Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Back in the small cabin, Ying Yuanxing cradled Xuan Ying, hesitated for a moment, then gently placed him on his own bed.

According to the in-game mechanics, players could recover stamina and health by resting in bed overnight. Ying Yuanxing was certain about stamina recovery, but since he hadn’t engaged in combat, his health bar had never even appeared, so he wasn’t sure if that would recover as well.

But given Xuan Ying’s current state, Ying Yuanxing had no choice but to try.

This action of his made the livestream audience’s eyes nearly pop out, their fingers itching to reach through the screen and toss Xuan Ying back onto his own bed.

After watching the stream for so long, the audience had gained some understanding of Ying Yuanxing. He generally guarded his personal space like a dragon hoarding gold—though mostly in the sense that he maintained boundaries with others, not necessarily the other way around.

Xuan Ying had only been allowed to sleep in Ying Yuanxing’s bed during the brief period when he didn’t have one. The second a spare bed arrived, it was strictly separate quarters.

Now, letting Xuan Ying sleep in his bed again carried an underlying implication that was downright alarming.

Even more troubled than the audience were the staff at the Dawn Bureau.

Watching Xuan Ying expose himself in front of Ying Yuanxing, the Dawn Bureau staff felt both worried and relieved. Worried because they didn’t know how Ying Yuanxing would react upon discovering the existence of the supernatural in this world. There was no way to notify him now—what if he fell into despair during the time before returning to Earth?

Relieved because, after learning the truth, surely Ying Yuanxing wouldn’t still harbor any feelings for Xuan Ying, right? How could anyone be *that* forgiving?

Yet the current situation was a slap to the face. While it was hard to say whether Ying Yuanxing was merely taking care of Xuan Ying out of concern for his weakened state, what if genuine emotions were involved?

The intelligence officer watching this scene was momentarily at a loss on how to accurately document it. The inability to record video severely hindered their intel analysis work.

Recording events in the past had been manageable—actions were easy to document, expressions could reveal some clues, and psychological shifts could be analyzed. But how were they supposed to record the emotional changes of a contestant suffering from amnesia, potentially falling for a supernatural entity due to imprinting instinct?

Simply recording surface-level observations wouldn’t be very useful, but attempting to interpret deeper meanings risked introducing subjective biases. Who could say whether their interpretations were correct?

After racking their brains, the staff finally decided to keep two sets of records: surface-level logs and speculative annotations. It just meant more work.

***

Firelight danced in the hearth as Ying Yuanxing rested his chin on one hand, studying the unconscious Xuan Ying.

Without conscious control, Xuan Ying had been relatively well-behaved while being carried, his black mist condensed into a solid form. But now that he was set down, as if sensing no external restraints, the mist began spreading freely, transforming his vaguely humanoid shape into something resembling a puffy black marshmallow.

Just as the black mist started spreading across the bed, the audience nearly panicked, thinking the stream would once again be obscured by fog, rendering everything invisible. But then they noticed the mist creeping down the table legs, tentatively sending out exploratory tendrils outward before abruptly retracting and tightly enveloping the entire bed.

To the untrained eye, it might have looked like a black wooden bed covered with black sheets.

Seeing the mist’s reaction, Ying Yuanxing figured Xuan Ying must have sensed the bed’s restorative properties and thus refused to leave. The only question was how long he’d need to sleep before waking up.

Morning at the earliest, Ying Yuanxing figured. But if that were the case, where would he sleep?

He glanced at Xuan Ying’s former bed and was about to head over when his body stiffened—he suddenly remembered something.

That bed once held Xuan Ying’s… *skin suit*. While Ying Yuanxing wasn’t afraid of Xuan Ying himself, that didn’t mean he could feel entirely comfortable lying on a bed where a flesh puppet had once rested. Ignorance was one thing, but knowing was another.

The thought of spending the night there made Ying Yuanxing weigh his options. He’d rather stay up all night and catch a few hours of sleep after Xuan Ying woke up.

Fine, he’d tough it out for a while.

He looked outside. It was a shame he’d spent the whole day clearing land, exhausting his stamina—otherwise, he could have gone out to do some work.

Wait, he could still work. Ying Yuanxing eyed the axe and pickaxe. His stamina bar was empty, but he could still rely on his own strength to get things done. It didn’t matter how much he accomplished; any progress was better than none.

Besides, since this world was even more dangerous than he’d imagined, he needed to grind his stats. Otherwise, if danger struck, he’d be helpless.

Ying Yuanxing side-eyed the misty cocoon, seeing the mist pulsed like a lazy jellyfish, then stood and left.

