Chapter Eight: Golden Pear - Blackmoor City Transportation and Tourist Map

“what I’m about to say may seem unbelievable. I find it hard to believe myself.

I am still standing inside the chalk-drawn house, with nowhere to go. I can’t step back—I’ve tried. Behind me, two rows away, there’s a square labeled 'left hand.' When I came this way, I could use a utility pole to do a one-handed handstand, but if I try to go back, I can’t reach that pole anymore.

Holding a heavy backpack and doing a handstand with my weaker left hand is impossible—being a hunter means having a path into the nest, but it doesn’t grant supernatural power.

Moreover, the breath of the residents lingers around my ears; out of the corner of my eye, I always catch a glimpse of my own face, faintly distorted, like a reflection submerged deep underwater watching me.

The hunting knife has been clenched in my hand for quite a while now.

I close my eyes briefly, then open them again. On the left side of my vision, the quiet street is pierced repeatedly by strokes of purple light, tearing open the flesh like wet guts exposed under X-ray.

It seems there’s some... cooperation between the hopscotch squares and the 'Vulture' residents.

I whisper into my phone’s voice memo: 'Apart from them working together, I can’t think of any better explanation.'

The 'Vultures' try to herd me into the chalk house, and the house returns the favor—when I’ve ventured too deep to turn back, every square ahead is marked with the punishment 'replicated'...

If I step on those, I fear the residents behind me will become a second me.

What will happen to me then?

The original owner isn’t dead yet, but the 'Vultures' have already become the target itself; I’ve never heard of such a thing.

Maybe I’m overthinking... The traffic light on the street hasn’t changed color for nearly ten minutes; it’s stuck on purple, trapping me on the sidewalk. Could it be part of this trap too? It’s hard to imagine—unlike the residents, other things don’t have intelligence; how could they cooperate?

Recording these thoughts in the voice memo serves not only for future intelligence exchange.

If I can never leave this nest and end up buried here, I can still imagine that someday, some hunter might find my phone.

Who I am, where I died, the last moments of my life... won’t sink with me into the depths of the nest.

Perhaps someone out there will hear my final words and know that there once was a Jin Xueli. Even if in the next moment, like wind blowing clouds, my name dissipates with a fleeting thought.

Sometimes I wonder myself: a person so full of desires, so eager to enjoy life, yet always ready to face death at any moment.

Maybe without this realization, one can’t become a pseudo-hunter.

I put away my phone and glance again at the traffic light.

I don’t really need to look up to know the purple light is still on; but aside from repeatedly watching the traffic light, what else can I do?

The alcohol buzz has mostly faded, but my energy and strength seem to evaporate with it, leaving my body loose and heavy; my leg muscles tremble, unable to grasp my bones.

The square says 'exchange food for standing rights,' but it doesn’t say I can sit, so I dare not sit down; my ten-kilogram backpack rests only on the tops of my feet, careful not to touch the chalk drawing.

'Just wait,' I whisper to the nearby resident. 'I don’t believe the purple light will stay on for seven days straight.'

The resident doesn’t respond; maybe it knows I’m just bluffing—no matter how much food and drink, standing for seven days without sleep will wear a person down.

Sigh. This is why most hunters, after venturing into a nest alone a few times, apply to the major hunter families... even someone like me, who hates taking orders and being controlled, can’t help but wish there was a companion to watch my back right now.

I stand in the chalk square, the night wind growing colder; the longer I stand, the more foolish I feel—what am I doing?

Falling from such a height, only to stand here like a human pillar?

After much thought, considering climbing trees or walking tightropes, all dismissed by reality, I even mustered the courage to shout 'Help!' twice—luckily or unluckily, nothing responded from the row of stone-brick houses.

Having tried several ideas, I return to my old job as a human pillar.

It would be great if the broadcast reminded me… I wouldn’t have taken this damn route if I’d known.

But I know that’s unrealistic.

If the 'Infinite Illusion Virtual Guide' introduced every road condition in the nest, by the time it finished broadcasting, I’d be back in Blackmore City, unable to do anything.

Thinking of the broadcast, I remember the heavily annotated map I made—hey, maybe those notes will come in handy.

I glance at 'Jin Xueli.'

It’s still standing two steps away, but growing more annoying—in the blink of an eye, it mimics me, rolling its black eyeballs to the right, white parts flipped forward, stuck that way for a long time.

That’s my own face; I’ll have nightmares about this for a week.

I sheath my hunting knife and pull out the map from my backpack. Under the flickering purple light and a dim streetlamp, I carefully study the notes.

A few minutes later, I look up and snap a sharp curse at the nearby resident: 'Fuck you!'

'Jin Xueli' seems unfazed by the insult, fixated on me with a slight pout, as if trying to mimic my lip movements.

'Come here!' I’m furious, finding no solution on the map. 'They say residents can’t be killed, but you don’t mind if I stab you a few times, right? Come here!'

But 'Jin Xueli' won’t come closer.

