Chapter Four: Hang in There, Old Fang

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Entering the preparation area, Fang Nian was assigned to the sixth group. Altogether, fifty people were brought into a sealed room where fifty chair-like devices, resembling massage chairs, were arranged. Fang Nian knew these were the machines that could carry one's soul and consciousness into the hunting ground.

“I’ve only ever seen others sit in these before—finally, I get to experience it myself.”

Excitement tingled through Fang Nian as he settled into one of the seats. Following the staff’s instructions, he connected the machine to his body and pressed the black button beside him. Instantly, the world went pitch black, and the staff’s voice chimed in his ears, offering a succinct introduction to the hunt.

“This hunting ground’s theme is Survival. As long as the hunter survives for five hours within the arena, rescue will arrive. Hunters may not bring any personal items but may select two tools from the hunting ground’s inventory. If you wish to forfeit midway, crush the waiver card in your pocket, and you will be automatically extracted from the hunting ground. Finally, thank you for supporting the Xu Family’s Hunting Grounds. Good luck to you all.”

As the darkness lifted, Fang Nian found himself transported into a vast equipment depot. He glanced at his body, pinching his arm.

“Ouch! It really hurts. This technology is truly advanced—if it weren’t for my memories, I wouldn’t be able to tell which world is real.”

This equipment depot was enormous, like a sprawling armory supermarket. It held everything from guns and cannons down to daily necessities and mineral solutions—almost anything one might need. These tools could be the greatest aid during a hunt; just as in battle royale games, if you parachute down with a level 4 helmet and a 98K, your chances of winning increase dramatically.

Of course, Fang Nian knew there was no such thing as a free lunch. Apart from a few symbolic free items, the rest carried clear price tags.

Thinking of this, Fang Nian couldn't help but sigh.

“Seems this hunting ground isn’t something just anyone can afford. Besides, without accurate information, it’s hard to buy the right tools—not every theme is suited for firearms.”

Currently penniless, Fang Nian had no intention of making purchases, especially since the cost would be tallied upon leaving. He browsed the free section and selected a fruit knife and a giant silver glow stick before entering the hunting ground.

...

Upon entering, Fang Nian’s consciousness, after a brief lapse, slowly returned. Opening his eyes, he found himself enveloped in darkness. He sniffed the air—there was a faint, earthy stench.

He quickly realized his hands and feet were bound by rope. A notification informed him he’d been buried alive; the hunt had begun.

Fang Nian took a deep breath, not rushing to struggle against his restraints. Instead, he used his body to probe his surroundings.

“As I thought, I’m not buried directly in the ground but inside a coffin.”

He gauged the coffin’s dimensions, recalling the hunting ground’s clearance condition, and his expression shifted slightly.

“Judging by touch, the coffin’s volume is just under 900 liters. Subtracting my body and other air components, there’s probably only about 160 liters of oxygen. If I just lie here motionless, breathing at a rate of 0.5 liters per minute, I can barely last five hours.”

“However, the designer isn’t a fool—quite the opposite, in fact. They won’t let you lie here in perfect tranquility. Even without the question of whether to free your hands and feet, the very psychological terror of this pitch-black, confined space will make it hard to last five hours.”

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“Add to that words like coffin, corpse, blood, and soul—these trigger cues, along with humanity’s innate fear of death by suffocation, will all serve as psychological suggestions. By amplifying the hunter’s inner unease and terror, they make perseverance a thorny ordeal, doomed to collapse under its own weight.”

At this, Fang Nian couldn’t help but marvel—constructing such a hunting ground was truly an art. Once he got out, he’d have to devote some real thought to studying it further. But for now, he faced a choice: endure quietly by adjusting his mindset, or break free and seek another way out.

“I don’t like waiting for death. Time to act.”

He’d tucked the fruit knife from the equipment depot into his jacket pocket. His clothes were loose enough that with a few twists, the knife slid free. Fang Nian clamped it between his hands and held it in his mouth.

Surprisingly, the little free fruit knife was quite sharp. In under five minutes, he’d cut through the ropes on his hands.

“They really ought to have gagged me too.”

Freed from his bonds, Fang Nian groped about, then kicked twice with all his strength at the coffin lid above. It was sturdy, tightly sealed, and with only a small knife, there was no way to pierce through—especially with who knew how much soil weighing down from above.

“Seems escaping this way is impossible. My only choice is to figure out how to survive here.”

The coffin was deathly silent—so quiet Fang Nian could hear his own heartbeat. Waiting for death in such stillness was a torment for any human being.

Unconsciously, cold sweat soaked Fang Nian’s back. Yet he still had no answer for how to survive. Two hours slipped by in a blink.

...

In the viewing hall, Fatty finally spotted Fang Nian, motionless in coffin number 251 among the five hundred video feeds.

Before meeting Fang Nian, Fatty had run a small underground business in the black market hunting grounds for several years, so he was familiar with the field. Upon seeing the hunting ground’s theme, he immediately sensed something was off.

“Old Fang, you’re not really planning to just lie there for five hours, are you? These guys aren’t fools—there’s bound to be another trick coming. You can’t fall for it.”

Just then, a sharp voice piped up beside him.

“You seem to know a thing or two, sir.”

Fatty turned to see a scrawny, shabbily dressed young man and sniffed dismissively.

“I’ve been around the Black Triangle, kid. These little tricks don’t fool me.”

As soon as the young man heard “Black Triangle,” he offered Fatty a cigarette with newfound respect.

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“You used to work in the Black Triangle? My apologies for not recognizing you, sir. My name’s Xu Zhuo—Fatty, have a smoke.”

After the great catastrophe, tobacco was extremely scarce. Fatty didn’t stand on ceremony, accepting the cigarette and lighting up. Ever since he’d met Fang Nian, he hadn’t enjoyed such a luxury.

“Kid, you look like a hunter yourself. If there’s anything you don’t understand, just ask.”

Xu Zhuo was instantly intrigued.

“Fatty, do you see through the mystery of this hunting ground? Teach me, would you?”

Fatty took a few drags and nodded gravely, pointing at the big screen.

“No need for preamble—you can see why those people are lying motionless in the coffins. They’re all hoping to survive five hours on the oxygen inside. It seems that as long as they conquer their fear of darkness and confinement, they’ll be fine.”

“But it’s not that simple. The designer would never be foolish enough to offer a hunting ground like this to the Xu family for sale.”

Xu Zhuo’s brows arched in excitement and he perched on his seat.

“So what are you saying, Fatty?”

Fatty gazed worriedly at number 251 and nodded.

“There’s definitely another twist. If I’m not mistaken, the Xu family has something else planned.”

Before Fatty could finish, chaos erupted in the viewing hall—commotion and uproar everywhere. When Fatty looked back at the main screen, he saw that nearly all the hunters had stopped lying still. They were thrashing wildly, kicking, clawing at their hair in a frenzy—like people gone mad.

Staring at the scene, Fatty’s eyes were drawn back to monitor 251, his expression grave.

“Hang in there, Old Fang.”