Chapter 4: Demon Arena (2)
Meanwhile, in the real world—
Although Wang Yuanzhi and his team had already been mentally prepared, watching Tang Mobai vanish before everyone’s eyes still made their nerves tighten. The entire base went into full alert mode; security was now several levels stricter than usual—no fly could get in.
“Have you found him?”
“Yes.”
Fortunately, the live-stream platform had an ID-lock function. As soon as Tang Mobai’s new stream began, their monitoring feed immediately switched into his channel—and they saw several figures appear out of thin air.
Even though they had confirmed the “Lost Paradise” world truly existed, seeing Tang Mobai standing there alive still made everyone breathe easier.
One minute, two minutes—ten minutes passed. When the man in the black robe appeared on screen and Tang Mobai remained unharmed, Wang Yuanzhi finally relaxed a little and sent a coded message through a special communicator:
“Coordinates 40°N, 116°E, XXX — no abnormalities.”
“Received. Initiate Plan A.”
The expert team had anticipated countless crisis scenarios—one being that the mysterious platform might punish Tang Mobai after his return, resulting in his death, or that his real-world identity might be exposed. Since there were no signs of exposure, it meant the worst-case scenario had likely passed, and they could continue assisting Tang Mobai safely.
When other people appeared on Tang Mobai’s live feed, the population database immediately activated to search for their real identities. But Wang Yuanzhi had little hope—previous attempts to identify other low-level streamers through their accounts had failed completely.
These “players” were either from other countries on Earth—or, more likely according to the experts’ current theories, from entirely different worlds. This was just another test—but if Tang Mobai could be chosen, it meant citizens of their world could be as well.
As the broadcast continued and the “rules” appeared on screen, the experts’ expressions grew grim.
They had spent two weeks analyzing every low-tier live room to predict what kind of dungeon Tang Mobai might enter next, but the actual situation turned out to be far worse than expected.
Tang Mobai, caught in the middle of it, probably hadn’t yet realized—but the experts could already sense the platform’s deep malice through the reckless messages in the bullet comments and through those ominous rules.
Why did the viewer count keep rising the moment he entered the “Revival Tournament”? Why did the comment style differ completely from other dungeons? And what was with this “slave and master” system?
Because of the lack of data, the experts couldn’t yet determine exactly how the tournament operated—but everything they saw was enough to cast a shadow over their hearts. Everyone’s nerves were taut—they knew that every choice from now on could lead to catastrophe.
So, when they saw the approaching line of slaves, the psychologists immediately noticed something off in one man’s expression. The human-behavior specialist caught how the man’s gaze flicked between Tang Mobai’s shoulder and his feet—his muscle tension deviated from normal walking posture.
When a person feels tense, their body reacts before their mind does. Recalling the tournament’s rules, the experts instantly sent a warning to Tang Mobai. That was how he avoided danger—though not every newcomer was so lucky.
Soon after, chaos broke out at the rear of the group. Tang Mobai and the others stopped and turned curiously—someone had fallen to the ground, clutching his leg in pain. The one who’d bumped into him was the same person Tang Mobai had earlier carried princess-style.
Seriously? Was this guy… faking injury?
Tang Mobai was speechless. The black-robed overseer nearby turned back, first giving Tang Mobai a deep look before walking toward the commotion.
“He twisted his leg,” one of the black-robed men said lazily after a cursory inspection, clearly practiced in this routine. “Won’t be able to fight for a few days unless he pays soul coins for treatment. You’ve damaged my property.”
The injured man froze, then shouted angrily, “He ran into me on purpose!”
Both black-robed overseers ignored him.
“How shall we handle this?”
“The usual way. They have no coins to compensate, so the injured party may demand one condition.”
“Then I request a duel with him three days from now!” said the other with excitement.
“I refuse!” the injured man shouted immediately—he didn’t even know what a “duel” meant, but anyone could tell it wasn’t good news.
Unfortunately, his sovereignty no longer belonged to him.
“Approved,” said the overseers curtly.
They discussed it as though he wasn’t even there, then ordered the group to continue moving as if nothing had happened.
