at least withholding something crucial.