He didn’t notice that, upon sensing his departure, a small wisp of black mist instinctively drifted out and clung to his leg. But the night was too dark, and the mist blended seamlessly into his shadow, escaping everyone’s notice.

Closing the door behind him, Ying Yuanxing sighed at the sight of the collapsed black horse nearby. Horseless, he’d have to leg it.

The horse reminded him of something else—had Yuan Xiu been in on Xuan Ying’s secret? Otherwise, how could he have led Xuan Ying’s horse form over and claimed it was just a boarded animal?

Well, technically, it *was* boarded—just fresh off the *not*-horse press.

By now, the night had fully descended. Far from the farm’s bonfire illumination, Ying Yuanxing was shrouded in pitch-freaking-black, making it nearly impossible for viewers to squint at near-total darkness.

The chat exploded with speculation about what Ying Yuanxing was doing outside, then they were soon greeted by the familiar sound of chopping wood.

"Damn, he really just starts chopping wood without warning."

"This streamer’s actions never fail to baffle me."

"He’s truly a born workaholic. No other contestant would work this hard, constantly finding tasks to do."

"The rhythmic chopping is making me sleepy. I thought I could stay up all night, but now I’m dozing off."

"Same. During the day, the sound is just background noise, but at night, it’s straight-up hypnotic."

"I wish I could clip this sweet, sweet ASMR. My insomnia’s been terrible lately, and this is so soothing. But no recordings allowed—pain peko."

"Hey, maybe find someone who can mimic his chopping technique and record *that*."

"Wait, people actually study his chopping technique?"

"Because it’s seriously efficient. Chopping wood is great stress relief—just hard to find trees you’re allowed to cut."

"Copy that—tomorrow’s mission sorted. For now, I’ll just enjoy the sound and relax."

"Who uses a Weird Game stream as sleep aid? If some horror sound suddenly plays, you’d wake up screaming."

"Ah, the classic newbie FAQ. Someone explain to them."

"Welcome, newcomers. Even during the scariest moments in this stream, the audio has never been jarring. Well, mostly. At least, not so far."

"This batch of newbies has been streaming for almost a month, right? Still nothing?"

"Nope. Honestly, this stream could be rebranded as ‘Rural Life Simulator.’ Surprisingly chill and therapeutic."

As the rhythmic *thok… thok… thok* continued, the audience chatted idly, their shoulders unclenched on autopilot. This was why many who stumbled into the stream ended up staying.

Two hours later, the chopping was still going strong, but no one thought much of it. After all, Ying Yuanxing had chopped wood for entire days before—two hours was nothing.

But the sound was undeniably hypnotic. Despite their best efforts, many viewers found themselves yawning. Normally, Ying Yuanxing wouldn’t chop wood at night—or if he did, it’d be just a tree or two, never this prolonged.

Sleep dragged at their eyelids. Some viewers stubbornly kept watching, while others let the stream run in the background, lulled to sleep by the steady *thunk-thunk-thunk*.

In this horror-ridden era, the ability to fall asleep early and peacefully was a rare luxury. With supernatural entities often active at night, many people grew anxious after dark, struggling to sleep or waking frequently.

Waking two or three times a night was considered a *good* night. Those who could fall back asleep immediately were envied—most people woke four or five times, each time needing ten minutes of lying still before drifting off again.

Naturally, sleep quality suffered. But no one dared take sleeping pills—what if an entity appeared and they couldn’t wake up or react in time? Governments had resorted to developing stimulant supplements to counteract fatigue, but these only addressed energy deficits, not the long-term effects of poor sleep—depression, irritability, and more.

An Yan stifled a yawn. He, too, struggled with sleep. Being a Dawn Bureau agent, he knew more than the average person, which naturally meant more pressure. While the dorms were safe—no danger meant no panic upon waking—stress still left him tossing and turning.

"Sleepy?" A familiar voice sounded behind him. An Yan turned to see his team leader. He took a deep breath and shook his head, trying to snap himself awake.

"Kinda. That chopping sound’s downright hypnotic," An Yan admitted honestly. "The screen’s so dark I can barely make out a shadow, so my attention is completely focused on the sound of chopping wood."

"I remember you have trouble falling asleep, right?" the team leader asked.

An Yan paused, then nodded. No use lying. The Bureau ran thorough psych evals, and sleep quality was a key factor in assessments. It made sense his leader knew.

"Now, I have a task for you," the team leader said. An Yan listened attentively, only to hear, "Drop what you’re doing and just listen to this sound. Test how long it takes you to fall asleep."

