Educational concept: The school does not encourage students to fight privately, but emphasizes "collaboration". Because the monsters in the fog (known as the "fog demon") are extremely powerful, they will undoubtedly die if they fight alone. • Organizational structure: seven-person group system. The ultimate goal of the school is to cultivate elite teams that can perform "level tasks". • Core contradiction: Despite the mild atmosphere, the elimination rate of the annual "graduation trial" is extremely high. Losers will not die, but their memories will be washed away and sent back to the original world, becoming the mediocre and bullied ordinary person again. - This is a more terrible punishment for the protagonist than death.

He saved me. In 2014, a Siberian prisoner successfully escaped from prison on a winter night and broke into my courtyard. I warned him that pilgrims should not kill innocent people indiscriminately, not to mention that I saved him. But he explained in confusion that he was just an ordinary prisoner and didn't know why he was a pilgrim. The doorbell rang, and another group of killers visited at night. He looked at me and suddenly smiled: "You're right. You shouldn't kill innocent people indiscriminately, but these people are different." Only later did I know that he was hunting for a murder that lasted 20 years. And I happen to be the first person on the list. --- In the winter of 2014, the cold current of Siberia seemed to come out from the depths of the core, rushing to the sparse birch forest outside Omsk with the brute force of crushing everything. The air is solidified and rough. Every time you breathe, your throat is like a handful of ice. Leonid Ivanov didn't know how long he had been running. Time has lost its scale under the cold and severe pain, leaving only the hiss like a wind box-pulling of the lungs, and the dull and desperate "poof" sound of the boots stepping into the knee-deep snow again and again. The thick prison uniform was tattered by the barbed wire, and the frozen blood and sweat stuck to the skin, like a layer of inferior armor. The injury of his right leg - probably bitten by something when he climbed over the last wall - was burning, dragging him to leave a crooked and intermittent trace on the snow. Can't stop. This idea is the only flame that is still burning, weak but stubborn. If you stop, you will be frozen corpses, pecked by crows, or easily torn apart by the hounds that chased after them. He swallowed the knife-like cold air and forced himself to lift his lead-filled eyelids. In front of us, there is a warm yellow light on the dark velvet. Light. It's not the dazzling and threatening searchlight on the prison watchtower, nor the fleeting light of the car light through the snowfield. It is steady and shines through a window, hazy and hairy. Behind the window, it seems to be the outline of a low wooden house, almost half buried by snow. The temptation of life beat him more fiercely than any whipping. He deviated from the direction he had fled blindly and crawled towards the light with his hands and feet. There is no fence in the courtyard, or the snow covers all the boundaries. He almost rolled into the open space barely covered by the eaves, bumped into a pile of chopped firewood, and the firewood was scattered. He curled up, his teeth bumped uncontrollably, gurgling, and his eyes were glued to the translucent window. There are people inside. Warm. Maybe there is still food. Then, he heard the movement in the room. It was very light, but it was extremely clear in this dead snowy night - someone got up from the stove and walked to the door. The door opened. The waterfall of light poured out, instantly stinging his eyes that had adapted to the darkness. He subconsciously raised his hand to cover it. From between his fingers, he saw a figure standing at the door against the light. She is a young woman, wearing thick dark home clothes and a slender figure. She was coated with a layer of furry gold edges around her body, but her face could not be clearly illuminated. She didn't have a gun or a stick in her hand. She just stood there quietly, looking at the uninvited guests who fell by the pile of firewood and were embarrassed. Silence covered like ice, only the wind whistled through the top of the birch forest. Leonid's throat moved and wanted to make a sound, even if it was the slightest begging, but his chapped lips only spit out a wisp of trembling white gas. The woman opened her mouth first. The voice was not high, and even calm, like snowflaks falling on the frozen soil, but with a strange and unquestionable penetration, it pierced the cold wind and penetrated into his ears. "Leave my yard, pilgrim." Leonid was shocked, not because of the drive, but because of the word. Pilgrim? He froze completely, and even the trembling of his teeth stopped for a moment. He quickly checked this strange word in his mind and all the meanings it might have. Religious madman? Secret society? Some kind of secret language that he doesn't know? No, it's not right. This word came out of her mouth, permeated the coldness of Siberia, and other, deeper things. A kind of... cold insight. He must explain. He opened his mouth, and his dry throat barely rubbed out hoarse and broken syllables: "No... Madam... I just... escaped from the 'sable'..." He swallowed a mouthful of spit with a rusty smell, "Prisoner. An ordinary prisoner. I don't know what... pilgrims." He tried to raise his face, trying to let her see the pure confusion on his face and the weakness that could not be concealed by the cold and pain. The prison uniform is tattered, but the style is definite. The wound on the leg glowed an ominous dar

