Chapter Ten: How to Become a Competent Psychologist?

Lu Yuan felt a deep sense of irony.

Usually, when he tried to fall asleep, he would toss and turn endlessly, unable to find rest. Yet tonight, without even taking any sleeping pills and planning to stay awake until dawn, he unexpectedly drifted off.

This strange dreamlike world had, in a way, cured his insomnia.

The first time he arrived here, Lu Yuan was much calmer.

He didn’t rush out of bed but instead fixed his gaze on the television, intently watching the news.

What intrigued him was how detailed the broadcast was—it didn’t just recount the entire process of Lu Yuan killing the woman but even introduced information about her.

“Zhuo Yan.”

“Elementary school Chinese teacher.”

Lu Yuan sat upright in bed, absorbing the information from the news.

After a while, the television screen turned to static, emitting a faint, grating crackle.

He glanced out the window.

The weather was alright.

A dull, gray haze filled the sky.

But it wasn’t raining.

The bedroom was filled only with the soft sound of Lu Yuan’s breathing and the static from the TV.

He looked toward the bedroom door, pondering.

Perhaps behind that door in the living room lay a corpse, long cold on the sofa; or perhaps there was nothing there at all.

Should he go and see?

Hesitation gripped Lu Yuan’s heart.

In such a bizarre dream world, anything could happen. Maybe if he opened the door, the living room would be empty.

He threw back the covers, slowly got out of bed, and, without putting on shoes or turning on the light, groped his way toward the bedroom door.

By the pale glow of the television, Lu Yuan’s right hand grasped the doorknob, but an unknown fear held him back from turning it.

After a long moment of hesitation, he finally opened the bedroom door.

Standing in the doorway, he looked into the living room, his eyes betraying no shock. Zhuo Yan’s body still lay on the sofa.

The sofa and floor were stained with dark, blackened blood.

A whole day had passed.

Remarkably, Zhuo Yan’s corpse had not begun to smell, though it looked unsightly and somewhat nauseating.

Barefoot, Lu Yuan stepped onto the floor. With one hand tightly clutching a fruit knife, he cautiously approached Zhuo Yan’s body.

Looking down at the corpse, it was as if he were admiring a piece of art he had created.

It was strange.

His inner fear had lessened considerably.

---

Looking at Zhuo Yan’s body, Lu Yuan’s first thought wasn’t to distance himself but to consider how best to deal with the corpse.

At that moment, he finally realized that he was truly ill—a dangerous psychological disorder.

Lu Yuan placed the fruit knife on the coffee table and tried to move Zhuo Yan’s body, but he was inhabiting An Shi’s body, a frail, middle-aged man in his fifties.

After several attempts, he gave up.

He couldn’t move it!

An Shi’s body was weakened by age and lack of exercise, making it basically impossible for him to single-handedly move the corpse.

Lowering his gaze at his hands stained with black blood, a flicker of disgust and repulsion flashed in his eyes.

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