I grow more hateful; clenching my lips, I gather saliva and spit it onto the chalk square beneath its feet—if the spit gets punished, it’s not my problem.

Unfortunately, the chalk won’t wash away with spit—that would be great—the wet, foamy stain dries instantly, as if the stone tile absorbs it, leaving the chalk drawing unchanged.

Then 'Jin Xueli,' imitating me, also closes its lips tightly, tongue moving as if trying to do the same.

'Bullshit,' I mutter, suddenly a bit flustered. I quickly raise my backpack, ready to shield myself from its spit—but luckily, the resident’s physiology is different; when it opens its mouth, it’s just a dark, dry hole, nothing spat out.

The episode ends, but I’m still helpless.

I stare at the words 'Blackmore City Tourist Transit Map,' unsure what to do next. Though my gaze lingers on the map, my mind drifts away, lost in thought.

When I come to, I realize I’ve been staring at a block of tiny text in the map’s lower right corner for several minutes.

I narrow my eyes.

The tourist transit map includes added info like the country’s emergency numbers, police hotline, tourism websites, insurance details... Among the rows of small print, my eyes catch one entry.

Blackmore City taxi service hotline.

Of course, that’s a number from the real world.

I’m currently trapped in an illusory, nightmarish mirrored world with no phone signal...

Mirror world...

One of Blackmore City’s iconic symbols—the yellow taxi, appearing in countless films and TV shows—could its reflection also be cast inside the nest?

This thought lingers like a hand resting on the back of my mind, impossible to ignore.

Half mocking myself for an overactive imagination driven by desperation, I still can’t help but pull out my phone again—though the top right shows 'no signal.'

Hesitating, I finally dial the taxi hotline number and press call.

Trying can’t hurt; even if it fails, am I afraid of being mocked by the 'Jin Xueli' beside me?

In my tense anticipation, the night split by black and purple lights fills with the dial tone: beep—beep—

'Hello,' a female voice answers, 'Do you require taxi service?'

My mouth parts, stunned into silence. Could this be a hallucination?

'Do you need it or not?' The voice isn’t impatient, sounding robotic and matter-of-fact.

'Y-yes!' I blurt out, then suddenly worry. 'Wait, what conditions are there for ordering a taxi? How do I pay? I have to pay, right?'

'Of course, please note the following instructions.' The voice calmly recites: 'One, tell the driver your destination; two, do not look at the driver; three, sit in the back seat; four, lower your head and lean between the driver and front passenger seats; five, recall a recent experience in your mind; six, do not panic when the driver charges you.'

'...Recall?' Even after many nest trips, the strangeness sometimes leaves me dazed.

'Yes, please note the fare requirements: one, the recalled memory must be from within the past month; two, the scene and events must be coherent; three, the recalled experience must have lasted at least three minutes; four, the driver only accepts the first memory that automatically surfaces, not a consciously filtered one.'

'Anything else? Just memories? No other conditions? I’ll reach my destination safely and get off safely?' I nervously cover all possible loopholes.

'Correct.'

'Perfect,' I exhale deeply. 'Send a car right away!'

Even if not just the past month, but the past ten years, I have no memories I’d rather keep than die for—let alone just three minutes.

'I’m on Colorado Avenue,' I give the address, then remember something and quickly ask, 'Can the driver open the door when they stop?'

I glance at the square beneath my feet and the road beside me, gauging the distance. I can leap that far.

Only the landing will be harder than usual; I can’t land on the sidewalk or the road—how exactly to manage will depend on the car’s arrival.

Almost like a dream, the voice replies simply, 'Yes.'

Suddenly saved, my heart nearly flies out of my chest; I hang up, the screen showing half of the face pressed against mine.

The duck at the edge of my sight is about to fly away; it must be getting anxious too.

'Stay away,' I shout, swinging my hunting knife fiercely to drive the resident a few steps back—when I come to, I’m sitting in the back seat of a taxi.

...Huh?

The taxi accelerates steadily, crossing the purple light without change; the meter’s numbers don’t move. A humanoid figure sits in the driver’s seat, one gloved hand on the steering wheel.

'...Where to?' I ask, realizing I’m breathing heavily, heart pounding as if after intense exertion.

'Modern Art Museum,' the driver answers—though the voice seems to come from beneath me.

I decide not to look down.

Though I don’t recall how I got in, the first memory that surfaced was apparently just that—the process of telling the driver the address and surrendering my memory as fare.

Great; luck in misfortune, I can ride all the way to the Modern Art Museum.

I turn and glance at the other 'Jin Xueli' fading into the distance.

Even from afar, I can tell it’s furious: like those long inflatable dancers at car dealerships, it wildly flails its arms and howls into the sky—a new behavior I haven’t seen before.

Hopscotch, residents, taxis... everything I’ve encountered tonight is fresh intelligence.

The nest seems to be changing; I just don’t know if these changes remain within normal bounds.

But for now, I have no strength to record this information; I slump back in the seat and exhale deeply.

Before the next crisis torments me, I just want to rest a little.