chapter 38

As a member of the King's Guild, Wang Shun's personal skill was information gathering, and so his primary responsibilities were twofold: collecting data on game completions and scouting for promising newcomers to recruit into the guild. He had intended to submit Bai Liu's data, but upon seeing the guild's announcement for new [Puppet Players] for the [Puppeteer], he hesitated.

If he reported Bai Liu now, with his exceptional intelligence and sanity stats, the [Puppeteer] would almost certainly take notice and forcibly select him as a [Puppet Player].

For most, becoming a [Puppet Player] was considered a coveted position, but for a newcomer with S-rank potential like Bai Liu, it would be a tragic waste.

Moreover, Wang Shun had discovered in his data analysis that players who became [Puppet Players] for the [Puppeteer] saw their stats stagnate or increase only at a glacial pace, while the [Puppeteer] himself had risen from 71 to 93 intelligence, with all his other stats soaring as well.

Only someone like Wang Shun, who handled internal data analysis for the King's Guild, could see this pattern. He had long suspected that the [Puppeteer]'s skill was not merely [Player Manipulation], but also [Potential Absorption], though most players only knew of the former.

Many high-potential players Wang Shun had evaluated ended up as the [Puppeteer]'s puppets, gradually becoming mediocre, then discarded or dying in the game—once unpolished gems, now reduced to dust.

Though Wang Shun regretted this, he had to accept the brutal reality: in this world, the weak were devoured by the strong. Once a low-level player's value was exhausted, the guild or the powerful would cast them aside. Here, the least valuable thing was not a discounted item, but a human life.

Thus, for a player as conspicuous as Bai Liu, joining a guild was not necessarily the best choice; it was all too easy to be bound by the guild's rules and exploited by higher-ranked players. Mu Sicheng had seen through this long ago, which was why he had steadfastly refused to join the King's Guild.

Ironically, it was the [Puppeteer] who had once tried to recruit Mu Sicheng, only to be rebuffed—Mu Sicheng had declared he would never be anyone's puppet or subject to anyone's control. He suffered much at the [Puppeteer]'s hands, but as his own strength grew and his ranking climbed into the top three hundred, the [Puppeteer] finally let him be.

But for Bai Liu, a newcomer ranked in the three thousands with immense potential, the [Puppeteer] would not let him slip away so easily.

Though Wang Shun, out of personal concern, withheld Bai Liu's information from the guild, Bai Liu's striking performance and stats had already caught the [Puppeteer]'s eye.

The [Puppeteer] had been stuck at 93 intelligence for a long time and needed a high-intelligence player as new "nourishment." And what could be better than a fresh, unspoiled newcomer like Bai Liu?

Wang Shun wanted to warn Bai Liu about the [Puppeteer], and the [Puppeteer]'s people were searching for him. Yet, with Bai Liu's rainbow dreadlocks and black lipstick, even Lu Yizhan—who had known him for over a decade—might not recognize him.

Unexpectedly, someone did see through Bai Liu's bizarre disguise.

Mu Sicheng, arms crossed, regarded Bai Liu at the game login entrance with an expression of utter disbelief. "...Bai Liu, what has the real world done to you, to turn you into this unrecognizable creature in just a few days?"

"You recognized me?" Bai Liu was mildly surprised.

He had paraded through the hall in this getup for ages without being recognized, yet Mu Sicheng had identified him at a glance.

Mu Sicheng grinned, revealing a sharp canine tooth. "Surprised? No matter how you disguise yourself, I'll always find you. I told you, everything you stole from me last time—I'll get it all back. You can't escape me!"

"If you're not recognizing me by appearance..." Bai Liu glanced at the odd hip-hop monkey on Mu Sicheng's hat. "You used your sense of smell, didn't you? Your skill must be related to this monkey—enhanced senses?"

Mu Sicheng's grin widened. "Wrong~ My skill isn't enhanced senses, but I did use my nose. You reek of copper, or rather, the scent of money."

"That should be quite pleasant," Bai Liu replied nonchalantly, meeting Mu Sicheng's gaze. "What do you want with me?"

"A player seeking another player—" Mu Sicheng looked up at the massive game login portal behind Bai Liu, his smile shadowed, eyes glinting red. "—is, of course, for a game. I won't let you cower in single-player mode. That's too dull, and the death rate is far too low."

Bai Liu nodded in agreement. "After discovering that multiplayer rewards are ten times those of single-player, I abandoned that impoverished zone."

