A World of Double Standards

At that moment, Mike felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, much like what Chen Dafeng must have experienced earlier.

The crowd really knew how to flatter.

Do something slightly decent, and they'd hoist you up as if you'd single-handedly changed the course of history. Mike didn't see himself as someone who deserved to be mentioned in the same breath as the greats of the past, but the more people talked about and praised him, the more pressure he felt.

And yet, he couldn't deny it—it felt damn good.

Mike was a regular guy, after all. He wasn't immune to the peculiar satisfaction that came from the admiration and comparisons. With it came the weight of responsibility, yes, but also a unique thrill—a sense of fulfillment no other indulgence could offer.

It was a transcendence of the ordinary, a touch of something almost divine: the highest pursuit of the human spirit, the kind that made him finally grasp what it truly meant to rise above mundane desires.

"No wonder the ancients sought immortality through legacy," Mike thought, taking a deep breath. "Nothing in this world even comes close."

But as he scrolled through the chat channel, his expression turned wry.

"Where's So-ge?" someone wrote, breaking the chain of praise.

"Yeah, why hasn't he said anything? He was so loud this morning—what happened to that energy?"

"Don't tell me he's fainted from rage or something. Serves him right, though. Stealing people and pulling dirty tricks, only to get completely shut down by Captain Chen. What a joke!"

"I still can't get over it! So-ge sent his people out to snatch survivors, only for Captain Chen to sweep in, take everyone, and then order them to keep rescuing people—or else. What a power move!"

"Captain Chen's got that ancient general aura, man. Total badass. Meanwhile, poor So-ge… One day pretending to be the big boss, and now he's just a public laughingstock."

"That's what happens when you try to go against the will of the people. Even in the apocalypse, you've got to play nice with the collective spirit!"

Mike blinked at the chat, his expression shifting between amusement and confusion.

"So… So-ge?" he muttered. "What kind of ridiculous nickname is that?"

The official name was the Jinling People's Apocalypse Relief Command Center. Somehow, that had been reduced to "So-ge." Meanwhile, on Mike's end, his title was adorned with grandiose prefixes like "Brilliant Leader," "People's Vanguard," and even "Heaven-Sent Hero."

But for So-ge? Just two syllables.

The double standard couldn't have been more obvious.

Mike waited a moment, but the infamous So-ge didn't show up, even as dozens of people pinged him. He stayed silent, clearly avoiding the chat.

What could he even say? The channel was public—everyone could see the messages. So-ge had to know by now that the whole city had seen through his act. Worse, Captain Chen had intercepted all his people, leaving him completely stranded.

Mike imagined himself in So-ge's shoes. What could he do? Nothing. It was a slow, inevitable death, with no way to fight back—not even with words.

The people weren't just waiting for So-ge to speak; they were ready to tear into him the moment he did.

"That guy's not showing up anytime soon," Mike thought, shaking his head.

Then his eyes widened. "Crap! The server's about to open!"

Scrambling to his desk, Mike booted up his computer, quickly logged in, and launched the game client.

[Successfully connected to local network. Welcome to Apocalypse Legends Online!]

The loading screen displayed an impressively detailed interface. Say what you would about Jinling, but they had some real talent in game development.

The community had pooled resources to create a local multiplayer game for entertainment. It wasn't anything groundbreaking—just a classic, loot-heavy MMORPG built on an existing framework. But in the apocalypse, any distraction was a welcome one, and Mike wasn't about to complain.

He registered an account, chose a warrior class, and jumped into the game. Everything was running smoothly.

The client was stable, the connection flawless, and the gameplay satisfying. The in-game world was packed with flashy leaderboards and an abundance of pay-to-win bundles.

Mike laughed. "Someone in the neighborhood must've been a mobile game monetization genius back in the day!"

Curious, he opened the cash shop and froze.

The currency? Work points.

"Wait… what?" Mike stared at the screen, recalling a recent conversation with Chen Qiuren. The guy had suggested integrating work points into the game's economy to add an extra layer of motivation for the community.

Apparently, the proposal had been approved.

The game announcement clarified everything: a portion of all work-point transactions would go toward maintaining the server, while the rest would be reinvested in the community. Daily recharge limits ensured no one could overindulge—maximums ranged from 10 to 500 points, depending on one's contribution level.

"Talk about an anti-addiction system," Mike mused. "Figures this was Jiang Xiaoci's doing. Guy thinks of everything."

He clicked on his character's in-game mailbox, and his jaw dropped.

It was stuffed with rewards—limited-edition items, top-tier gear, and an absurd amount of work points. His in-game wallet skyrocketed to 10,000 points in an instant.

"What the… Are you kidding me?" Mike exclaimed. "They're bribing the boss now?!"

It had Chen Qiuren's fingerprints all over it.

Looking at his overloaded inventory, Mike felt a pang of frustration. He'd barely started the game, and now he was already the richest player on the server. Where was the fun in that?

"Well, at least my level's still 1," Mike muttered. "Time to grind."

He dove into the game, hacking away at low-level monsters. But as he played, a random thought crossed his mind.

"So… what's So-ge doing right now?"

"Here I am, playing games in the apocalypse. And him? Probably sulking in a corner somewhere."