I picked up a boyfriend in the infinite game

Song Guicheng stood still, first raising his hand to brush away a strand of white hair that was blocking his eyes. As his fingertips brushed against his cheek, they felt the coolness of the wound on his arm. Half-congealed blood beads clung to the ends of his hair, like red plum blossoms falling on snow. Against his pale skin and white robes, they created a stubborn silhouette in the interplay of light and shadow.

In countless instances before, it was always Wu Zhi who followed that wisp of primal power to find him. It was the silent protection when he was disguised as an NPC, the sudden help when he was on the verge of despair, and the indulgence when he should have taken the power but was too soft-hearted to do so.

That tenderness was hidden beneath his indifferent exterior, like a stream flowing silently over his desolate past.

This time, he didn't want to wait any longer.

A halo spread out beneath Song Guicheng's feet, like melting moonlight. Each step he took carried a subtle, icy chill, a faint resistance—the relentless entanglement of darkness, the pull of shadows in the shadows.

Her long white hair swayed gently with her movements, the ends brushing against her clothes with a soft rustling sound that, in the quiet space, drowned out the lingering echoes of the distant vengeful spirits.

As the statue gradually came into focus, the patterns on its black robes revealed themselves to be galaxies embroidered with silver threads, shimmering with tiny lights in the halo, like fragments of eternity scattered in Wu Zhi's memory. Its long, black hair clung to the altar, the ends trembling slightly as if alive when they touched the ground, as if responding to his approach. Its half-closed eyes, with their long, thick eyelashes, seemed to hold within them millennia of silence, and perhaps the answers he sought.

The darkness behind him continued to surge, like a tide unwilling to be abandoned, with icy breaths occasionally wrapping around his ankles, trying to pull him back into endless chaos.

The shadow behind the statue became clearer, and the dark mist was no longer a blurry mass. You could vaguely see tiny specks of light flickering inside, like stars being swallowed by nothingness.

But Song Guicheng didn't even glance at them. Those shadows were insurmountable barriers, obstacles, and endless time separating them, but he was determined to cross them.

He recalled the first time he saw Wu Zhi's true form in the dungeon. The other party was wearing the same black robe, standing under the moonlight with indifferent eyes, but when he was on the verge of death, he let go of the hand that was choking him; he recalled when Wu Zhi lost his memory, he was about to kill him, but at the last moment he turned his head away; he recalled the silent resonance between him and Wu Zhi when that wisp of primordial power pulsed in his body.

Those images flashed through his mind like fragments, each one transforming into strength beneath his feet, making his steps ever more resolute.

The wound on his arm was still bleeding, dripping onto the ground in the halo of light. Instead of disappearing immediately, it seemed to have a life of its own, meandering towards the statue like a guiding red line.

Song Guicheng looked at the line of blood and suddenly smiled.

He stopped three steps away from the statue, wanting to take a good look at the statue that belonged to Wu Zhi.

Before my gaze could fall, before the warmth of the halo could warm my fingertips, a slight tremor suddenly came from the ground beneath my feet.

It wasn't a heavy roar, but a fine, cracking sound, like ice cracking, that quietly spread from beneath the statue's base, like inky lightning drawing jagged lines in the white halo, starting from the base of the Wuzhi statue, winding and gnawing all the way to Song Guicheng's feet.

When he looked down, he saw that there was no light in the crack, only an impenetrable darkness, like a hollowed-out abyss, slowly exhaling a resentful breath.

Song Guicheng did not fall.

The eternal power within him suddenly awakened, surging through his blood vessels like an invisible barrier, steadily supporting his body.

But the next second, something even more turbulent surged up from the crack—

It wasn't the wind, but a tangible resentment, cold and sticky, like melted asphalt, wrapped in countless tiny cries of despair, resentment, and pain. They crept up along the edges of the cracks, piling up and tangling on the ground, gradually weaving into a black mist, each wisp of which shimmered with tiny, eerie green lights.

