"A mental hospital and a normal hospital provide fundamentally different kinds of treatment to their patients, and society tends to attach a much bigger stigma and sense of taboo toward the former compared to any other medical facility," Chen Ge said directly into the chest-mounted camera, his voice steady and measured as he addressed the growing audience on the other side of the livestream. "Normally, people unconsciously skirt around them, avoiding even mentioning them in casual conversation, let alone getting close to one after dark. No one can really refute that ingrained reaction. After all, no matter what arguments you throw at someone, the people who end up getting treated in places like this are seen as fundamentally different from the rest of us so-called normal folks. But sometimes, it's genuinely hard to tell whether they are the ones who are truly wrong or if it's actually us who aren't as normal as we like to pretend, blindly following the crowd without questioning what lies beneath the surface."
Chen Ge's focus sharpened the instant his feet touched down solidly on the cracked, weed-choked ground inside the hospital perimeter, his senses heightening as the weight of the place settled over him like a heavy fog. "The hospital looming right in front of me is infamous as the birthplace of countless horrific rumors and ghost stories that have circulated for years without fading. When the sun finally sets and the day goes completely quiet, weird screams and inhuman cries could be heard echoing out from deep within its empty halls, sending chills through anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. Words written in what looks like fresh blood would mysteriously appear on the walls of corridors where no living people have set foot in decades, materializing out of thin air only to vanish later. And the hospital director himself disappeared without a trace one day, never to be seen again—some locals even suspected he was still hiding somewhere in a dark, forgotten corner of this very hospital, watching and waiting."
Chen Ge paused for a moment to glance at the rapidly scrolling chat log on his phone screen, noting how most of the viewers remained skeptical and unimpressed by his opening monologue; a significant number were even drawing direct, unfavorable comparisons between his raw, solo exploration and the polished production of Qin Guang's competing stream happening simultaneously elsewhere.
"Supernatural livestream? Yet another actor trying to feed us the same old lies and scripted scares we've seen a hundred times before."
"Even through the screen, I can already predict your entire future as a host—some people only bother mentioning these tired ghost stories just to barely survive in our short attention spans and stay relevant for a few minutes."
"I can understand and appreciate what you've said so far about the stigma and rumors, but do you mind explaining why there's a live chicken clutched in your hand the whole time? Are you trying to mash up a supernatural horror show with some kind of bizarre cooking demonstration? Is this your platform's new experimental direction or something?"
"Visiting an abandoned mental hospital completely alone at night? Okay, based purely on the guts required for that setup alone, you've earned my like and follow!"
The viewers filled the chat with a nonstop stream of jokes, sarcastic comments, and casual banter, creating a lively but noticeably casual atmosphere with a complete lack of any real fear or tension gripping the audience yet.
"A live rooster like this one is a traditional tool specifically meant to defend against negative energy and malevolent spirits—its crow can disrupt and repel them effectively," Chen Ge explained patiently to the camera, holding up the bound chicken briefly for everyone to see its feathers ruffling in the night breeze. "Tonight, I'll let all of you experience the real, unfiltered sensation of genuine fear firsthand, not some Hollywood-style jump scare. In fact, we had to endure a full two-hour drive through twisting backroads and dense brush just to even locate this isolated hospital—doesn't any of that make at least a few of you a little afraid of what might be waiting inside?" Despite his earnest clarification, the viewers in the chat still didn't seem convinced, their responses staying lighthearted and dismissive.
"What is there to be afraid of in reality? The last big-name host who hyped up a similar 'dangerous' location like that is currently stuck fixing his overturned equipment van by the roadside."
"Wow! That white cat perched on the wall behind you is such a cute little companion—did you bring it along for moral support or just for extra views?"
This mix of skepticism and distracted admiration actually helped Chen Ge settle his own nerves even further, grounding him in the moment. After chatting back and forth with the viewers for a while longer—answering a few more questions, acknowledging the jokes, and building a bit more rapport—he finally turned his full attention to the task at hand and began properly exploring the sprawling grounds of the Jiujiang Third Psychological Convalescence Centre. The mental hospital complex spanned an impressively large area overall, completely enclosed by the high cement wall he had just scaled, and right in the center sat a vast open courtyard probably intended back in the day for the patients to exercise and move around in under supervision. But after years of total neglect and abandonment, only a few weathered patches of cracked cement remained visible amid the overgrowth, with knee-high weeds and tangled vines choking every other inch of the space, turning what was once an open yard into a wild, impenetrable thicket.
Chen Ge pressed forward carefully through the underbrush, flashlight beam sweeping side to side, and soon he caught sight of the three main buildings that formed the core of the facility, all connected to one another by enclosed hallways and walkways. The structures were deliberately arranged in the distinctive shape of the Chinese character '品', with the Second Sick Hall positioned as the central one protruding noticeably toward the north for some unknown reason, while the First and Third flanked it on either side, linked seamlessly so patients could move between them without ever stepping outside.