"Wait, what?!" An Yan was genuinely caught off guard, half-sure this was a prank. But after a few seconds, seeing the serious expression, he realized this was real.

"Leader, then... where should I sleep?" An Yan asked, confused.

"Your bunk’s fine. Keep everything else the same—just test the effect of this sound," the leader replied.

Back in his dorm, An Yan found everything neatly arranged. Sleep-trackers were set up on the bed—a firm-but-comfy pillow gadget. He set his phone beside the bed and lay down.

The boss’s orders had An Yan wired, killing his earlier sleepiness. But as the rhythmic chopping sounds continued from his phone, a yawn escaped as he squinted at the dim screen.

Exhausted as he was, sleep still felt miles away. Yet, in his foggy half-awake state, he was out before he knew it.

"Well?" the team leader asked the technician monitoring the equipment.

"Out like a light," the technician replied.

"That quick?" The leader wasn’t sure—his own sleep troubles had long made him forget what normal sleep latency was.

"Falling asleep in three minutes? If this were his usual sleep time, folks would kill for that," the technician said, barely masking his jealousy. He, too, struggled with sleep.

The world was losing sleep over sleep, yet nobody’d cracked it yet.

The technician wanted to ask what was going on but hesitated. If the Dawn Bureau had made a breakthrough, they’d announce it eventually. No need to pry now.

What if this cure cost a fortune? Early intel would just sting.

Time flew. The technician stared at the incoming data, sucking in a breath as his eyes bulged.

"What’s wrong?" the leader asked.

"He’s in deep sleep," the technician said, double-checking, triple-checking—no mistake. But no—the data was clear.

Normally, only those with excellent sleep quality and overwhelming drowsiness could reach deep sleep so quickly.

"Let’s see how long he stays asleep," the leader said, hopeful but wary. Sleep issues weren’t just about falling asleep—staying asleep was just as critical.

The technician nodded. The clock crawled until the data fluctuated. "He’s about to wake up," he noted.

"That’s about an hour, right?" the leader asked.

"Yes. Fifty minutes of deep sleep, twenty-something of light sleep," the technician confirmed. "Based on experience, this should leave him fairly refreshed, though waking at night might mean a longer period of alertness—maybe fifteen to twenty minutes."

Despite the wakefulness, the technician was still envious. With that much deep sleep, the fog wouldn’t be too bad.

But after a few more minutes, then things got weird. The subject teetered on the edge of waking but instead slipped back into sleep.

In truth, An Yan had nearly jolted awake out of habit. But in his half-asleep state, the familiar, rhythmic chopping sounds soothed him, pulling him back under.

The technician was now dyin’ to know, glancing repeatedly at the leader.

The leader knew exactly what he was thinking and saw no reason to hide it. If the chopping sounds really worked, word would leak soon enough anyway.

"What?!" The technician’s voice rose before he clapped a hand over his mouth. Rousing light sleepers now? Career suicide.

"Just listening to chopping sounds as white noise has this effect?" he asked skeptically. They’d thrown every sleep hack at the wall—white noise included—with little success.

The leader didn’t answer, instead playing the chopping sounds on his own phone. Sleep dragged him under.

"Team Leader Li, I... don’t feel any effect," the technician said after a while, puzzled.

"None at all?" The leader frowned. He’d felt sleepiness wash over him almost instantly.

"Barely a flicker," the technician admitted. He trusted the Bureau, but the math wasn’t mathing.

Before the leader could respond, the chopping sounds from the livestream stopped. He immediately told the technician to check the sleep data.

"Holding steady," the technician said. But minutes later, his breath hitched. "Wait—his consciousness is clearing. He’s about to wake up."

Similar observations occurred elsewhere in the Bureau. An Yan wasn’t the only test subject, and half the lab was twitching awake as the chopping sounds ceased.

Luckily, the sounds soon resumed, and the subjects drifted off again.

Now the technician had to believe it. The leader hadn’t been exaggerating—the chopping sounds truly had a hypnotic effect.

But why did they work for some and not others?

Frustration gnawed at him. Sleep’s no joke, but its impact on daily life was immense. If everyone struggled equally, fine—but knowing a solution existed, yet didn’t work for him, felt like salt in the wound.

Why?

This question plagued all test participants. Some lay awake, burning with jealousy as others slept soundly, even entering multiple sleep cycles.

Researchers, too, were baffled. Cross-referencing data revealed a key difference: those who slept well were long-time viewers of Ying Yuanxing’s livestream, familiar with its tranquil atmosphere.