Chapter 1 Contract under the Night The rain in London is like a deliberate trial. The neon lights are twisted into blood-colored lines in the water droplets, and the light of the city looks both cold and luxurious. Elena Hart stood at the door of the hotel, holding the contract in her hand, and her fingertips were slightly white. Her heartbeat seemed to be magnified countless times, as if every beat was reminding her that you were doing something dangerous. She thought she was just an ordinary translator - the "high-paying contract" was the first big project she had ever taken on. She knew that kind of opportunity usually meant a certain price, but she didn't expect the price to be so close and so fast. The security guard at the door glanced at her, as if to confirm whether she belonged here. She tried to squeeze out a polite smile, trying to make herself look less like a reckless girl. Just then, a black car slowly stopped in front of her, and the window was lowered, revealing a man's face. His eyes were deep and indifferent, like the sharpest knife in the night. "Elena Hart?" He asked in a low voice with irresistible majesty. She nodded. "Come with me." She instinctively wanted to refuse, but she soon realized that it was meaningless to refuse here. She had to sit in the car. The car is very quiet, only the engine has a slight low noise. She could smell a faint perfume, like a dangerous flower fragrance in the dark night. He didn't say anything more, and the car drove away from the hotel through the wet streets. The rain has stopped, but the air is still humid, as if the whole city is panting. "Do you know what you are doing?" He suddenly opened his mouth in a calm tone, but as sharp as a knife. She swallowed her saliva and tried to calm herself down: "I just... translate the contract." He smiled, and the smile was as cold as ice: "The contract is not the kind of contract you imagined." His words made her heart sink suddenly. She wanted to ask why, but she found that she didn't have the courage to ask any more. The car was parked in front of a tall building. She was taken into the elevator, and there was only her and him in the elevator. She could feel every inch of the air he approached. "Why do you want to take this job?" He asked. She looked up at him with a trembling voice: "Because of money." He nodded gently: "Because of money." At that moment, she suddenly understood that he didn't care about her reason at all. He only cared about whether she would be obedient. He took out a contract from his pocket and handed it to her. The title of the contract is very simple: "Contract: Attribution and Protection" Her hand trembled slightly, and the moment her fingertips touched the paper, it seemed to touch a cold chain. "Sign." He ordered. Her throat was dry: "I don't understand this contract." "You don't need to understand." He leaned closer, "You just need to sign." She raised her head and looked straight at him. It was a kind of look that knew it shouldn't but wanted to get close. "Why me?" She asked. He was silent for a moment, as if he was thinking about whether her question was worth answering. Then he spoke slowly, in a firm and dangerous tone: "Because you will make my world different." His words ignited the fragile part of her chest like a fire. She wanted to resist, but she wanted to know more: who the man was and why his eyes could see through her. Finally, she put the pen on the paper. She signed her name. At that moment, the world seemed to be quiet. She heard her heartbeat, like thunder in the distance, slowly approaching. He put away the contract, his eyes slid over her face, and finally stopped on her lips. "Very good." He whispered, as if he was praising. Then, he stretched out his hand and gently held her wrist. His palm is warm, but the strength is like iron. "You belong to me now." He said. Her breathing suddenly stagnated. Not because of fear, but because she suddenly realized: She has been possessed by him. And she didn't want to escape.

He stood under her umbrella, his shoulders almost close to hers, and the rain slid down from his hair and fell on the back of her hand, which was cold. For a moment, she could almost feel the breath he exhaled through her ear. "First," he said, "you shout and tell them that you have met someone in danger, and they will quickly press me to the ground."