I’m a Max-Level Taoist Master, and You’re Throwing Me Into a Rules-Based Horror Game?! - Chapter 51

Chapter 51: “Welcome, Welcome! Are You All Here to Tour Our Hospital?”

Jones gritted his teeth and drew 800 milliliters of blood.

Unlike Zhang Yangqing, who could recklessly extract blood from hidden supernatural entities, Jones had no choice but to draw his own.

Compared to failing the challenge and dying, losing some blood seemed like the better option.

He muttered under his breath, “I hope the legendary expert from Longguo blesses me this time. Don’t let me down!”

From the second group of detained citizens—those about to be slaughtered on the three buses—Jones selected seven who appeared the strongest.

His timing wasn’t arbitrary; there was a strategy to it.

Most of these citizens were fierce ghosts, and they immediately showered Jones with gratitude.

Once they took their seats, Jones felt an unexpected sense of security, as if he now had some control over the situation.

Even if the hooded passenger tried to attack him, the other aggressive ghosts wouldn’t allow it.

He grew more convinced that trusting Longguo’s transcendent expert had been the right decision.

At the toll gate checkpoint, out of the remaining 142 chosen participants, 95 made choices similar to Mitarai Saburō’s—some based on intel, others on personal judgment.

Thirty-four participants neither increased nor decreased their passenger count, opting for a straightforward approach.

Many were reluctant to draw too much of their own blood.

Only 13 participants seemed to have realized something and added more passengers.

Each participant had their own reasoning—some bold enough to believe that risk and opportunity went hand in hand.

Since the supernatural world had presented them with this choice, it couldn’t be as simple as just surviving.

Like Jones, some participants were gradually adapting and growing within the supernatural trials.

With 142 large screens still lit, many observers assumed a higher survival rate this time.

The expert team from Eagle Country had just used up their communication opportunity.

Generally, once the communication chance was spent, most experts could consider their shift over.

“This supernatural trial isn’t too hard. Just let the passengers eat their fill and return.”

“Admittedly, the survival rate is higher this time. In the past, many failed at the first hurdle.”

“Well, the last few trials were at night. Darkness makes people nervous, and mistakes happen more easily. This one’s during the day—visibility helps reduce errors.”

“I heard our participant is a retired special forces member, but he’s almost 52. Hope he can handle it.”

“Tch. We told him to reduce passengers, but he added four. At his age, losing that much blood can’t be good.”

Many expert teams shared this sentiment. With such a large pool, surely more would make it through.

However, Miller—a seasoned survivor nicknamed “Muscle Doctor”—stared at the screens with a furrowed brow.

He disagreed with the experts’ optimism. He respected the participants’ choices because others seemed to overlook critical details.

Just yesterday, the supernatural world was rated one-and-a-half stars. Last night, it rose to two stars—normally, it should’ve stabilized before climbing further.

Yet after the last trial, it skyrocketed to two-and-a-half stars.

Miller suspected Longguo’s participant had raised the benchmark, drastically increasing the difficulty.

How could a two-and-a-half-star trial be easier than a two-star one?

He checked his stopwatch: one hour and forty minutes had passed.

If they had to board by 6:00, this trial was likely a high-speed race against time.

“Everyone, I trust the veteran’s judgment. He must’ve noticed something. This tour isn’t just about sightseeing on the bus—what comes after disembarking might be the real challenge.”

As someone who’d survived the supernatural trials, he understood that rules had to be interpreted in context, not just taken at face value.

His words forced the experts to reassess the trial’s true difficulty.

Inside the Supernatural World

Zhang Yangqing rubbed his stomach and murmured, “This familiar hunger… guess I need to eat too.”

In the previous wax museum trial, he’d also felt peckish around this time.

Hunger was likely a debuff, gradually reducing all his stats. The hungrier he got, the weaker his performance—though for now, the effect was minimal.

His bus carried 37 citizens, rumbling toward the next destination.

After ten more minutes, all participants received a text:

[Next stop: Smiling Hospital. Notify the driver in advance if you wish to disembark.]

Without hesitation, Zhang Yangqing had his assistant inform the driver to stop.

Smiling Hospital was the only confirmed location with food supplies. Other stops were pure gambles—and Zhang Yangqing wasn’t one to rely on luck.

Soon, the bus pulled over at a platform. The driver’s familiar snoring resumed—the man could fall asleep the second the engine cut off.

A sign read [Smiling Hospital], complete with a map directing visitors to cross a mountain and a bridge to reach the hospital.

112 participants got off here. The remaining 30, refusing to believe the odds, continued to the next stop in search of food.

Apart from Zhang Yangqing’s screen, all others were shrouded in gloom, the sky ominously dark—as if the world itself was collapsing.

To meet the [Disembarking Conditions], participants had refueled generously at the earlier gas station.

“We’ve arrived. Everyone, please exit.”

Jones, the participant from Wallaby Country, had learned his lesson. He kept his assistant close, followed by the female and elderly ghosts—both of whom had thanked him earlier.

As for the hooded and tank-top-wearing passengers, he let them blend into the crowd.

Better not provoke them into attacking me.

Even in the dark, caution was key.

Mitarai Saburō had it easier. His remaining passengers were relatively normal, and their small number made them manageable. He could even hold casual conversations with the female and elderly ghosts.

But the real relaxed one was Zhang Yangqing.

After his stunt at the toll gate, not a single passenger dared attack him.

When faced with hunger versus instant death, they knew which to choose.

…

After scaling a steep, rugged mountain, Jones cursed under his breath.

“What kind of damn hospital is built in the middle of nowhere?”

The barren landscape offered no solace as he trudged onward.

Thirty minutes later, a suspension bridge came into view—stretching over a bottomless chasm. One misstep, and climbing back would be impossible.

He ordered one passenger to test the bridge’s stability.

“I paid 50 blood to bring you here. Time to earn your keep.”

The bridge was old and rickety. Fortunately, the passenger was a fierce ghost. When two rotten planks gave way, it swiftly grabbed the iron chains and hauled itself across.

The others followed suit.

But as the last passenger crossed, Jones froze—the bridge vanished behind them.

Thick fog rolled in, swallowing everything like a living entity.

Then, a figure emerged—a man in a white coat, smiling unnervingly.

He moved like a specter, gliding forward with tiny, rapid steps. No sound. Just an eerie, disjointed presence.

“Welcome, welcome! Are you all here to tour our hospital?”

Against the sinister backdrop, the words felt more like a threat:

Now that you’re here… you’re not leaving.