Henry Clark glanced at the number of viewers in the livestream room, which was still stuck at zero, exited his consciousness, and looked around.

　　The room was barely a few square meters, with an iron bed, an iron cabinet, and an iron cup, all rusted, monotonous and shabby, looking utterly desolate.

　　It was obvious that this place was only for mental patients to rest, with no facilities for washing or showering.

　　Directly in front of the iron bed was an iron door.

　　The iron door was covered in dark yellow rust, almost peeling off, with no lock and no doorknob, only a glass window set into the door, facing the head of the bed. Doctors or nurses on patrol could easily monitor the patient from outside.

　　There was no doorknob or lock on the door; both were on the outside. The door could be locked from outside, and those inside had no way to open it themselves.

　　Patients had no human rights, especially those with mental illnesses.

　　Aside from that, the only thing that caught Henry Clark's attention was the dense array of numbers on the other wall.

　　Just then, the sound of an old lock clicking open came from outside the heavy door.

　　The next moment, the twisted iron door was easily pushed open.

　　“Screee—”

　　A cold wind howled in from the depths of the corridor.

　　The person who appeared was a woman with an indifferent expression, plain-looking, wearing a slightly yellowed white nurse's uniform. When her gaze fell on the smiling Henry Clark, that deep-seated coldness and detachment showed no sign of easing.

　　It was less like looking at a person, and more like looking at an object.

　　She said coldly, “Number 12, it’s dinner time. The dining hall is upstairs, go there yourself.”

　　Henry Clark didn’t speak, dutifully playing the role of an autistic youth.

　　The nurse ignored him, directly opened another door nearby, and called out the same thing inside, only changing the number to 13. Without waiting for a response, she turned and, carrying her lamp, headed deeper downstairs.

　　The corridor was very dark, so dark that it was impossible to see what was below. Even with a lamp emitting a faint glow, it was still hard to illuminate the deep darkness at the stairwell’s corner; one could only vaguely make out the yellowed, rusted iron plates and the dripping, broken steps.

　　Henry Clark curled his lips slightly. He didn’t linger, nor did he spare a glance at the adjacent Room 14, and headed straight up the stairs.

　　Unexpectedly, although the wards were filthy and dilapidated, the dining hall was surprisingly clean.

　　Light blue tiles lined the walls and floor, and everyone queued up one after another with iron trays at the window to get their food. The atmosphere was solemn, giving off a cold, oppressive feeling.

　　There were already quite a few people scattered around the dining hall, all wearing the same patient uniforms as Henry Clark.

　　It was easy to tell who the horror trainees were, because each trainee’s level was clearly displayed on a badge hanging from their chest. Obviously, aside from the trainees, none of the other NPCs could see this badge.

　　Perhaps to better advance the plot, almost everyone in the dining hall now wore a badge.

　　Before Henry Clark entered, the atmosphere in the dining hall was already a bit strange.

　　But as soon as he walked in, he drew almost everyone’s attention.

　　The white-haired youth in a patient’s uniform walked slowly, strands of long white hair cascading down his shoulders like a stream of moonlight falling in the night sky, bringing a cool silvery glow to the dim ward.

　　His deep profile flickered between the strands of hair, reminiscent of Adonis, the most beloved beautiful youth of Aphrodite in Greek mythology, possessing a breathtaking, gender-transcending allure. Even doing nothing, he easily became the focus of everyone’s gaze.

　　The horror livestream room also exploded, with viewers in other trainees’ streams screaming one after another.

　　[Holy crap! This one is definitely here for the talent show, right? That face, absolutely stunning, even better than the Saint, my god!]

　　[I’m drooling, I’m freaking drooling! Now I finally understand what “a feast for the eyes” means!]

　　[Aaaaah, just for that face, I’m sold! Which stream is this little brother in? I’m heading over right now!]

　　Of course, amid the barrage of comments marveling at his looks, there were also dissenting voices.

　　[Alright, alright, this isn’t one of those real-world talent shows where you just need to look good and sing or dance to debut. This is the Infinite World’s Horror Trainee Program—looks are useless here.]

　　[Exactly, an E-rank newbie, looks weak and effeminate, probably won’t survive the first round, tsk.]

　　[What’s the use of being good-looking? This subfield has both Master Zhuge and the Saint—aren’t they more impressive?]

　　“He’s an E-rank newbie.”

　　At another long table, Brian Cooper, who had been observing, turned back, “But he’s pretty good-looking.”

　　Edward Foster picked up the wilted greens from his iron tray with chopsticks worn almost blunt at the tips, his expression unhappy. “If you have the energy for that, you might as well go observe Adam Grant and Vincent.”

　　“Vincent didn’t even come up to the dining hall, probably trying to get a head start.”