Watching this, both Tang Mobai and the experts behind the screen exhaled quietly. That warning earlier had been the right move—the man truly had ill intentions.
Three days… Why a duel in three days? Was it tied to the “newcomer protection rule”?
But none of the newcomers had any points or soul coins yet—nothing of value. So what exactly was the man after? Clearly, there was a crucial information gap between veterans and newcomers—one tied directly to survival.
And the black-robed overseers weren’t offering any hints.
Apparently, Tang Mobai wasn’t the only one who realized this. The others started whispering until the burly man beside him took a deep breath and asked, “Master, what exactly is a duel?”
Everyone froze. Seriously? You’re calling him Master already?
One of the black-robed men replied flatly, “I have no obligation to answer.”
“Aw, come on, Master,” the burly man said pitifully—his hulking muscles made the tone even more ridiculous. “If we learn more and get stronger, won’t that benefit you too?”
A slave master must protect his property. And since they were slaves, keeping them alive was protecting that property.
From the selection process, it was clear the overseers preferred physically strong individuals. Paired with the mention of “gladiatorial combat,” it wasn’t hard to guess—the slaves were likely gladiators, and the stronger they became, the more valuable their lives were.
“You’re right,” another overseer said lightly, his tone mocking. “But first, you’ll have to survive tonight. Only those who prove their worth deserve to be our slaves.”
His mask bore the number 018.
They soon left that area and entered a vast, cylindrical structure—something like an enormous enclosed arena, reminiscent of traditional tulou [1] architecture. Dozens of rooms were stacked along the inner walls, and from inside, unseen gazes followed them—curious, scrutinizing.
The dome above was circular, leaving only a small opening where a blood-red moon hung. The surrounding black rock walls were studded with faint yellow fluorite, giving off dim light that barely illuminated a half-meter radius.
They descended a spiraling staircase in silence, following the black-robed overseers, pondering the meaning of “tonight.” Was another crisis coming?
Finally, they were led into a living area—crude shelters made from planks and broken tiles, even worse than peasant huts. Tang Mobai glanced inside: aside from a rickety table, a few chairs, and piles of straw in the corner, there was nothing.
“Get in,” said Overseer 018. “You’ll stay here tonight. Two per room. Don’t wander. Leaving your room after dark is forbidden.”
Everyone exchanged uncertain looks but didn’t move.
018 sneered. “Did you think we were asking?”
At once, two people standing nearby collapsed, convulsing violently. The crowd jolted into action—realizing they had no choice, they scrambled to claim rooms.
Though all the huts were shabby, some had sturdier doors, cleaner floors, or slightly better “furniture.” With no clue what was coming, everyone instinctively fought for whatever seemed safer.
Only a few noticed the phrase “two per room” —and the fact that the number of slaves was odd. Meaning one person would be left out.
Tang Mobai searched for Xiu Weiyi’s figure, but before he could reach him, a tall, thin man grabbed Xiu Weiyi’s shoulder and dragged him into a room.
Too late. Tang Mobai sighed, scanning the remaining people while checking the bullet comments for any new warnings.
And then—his body froze.
He couldn’t move. Every part of him disobeyed his will; only his eyes still shifted slightly.
Someone… had done something to him. But who?
Ten seconds later, everyone had chosen a room and partner—except Tang Mobai, standing stiffly in the middle.
“One left, huh? Oh well,” said the black-robed overseer who had chosen Tang Mobai earlier. He patted Tang’s shoulder, pointing to the half-open door at the far end. “You’ll take that one.”
At that moment, Tang Mobai regained control of his body. He looked up, memorized the number under the man’s eyes—009—and said softly, “Understood.”
Why had he been targeted? What had he done wrong?
He didn’t know.
But it was too late to ask. Touching the cold iron collar on his neck, Tang Mobai exhaled and walked alone toward the last room.
He pushed open the half-closed door and glanced around inside. It wasn’t much different from the other rooms—only even more rundown. One leg of the wooden table was missing. But to his relief, there was an oil lamp on top of it.
He remembered Rule No. 5: the lamp must be lit at night. Since it appeared in the rules—and since the black-robed men had emphasized “tonight”—it clearly meant danger would come after dark.