It wasn't the faint wailing of a vengeful spirit, but a vast, tangible resentment, like countless icy hands reaching out from the cracks, clawing at the air, trying to drag all the light in this space into darkness. Inky mist climbed up the cracks, coiling around Song Guicheng's ankles, the icy touch remarkably similar to the glass of whiskey with ice that Song Yujie had handed him on his sixteenth birthday.

The wine, though from a warm room, made his fingertips numb with cold. He later learned that the wine contained his best friend's "farewell."

A sudden burst of warmth erupted from Song Guicheng's body, forming an invisible barrier at his ankles that kept the black mist out. But the dark mist seemed to have a life of its own, climbing along the edges of the halo and gradually enveloping him.

coming.

Song Guicheng's eyes narrowed slightly, and his grip on the dagger tightened, his knuckles turning white. The wound on his arm ached from the surging airflow, and the blood dripping onto the black mist did not bloom into blood flowers. Instead, it was frozen into tiny ice crystals by the dark mist, clattering to the ground and shattering into dust without leaving a trace.

It was an aura of nothingness, a chilling, all-consuming quality unique to Song Yujie, now announcing its arrival in the most direct way.

The one who knelt down to tie his loose shoelaces when he was isolated and helpless, saying, "Don't be afraid on your way home, your brother is here"; the one who taught him to read and to distinguish between good and evil, but who killed his only friend with his own hands when he trusted him the most, and said with a smile, "God, you see, people's hearts can change"; the one who used the identity of "brother" to build a warm world for him, and then smashed that world to pieces with his own hands when he was indulging in it.

Song Guicheng's long hair was whipped up by the black mist, the ends of his hair drawing messy arcs in the air, like snow being torn apart by a gale, yet it refused to be completely entangled by the black mist.

He stood at the edge of the crevice, before him the seated statue of the sorcerer, behind him surging darkness, and beneath his feet, nothingness crawling out of the abyss. The halo of light gradually faded under the erosion of the black mist; the faint light that had once surrounded the statue was being swallowed up bit by bit, like white paper stained with ink.

The dark mist gradually condensed before him, no longer dissipating, but solidifying into a tall, slender figure. Green eyes lit up in the mist, like will-o'-the-wisps in a deep pool, reflecting Song Guicheng's pale face and the strand of white hair stained with blood on his shoulder.

"On your way home," the figure spoke, the voice still the same gentle tone I remembered, "It's been a long time."

Song Guicheng did not respond, but simply looked up at the figure. He could clearly see the silver thread pattern embroidered on the other person's cuffs, exactly the same as the suit that Song Yujie often wore back then, even the direction of the stitches was exactly the same.

But he could also see that the figure's outline would become blurred from time to time, like smoke blown away by the wind, and then quickly re-coagulate.

That is the essence of nothingness, without a fixed form, yet it can mimic the appearance that makes people let their guard down the most.

Song Guicheng did not retreat.

He raised his head, his gaze piercing through the churning black mist and landing on the statue of Wu Zhi. The statue's eyes remained half-closed, yet they seemed to gain warmth at this moment, and the starry patterns on its black robe glowed faintly, echoing the power within him, as if silently supporting him.

He knew that nothingness would come sooner or later, and from the moment he stepped into this instance, from the moment he approached the statue of the Witch Doctor, this confrontation was unavoidable.

The resentment from the cracks continued to seep out, entwining between the two.

Looking at that familiar yet unfamiliar figure, Song Guicheng gripped the dagger tightly, the gentleness in his eyes completely fading away, leaving only a cold determination.

He knew that to reach Wuzhi, he had to first break free from the shackles of nothingness.

“Song Yujie,” Song Guicheng finally spoke, his voice not loud, but like a knife tempered with ice, cutting through the disguise in the air, “How have you been?”

The cracks continued to widen, and the black mist continued to churn, but Song Guicheng stood still, like a bamboo rooted in the crack between eternity and nothingness, bearing heavy shadows and refusing to yield an inch.

He was heading towards divinity, not falling into this endless nothingness.