Mu Sicheng was momentarily speechless, unable to comprehend Bai Liu's earnest search for a multiplayer game. "Wait, Bai Liu, aren't you afraid? Multiplayer is much more dangerous."

Beside Bai Liu, a giant projection screen displayed a mosaic of game covers and titles. Bai Liu propped his chin on his arm, scanning the options, barely sparing Mu Sicheng a glance. "Objectively, I do fear death, but compared to the terror of poverty, it's insignificant."

Mu Sicheng was utterly baffled by Bai Liu's logic, but the sense of frustration he felt was all too real. "You're not even nervous about entering this game? You're too calm."

Bai Liu's eyes flicked across the screen as he conversed. "Perhaps it's because I approach this game as a job."

"A job?" Mu Sicheng was incredulous. "You treat a horror game as work?"

"Yes. One week of work, five days off, and if I perform well, I can earn at least two hundred thousand. No boss to dock my pay, no need to deal with incomprehensible people or forced socializing. I just do what I'm good at—playing horror games."

Finally, Bai Liu turned to look at Mu Sicheng, shrugging. "Aside from the slightly higher mortality rate, it's ideal. I used to work overtime in the real world, never knowing when I might drop dead, so the risk is negligible. All in all, it's a high-paying dream job I could never find in reality. So, I find it hard to fear the game."

Mu Sicheng: "..."

Mu Sicheng felt as if he'd been thoroughly convinced by Bai Liu's twisted logic.

"May I ask," Bai Liu inquired, gesturing at the wall of games, "are there only these hundred horror games? Judging by the number of mini-TVs and players, that seems too few. Are there others?"

The forums mostly discussed specific players and games, rarely the underlying mechanics. Bai Liu, having found no explanatory posts, seized the chance to ask Mu Sicheng directly.

"There are far more than a hundred," Mu Sicheng replied, spreading his hands. "But the wall only displays a hundred at a time. Once all are full, the screen refreshes with a new set—sometimes with repeats."

Bai Liu stroked his chin. "So, the game has a question bank of unknown size. Each time, the system draws a hundred games for us to choose from. Sometimes you get repeats, sometimes all new. Is that right?"

"Exactly," Mu Sicheng confirmed.

"No wonder guilds exist," Bai Liu mused. "Early on, big guilds must have compiled walkthroughs for recurring games, sharing them internally to attract new talent. Strong players would blaze trails in new games to accumulate answers, earning more resources. But with live broadcasts, these answers are semi-public, so guilds now rely on their elite players."

"If I were running a guild, I'd have top players lead the weak through games, charging a fee—a cut for the leader, a tax for the guild. The guild would control the distribution of items, funneling most to the elite to keep them loyal. But this inevitably leads to exploitation, stifling the growth of low-level players, who can only survive as appendages to the strong."

"With a constant influx of newcomers, the exploited can in turn exploit the next layer, forming a chain of predation. No wonder so many low-level players resent me as a newcomer."

Mu Sicheng was speechless.

Bai Liu noticed his look. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"I'm just wondering..." Mu Sicheng's face was full of world-weariness. "Is your intelligence really only 89?"

It was absurd—Bai Liu had deduced the entire guild system from a single answer!

"Most newcomers join guilds for protection, even if it means giving up a third of their points. It's safer, but someone with your potential would be groomed for greater things. I was going to ask why you didn't join a guild, but now I don't need to."

"Because it's foolish," Bai Liu replied bluntly. "In a game where lives are at stake, there are no charities. Any help comes at a price."

"In the short term, a guild lowers your risk, but if you keep paying tribute, you'll be bled dry. When you're no longer profitable, they'll abandon you, and you'll have nothing left to survive on. Death is inevitable."

Mu Sicheng regarded Bai Liu with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "What did you do in the real world to understand guilds so well?"

"Most companies work the same way—luring employees with promises, then discarding them when they burn out, replacing them with younger workers to exploit. I was just a disposable wage slave, so I refuse to be exploited again."

Mu Sicheng: "..."

He could feel the deep resentment radiating from Bai Liu's words.

"So, have you chosen a game?" Mu Sicheng glanced at the screen. "Anything you like, or do you want to keep looking?"

"All the single-player games are full," Mu Sicheng pointed out, indicating the [FULL] symbol on the icons. "If you see that, it means no more players can join."