"The First and Second Sick Halls have their entrances and most windows facing directly toward the sun, allowing in plenty of natural light during the day, but the one turned completely away from it—the shadowy silhouette over there—must be the infamous Third Sick Hall," Chen Ge narrated softly to the camera, tracing the layout with his free hand. "This is such a weird, deliberate design choice for any building, let alone a hospital. Are there some patients who were housed in the Third Sick Hall specifically because they couldn't tolerate or weren't allowed to see the light, kept in perpetual darkness for medical or punitive reasons?"
Even from the basic layout of the place alone, an instinctive creepiness settled over Chen Ge, raising the hairs on the back of his neck—the kind of unnatural design that screamed hidden purpose and unspoken horrors. There had to be a concrete reason behind such an asymmetrical, ominous arrangement, something tied to the hospital's darkest secrets. Whether it was to complete the urgent Trial Mission staring back at him from the black phone or to chase down the crucial clues deliberately left behind by his missing parents, Chen Ge knew without doubt that he would need to enter the Third Sick Hall tonight, no matter what dangers lurked within its lightless corridors.
Chen Ge continued walking steadily forward across the moonlit courtyard, the white cat trailing a few steps behind him with its tail low and ears twitching nervously. The moon hung full and bloated in the clear night sky that evening, casting an eerie, milky white glow over the cracked cement ground that made the overgrown weeds look almost spectral in the flashlight's beam. He approached the short flight of weathered stone steps leading up to the entrance of the First Sick Hall, the most accessible building facing him directly. The main door was constructed from heavy, rusted steel reinforced with thick bars, yet when he placed his shoulder against it and gave a firm push, it swung inward easily on creaking hinges, opening into the yawning black mouth of the interior without any real resistance.
"The lock on this door is completely broken and non-functional," Chen Ge observed aloud for the livestream audience, crouching down to shine his flashlight directly on the mangled mechanism hanging limply from the frame. His previous experiences completing Trial Missions had given him plenty of hands-on knowledge about spotting signs of forced entry versus natural decay. "Look closely here—the internal spring mechanism has been snapped clean in two, not rusted out from age. This was definitely a forced entry, done with some kind of tool or brute strength sometime after the hospital officially shut down for good."
Chen Ge straightened up slowly and peered down the pitch-black corridor that stretched away from the doorway, his flashlight barely piercing more than a few meters into the oppressive gloom, and a single burning question immediately cropped up in his mind, refusing to be ignored. "So who exactly busted this lock open like this, and why?"
Clearly, someone had returned to the abandoned hospital long after it had closed its doors permanently and been left to rot. But was it one of the former patients, sneaking back under cover of night for reasons known only to their fractured minds, or could it have been his own parents, driven by whatever desperate investigation had led to their sudden disappearance?
Director Luo had specifically overheard Chen Ge's parents mention the Third Sick Hall in hushed tones just before they vanished without warning, and the cryptic bloody note later discovered in the public park had pointed unmistakably toward this exact location as well. But despite all these breadcrumbs, Chen Ge still had no concrete idea what made the Third Sick Hall so uniquely special or significant—why it lingered in rumors and warnings like a festering wound.
Director Luo had only caught that fleeting reference to the place right before Chen Ge's parents disappeared into thin air, while the bloody note itself had only surfaced afterward, stained and hidden as if left by someone in a hurry or under duress. What exactly had happened to them inside the Third Sick Hall during those final, fateful moments—had they uncovered something too terrible to escape, or triggered events that swallowed them whole?
Chen Ge gripped the heavy steel door with both hands and pushed it open as wide as the rusted hinges would allow, letting the beam of his flashlight spill fully into the long, narrow corridor beyond. The interior was a chaotic mess of accumulated trash, overturned wheelchairs, and several abandoned hospital beds shoved haphazardly against the walls or left lying sideways in the middle of the passage. The scene offered a stark, almost tangible glimpse into what life must have been like here when the hospital was still fully operational—clearly overcrowded and under-resourced. Back then, with far more patients than the building could reasonably accommodate, many of them had no choice but to sleep, eat, and spend their days right here in the corridors, turning what should have been mere walkways into makeshift living spaces filled with desperation and neglect.
Unlike ordinary certified general hospitals that typically feature a wide array of specialized treatment rooms, operating theaters, and diagnostic suites, mental hospitals like this one were often built with far simpler and more utilitarian layouts. Along both sides of the already crowded corridor stretched a series of small, windowless rooms whose original purposes remained unclear—perhaps isolation cells, consultation offices, or simply overflow patient quarters. Chen Ge paused just inside the threshold and took a slow, deliberate breath through his nose; almost immediately, a familiar, nauseating stench drifted toward him from deeper within the building. The odor was unmistakable—he had encountered something eerily similar once before inside the Hai Ming Apartments, clinging stubbornly to the presence of Wang Shenglong like a second skin. It was the heavy, cloying smell of decay mixed with something darker and more unnatural, the unmistakable signature of lingering negative energy.