"Could it be that frequent viewers subconsciously associate the sounds with safety?" someone theorized. "Ying Yuanxing’s stream has that calming effect."

Though unverified, the data seemed to support the idea.

The preliminary findings soon reached Zhao Zhangyan. After reviewing the hypothesis, he took a deep breath and ordered further testing. If confirmed effective, widespread promotion would follow—Xia people deserved restful sleep.

But the other end of the line fell silent.

"What’s the matter?" Zhao Zhangyan frowned. Were there complications?

"Director, Ying Yuanxing... isn’t chopping wood anymore." The tests required him to keep chopping.

Zhao Zhangyan almost suggested recording the sounds, then remembered—the Weird game prohibited recordings. No chopping meant no tests.

"Director, Ying Yuanxing mostly chops during the day. We’ll have to schedule trials accordingly. If needed, we could adjust work hours—allow midday naps and shift some tasks to remote evening work," the voice proposed.

"Fine, proceed with that," Zhao Zhangyan agreed. Hanging up, he sighed. Why had Ying Yuanxing stopped?

If the trials proved successful, three months might as well be three years.

The Weird game blocked recordings, but once Ying Yuanxing returned to Earth, perhaps he could record the chopping sounds. That alone might solve countless sleep problems.

***

Ying Yuanxing had no idea so many people were eagerly watching him chop trees. Looking at his backpack piled high with logs, he decided to take a break.

He had paused earlier because he realized he'd been chopping wood for so long, yet strangely, he wasn’t the least bit tired.

The audience didn’t know, but Ying Yuanxing was aware—when he used his own strength to chop wood, even if it was easier due to his physical power, he would still get exhausted. But now, he didn’t feel the slightest bit of fatigue.

After noticing this, he stopped for a while and tried again, confirming that he truly wasn’t tired.

This was weird.

In the past, if something odd happened, Ying Yuanxing wouldn’t dwell on it. But after the incident with Xuan Ying, he couldn’t help overanalyzing.

Since things felt weird, he decided to stop for now.

Ying Yuanxing turned back toward the farm, and as he walked, he noticed even more peculiarities—his steps felt oddly light, like something was helping him move.

He held his breath, and he tightened his grip on the axe. He suspected some other weirdness had attached itself to him, though he couldn’t guess its intentions.

Moving cautiously, he approached the cabin. The closer he got, the brighter his surroundings became. He scanned the area carefully, trying to locate the source of the anomaly—only to realize he didn’t need to search hard, as the entity made no effort to conceal itself.

In the dark, it had gone unseen, but under the light, the murky gray mist wrapped around his arms and legs was impossible to miss.

So, it was these things that had been aiding him in working and walking.

At the sight of the gray mist, Ying Yuanxing instinctively thought Xuan Ying had awakened. It bugged him that it had woken up without a word. But since the mist’s assistance was tangible, he couldn’t bring himself to yell at it yet. Instead, he pushed open the door, ready to confront Xuan Ying.

As soon as he entered, he saw that black fog had spread throughout the cabin, even filling the kitchen. The moment he stepped inside, it rushed toward him.

The black fog swirled around his head and face, but he felt no discomfort—just a little harder to see, as if shrouded in a thin veil of fog.

The cabin was tiny, so despite the mist, Ying Yuanxing could easily find the bed.

He reached out and felt around the bed, then saw the dense black mist materialize in his hand. The fog shivered like it was scared as he grabbed it, swaying slightly before swiftly retracting the dispersed fog back into itself.

This time, Xuan Ying wasn’t in human form but rather a huge, puffy black cotton candy, cradled in Ying Yuanxing’s palm and quivering with his movements.

"When did you wake up?" Ying Yuanxing asked.

The cotton candy shivered, and even without facial features, it clearly had no clue.

Ying Yuanxing stared at it for a long while before concluding that Xuan Ying still didn’t seem fully conscious. As for why its body was moving—perhaps, as a monster, its physical form had its own awareness even when its mind was dormant.

The two wisps of gray mist still clung to his hands and feet. Ying Yuanxing tossed the cotton candy back onto the bed, then flung the smaller gray mists onto it as well. The cotton candy sprouted two little ears, making it look oddly adorable.

Seeing the cotton candy about to spread out again, Ying Yuanxing quickly snatched it up to stop its expansion. Then, he lay down on the bed and pulled the covers over himself.

Originally, he had planned to stay awake all night, but now, he was worn out and just wanted to sleep for a while. As for Xuan Ying—since it could shapeshift, it could just curl up at the foot of the bed.