"For multiplayer, the cap varies. I've seen games with as few as four, or as many as fifty. By the way, 'Ghost Tower,' 'Doomsday City,' and 'Ghost Circuit' are all repeats. Want to try one? I can get you some walkthroughs, but not for free."

"No," Bai Liu refused without hesitation. "Even with guides, I'd be slower than veterans. My advantage lies in new games."

"That's true," Mu Sicheng conceded, chewing his lollipop. "You're braver than most. Most newcomers play it safe."

"My goal is profit, not survival," Bai Liu replied coolly. "I need to win, to be first, to earn enough points."

"You really are strange—" Mu Sicheng mused, giving up on understanding Bai Liu's logic. "But if you die, you can't spend your points."

"I don't earn points to spend, but to hoard. And—" Bai Liu's lips curled into a peculiar smile as he turned to Mu Sicheng, who was momentarily stunned. "Do you really think I'll die in the game?"

"I'm confident. Horror games are my forte. I design traps for others, but I've never died in someone else's game."

Mu Sicheng: "..."

What did this guy do in real life? Was he really not a criminal?

"Why does this game have no players?" Bai Liu tapped the icon of a burning train, enlarging it on his game manager. "'Blazing Last Train'?"

Of the hundred games, only this one was empty—strange and conspicuous.

[Game Instance: "Blazing Last Train"]

[Level: Tier 2 (Games with a player death rate between 50% and 80% are Tier 2)]

[Mode: Multiplayer (0/7)]

[Description: A thrilling collection-based multiplayer game. The last train, ablaze with fire, shattered glass, and charred bodies hanging from the handrails—many players have lingered here, never to return~]

Mu Sicheng frowned at the icon. "You want to play this?"

"What's wrong with it?" Bai Liu asked.

"It's an old game, but there's no walkthrough."

Bai Liu understood at once. If it had appeared several times, and the wall only refreshed when all games were full, then many players must have entered.

But no one had ever cleared it… Bai Liu turned to Mu Sicheng. "Did all the previous players die?"

"It's odd. If no one has cleared it…" Bai Liu's gaze swept over the icon, his finger tapping the [Death Rate] line. "If the death rate is between 50% and 80%, how is that determined? If everyone died, shouldn't it be 100%?"

Mu Sicheng shrugged. "It's just a classification. Every game has one."

"If the death rate is real, then any game with less than 100% should have survivors and data. But I've checked the VIP archive and asked veteran players—no one has ever cleared 'Blazing Last Train.'"

Bai Liu gave Mu Sicheng a meaningful look. "Just because you haven't found them doesn't mean they don't exist."

"If the death rate is 50–80%, then at least 20% survived—" Mu Sicheng protested. "That's not a small group. Someone would have posted, or their playthroughs would be on TV. There should be some trace."

"How many players do you think there are?" Bai Liu asked.

Mu Sicheng was taken aback. "I don't know, but a lot, surely."

"Have we left any trace in the real world?" Bai Liu asked quietly. "Can anyone outside see anything related to this game? Can our posts, in any form, persist or be remembered? For those who never entered, do [players] leave any trace? Of course not."

Mu Sicheng was stunned into silence.

Bai Liu pressed on, "So, if we [players] leave no trace in the real world, do we exist?"

"Of course we exist," Bai Liu answered himself. "Our traces have simply been erased. So, isn't it possible that the 20% who cleared 'Blazing Last Train' are the same? Their traces were erased by the game, or the system?"

Mu Sicheng's eyes widened in realization. "Their data was deleted!"

"Perhaps they themselves were 'deleted,'" Bai Liu said, gazing at the icon. "If they survived, why haven't they replayed the game?"

Mu Sicheng shivered, but protested, "But your theory assumes the death rate is real. What if it's just a virtual number…"

He trailed off.

Bai Liu looked up at him. "I think you've realized it too—death rate is not a virtual metric."

"Have you studied statistics?" Bai Liu asked. "There are two values that must be measured empirically: birth rate and death rate."

As he spoke, he casually tapped the "Blazing Last Train" icon twice, and, to Mu Sicheng's horror, began to enter the game.

Mu Sicheng panicked. "Why did you just go in?!"

As Bai Liu's figure faded, he answered thoughtfully, "I'm curious what data the system has gone to such lengths to erase. In my experience, the deeper something is hidden, the more profit there is to be found…"

[Game "Blazing Last Train" now has one player. Six more required to begin.]