"The negative feeling is already this intense even before I've properly stepped inside the main areas," Chen Ge murmured to the camera, his voice low but steady as he tried to keep his composure for the viewers. This marked his very first visit to an actual abandoned mental hospital, and the only reliable guidance he had was the rough, hand-drawn map supposedly sketched by one of the former patients—a crude but surprisingly detailed outline that now served as his sole roadmap through the labyrinth ahead.
"The overall design and layout of all three sick halls should follow roughly the same basic structure, so logically, the danger level inside the First Sick Hall ought to be the lowest among them," Chen Ge reasoned aloud, speaking partly to himself and partly to the livestream audience. "The smartest approach right now is to familiarize myself thoroughly with the surroundings here first—map out escape routes, note any potential hazards, and get a real sense of the atmosphere—before I even consider pushing deeper into the more mysterious sections." He had barely taken a single step forward when the white cat suddenly leaped up onto his shoulder with surprising agility, pressing its small body close against the side of his neck. Its claws dug lightly into his jacket as though it were trying urgently to communicate something important, but Chen Ge could only feel the rapid thrum of its heartbeat and the faint tremble running through its frame; whatever message the cat was conveying remained frustratingly beyond his understanding.
"This is honestly the first time the cat has willingly gotten this physically close to me without any coaxing or food involved," Chen Ge observed quietly, reaching up to steady the animal with one gentle hand while keeping his flashlight trained ahead. "What exactly has it sensed up ahead? Is this pure fear making it seek protection, or is it picking up on something entirely different—maybe even a warning about what's waiting deeper inside?" The unexpected closeness from the usually aloof creature only heightened his own wariness as he continued forward.
As Chen Ge advanced slowly down the darkened hallway, each careful step produced a faint but persistent crunching sound beneath the soles of his shoes. Curious and increasingly unsettled, he lowered the flashlight beam to illuminate the cracked, grimy floor tiles directly in front of him. Embedded within the fissures and scattered across the surface lay the dried-out carcasses of countless small insects and unknown bugs, their brittle bodies crushed flat by time and neglect. The hospital had stood abandoned and unused for many years now, so the widespread death couldn't possibly be the lingering result of routine bug spraying or pest control measures. That left only one chilling question hanging in the air: what exactly had killed all these creatures in such numbers, and why had their remains been left to accumulate untouched for so long?
Every single door lining both sides of the First Sick Hall stood wide open, as though someone had deliberately left them that way long ago—or perhaps more recently. Inside each room, the interior layout proved almost identical to the last: cramped, windowless spaces furnished with nothing more than a few narrow single beds shoved tightly together, leaving barely enough room to walk between them. The uniformity of the design only amplified the oppressive atmosphere, making the entire ward feel less like a place of healing and more like a holding pen designed for maximum containment with minimal comfort or individuality.
"Just how many patients must this hospital have admitted and crammed in here when it was still running at full capacity?" Chen Ge wondered aloud as he stepped cautiously into one of the random rooms to get a better feel for the scale of it all. Four rickety wooden beds dominated the tiny space, their frames so close together that there was scarcely enough clearance left for him to even turn around fully without bumping into something. The air inside felt thick and stale, pressing in from every side like invisible walls closing tighter with every passing second.
"Living confined in such a claustrophobic, suffocating environment day after day, week after week, with almost no personal space or privacy—anyone, even those who entered completely sane, would eventually be driven to the brink of madness or beyond," Chen Ge said softly, shaking his head as he backed out of the room and returned to the main corridor. A short distance farther along, he reached the first major junction in the hallway, where a small, partially enclosed area had clearly once served as the nurse's station. A long wooden counter still stood in place, its surface now cluttered with several empty prescription pill bottles and a scattering of faded patient ID cards bearing handwritten names in peeling ink.
"It looks like the patients were required to come to this central station every single day just to receive their prescribed medications—probably handed out under strict supervision to prevent hoarding or misuse," Chen Ge narrated as he leaned over the counter to peer inside the small booth-like space. Almost immediately, his flashlight caught on two objects that absolutely should not have been present in an abandoned facility sealed for years: two sturdy iron-welded cages, each one roughly the size needed to comfortably hold a medium-sized dog, positioned side by side against the back wall.
"What on earth are these two cages doing here?" Chen Ge muttered, his pulse quickening as he vaulted lightly over the counter to get a closer look. He directed the flashlight beam directly into the cages, and what he saw inside one of them made his blood run cold: a half-cooked, half-plucked duck carcass lay sprawled on the metal floor grate, its skin still glistening faintly with residual moisture and grease.
"There's absolutely no sign of advanced decay or mummification, which means this duck was placed inside the cage very recently—probably within the last day or two at most," Chen Ge said, his voice dropping to a tense whisper as he instinctively tightened his grip on the heavy mallet in his other hand. He immediately pressed his back against the solid wall of the nurse's station for better cover, eyes scanning the dark corridor in both directions. "That can only mean one thing—there are other people inside this hospital right now, besides just me."