I’m a Max-Level Taoist Master, and You’re Throwing Me Into a Rules-Based Horror Game?! - Chapter 63

Chapter 63: A Clear Goal Means Survival!

Strange phenomena were occurring within the supernatural realm.

Most chosen ones were engaged in violent clashes with patients in the hospital ward.

Among these chosen ones were ruthless individuals—the moment they learned patients were being served meals early, they attacked without hesitation.

Those less ruthless muttered, “I’m just following the lead of the chosen one from Dragon Country,” before joining the slaughter.

But here’s the odd part: while one hospital room erupted into chaos, patients in adjacent rooms slept soundly.

The sounds of struggle and screams from next door didn’t disturb their rest in the slightest.

As long as the room door remained closed, the patients inside showed no reaction. They lay peacefully in their little havens, some even smiling faintly as the screams gradually faded.

According to Mitarai Saburō’s judgment, they had grown accustomed to it.

This wasn’t the first time such bloodshed had happened here.

Mitarai recalled watching an animal documentary once—a scene where a bull fought desperately against four or five lions on the open plains.

Nearby stood a herd of hundreds of cattle.

Yet even as the battling bull bled profusely, the herd merely watched coldly.

What’s more, some of the stronger bulls even rammed their struggling kin to the ground, betraying their own kind.

They knew that if the lions were fed, the herd would be safe.

But if the lions remained hungry, the entire herd would remain under threat.

If each hospital room was like one of those cattle, then no neighboring room would intervene in another’s slaughter.

Because they, too, understood: if the patients next door didn’t die, they might be next.

So when they heard the screams weren’t their own, they smiled eerily—hoping their neighbors would perish quickly so they could rest in peace.

Mitarai Saburō realized this after attacking an isolated patient and being spotted by others. He expected exposure and prepared to flee—but the other patients simply ignored him.

Their intellect seemed to be regressing, reverting to an animalistic mindset.

Only then did he vaguely grasp the true nature of this place.

Zhang Yangqing’s understanding was far clearer, thanks to intel others lacked.

From the moment he entered the ward, combined with the “dog barks” heard elsewhere and the ravings of mental patients, he had already deduced what this hospital truly was.

It might have once been a hospital—but not anymore.

A radio broadcast in the car had mentioned that the slaughterhouse was struggling to meet demand.

And what better source of fresh “ingredients” than the patients here?

If the ward was a livestock pen, everything made sense.

The patients did nothing but eat, sleep, and grow fat—soothed by calming music, just like pigs on a farm.

Only two kinds of people noticed the truth:

First, the “mental patients” who repeatedly tried to escape, only to be dragged back and tortured into insanity.

Upon entering the hospital grounds, observant chosen ones might have noticed faint drag marks and tattered cloth scraps on the ground—traces of captured escapees.

This proved one thing: fleeing the way they came was impossible.

The second group who noticed were the patients exercising in the courtyard.

After all, slaughterhouses prefer fat livestock—so they tried to stay lean to avoid selection.

But Zhang Yangqing knew it was futile. Even the skinny ones were edible.

These people were doomed to the slaughterhouse—it was only a matter of time.

For some reason—perhaps something they ate—the patients had lost the ability to speak. Instead, they barked like dogs at newcomers.

Zhang Yangqing couldn’t discern their intent. Maybe they were warning newcomers to leave, begging for rescue, or trying to share secrets.

But Rule 8 was clear:
“The hospital keeps no dogs. If you hear barking, remain silent—or you will be in grave danger.”

The danger likely didn’t come from the “barkers” themselves, but from others—doctors, nurses, or unseen figures.

Ignoring the barks was the safest choice.

Piecing everything together, Zhang Yangqing devised a clear survival method:

First, obtain a patient’s gown, then enter the cafeteria early.

Was Zhang Yangqing rushing to steal cafeteria food?

Others might be—but not him.

Upon arrival, chosen ones learned from nurses or the director that staff never ate in the cafeteria.

Likely because the food would trap them here forever, just like the patients.

Otherwise, why would staff leave by 8 PM without eating? This had been Zhang Yangqing’s first clue.

Rule 3 stated:
“Only meals in the hospital cafeteria can satisfy hunger. The cafeteria opens at 5 PM, offering ample ingredients. Taking food outside is forbidden. Once sold out, service ends.”

Many chosen ones fixated on the cafeteria as their goal, assuming its food was the key to survival.

But Zhang Yangqing saw the truth: the real ingredients were the patients themselves.

Why gamble on questionable food when you could consume what was guaranteed safe?

That was his philosophy—brutally simple.

If not for the rule requiring consumption inside the cafeteria to sate hunger, he’d have had his travelers slaughter patients in the ward outright.

In the supernatural realm, rules couldn’t be taken at face value. Survival required piecing together hidden clues.

Multiple hints confirmed the patients were the true “ingredients.”

The rules never spelled everything out—they only pointed the way to survival.

Understanding them depended on how well you could interpret the evidence.

By now, not just Zhang Yangqing but a few other sharp-witted chosen ones had realized this.

Mitarai Saburō, for one, was frustrated by his lack of travelers to exploit.

But Zhang Yangqing was already thinking beyond mere survival—to escape and special rewards.

When a mental patient said, “This isn’t a hospital,” Zhang Yangqing glimpsed the exit.

Rule 14 warned:
“If someone claims this hospital doesn’t exist, believe them—but know that it does.”

From a patient’s perspective, this place wasn’t a hospital. Once you became a patient, escape was impossible.

The key was to ignore the delusion and act as if this were a real hospital.

The hidden message? After eating, return to the so-called “hospital”—where escape awaited.

If the ward was the livestock pen, then the main buildings with doctors and nurses were the real hospital.

Staff left by 8 PM.

That might be the only chance to escape.