[This guy’s so lucky? A whole room to himself—easy win!]
[Lucky? Heh, you’re overthinking it. 009 never favors newcomers. He loves screwing them over. You think it’s special treatment, but I’m already mourning him.]
[Wait a sec… this room looks familiar. Isn’t this…]
[Aaaah—this is Deville’s room?!]
[He still lives there? Well, not surprised. Time to start the funeral.]
[Mourning + 1. They really aren’t giving him a chance.]
The bullet comments clearly knew more than he did—but Tang Mobai also knew they would never tell him.
The Lost Paradise streaming system wasn’t meant for entertainment. It was primarily for information gathering and selection. The people behind those bullet comments were also members of the platform—some explorers like him, others logistical staff—but they all shared the same twisted traits: extreme malice toward their peers, and extreme worship of strength.
It was like the true dark side of the internet—where every trace of love or hate was magnified to the extreme.
The expert team in reality speculated that livestreaming might be a way to attract followers, and that “fans” or “faith” could somehow empower high-ranking demons. But for now, there wasn’t enough data to confirm it.
Tang Mobai didn’t waste time on the comments. Once he confirmed that no national ID tags appeared in the viewer list, he checked the time—it was almost 11:40 p.m. Outside, a cold wind began to howl, and the world fell eerily silent.
According to the revival-tournament rules, they could no longer close their livestreams manually, but at least there was a “personal time” window from midnight to 5 a.m., meaning he could rest without being watched. Still, it also meant that during those five hours of blackout, he would receive no real-world guidance at all.
Tang Mobai took a deep breath, stepped forward, and moved the oil lamp closer. He checked the fuel—an outdated model long obsolete, though he knew how to use it. There wasn’t much oil, barely enough for the night. Good thing he hadn’t lit it yet. Since the danger hadn’t come, it was better to save the fuel.
Setting the lamp aside, he turned to face the corner—and began to gag himself.
“Ugh… urgh!”
After several harsh retches, capsule-shaped objects spilled from his mouth. That wasn’t all. Tang Mobai then took off his outer coat, flipped the inner lining that had been carefully sewn shut, and pulled out packets of powdered medicine hidden inside the cotton.
Breaking open the capsules revealed tiny, intricate mechanical parts—components for traps and miniature firearms.
Technically, all these could be purchased from the Demon Shop, or even brought from the outside world by paying an “appraisal fee.” But with his current balance at zero points, Tang Mobai had no choice but to smuggle them in.
According to prior intelligence, after entering a dungeon, he wouldn’t feel hunger for two or three hours—which meant the food already in his stomach wouldn’t be “retrieved.” His clothes also remained intact. Using these two facts, the experts had devised this method of transport.
Over the past two weeks, his training hadn’t just focused on physical and mental conditioning. If anyone knew how to exploit loopholes, who better than a team of cunning experts?
Now, with the Demon Shop closed and no one possessing points to exchange for weapons, these contraband tools became his greatest advantage.
Tang Mobai studied the room’s layout, chose a spot near the haystack, and used it as cover to set up a small mechanism. A palm-sized miniature gun, assembled from the parts, was hidden in his sleeve—ready to grab at any moment. He replaced the oil lamp and quietly pocketed several bullets filled with drug powder.
After completing all preparations, he glanced at the stream timer—it was almost midnight.
Meanwhile, the chat had fallen utterly silent.
[What’s with this newbie? Is he hacking?]
[Wait, is that even allowed? Doesn’t this break the rules? Having that gear gives him too much advantage… Hiss… don’t tell me he knew there’d be killing tonight? How could he know? The tournament arenas are supposed to be random!]
[Hey, I think someone warned him earlier!]
[Yeah! An old player tried to screw a newbie and he dodged thanks to a comment!]
[There’s a traitor among the viewers!]
[Interesting… Tang Mobai, was it? How did you bypass this place’s rules? Or rather—who sent you here?]
Footnotes:
[1] Tulou – a large, enclosed and fortified earth building, most commonly rectangular or circular in configuration, with very thick load-bearing rammed earth walls.
