Free Web NovelAs a member of the Kings Guild, Wang Shun was mainly responsible for two tasks, thanks to his personal skill in gathering information. The first was collecting clearance data for various games. The second was searching for promising newcomers the guild might recruit.
Wang Shun had originally planned to report Bai Liu’s data, but when he saw the Kings Guild’s internal announcement about recruiting new [Puppet Players] for [Puppet Master], he hesitated.
If he reported Bai Liu now, Bai Liu’s outstanding intelligence and mental values would very likely catch [Puppet Master]’s attention. Once that happened, it would be all too easy for Bai Liu to be forcibly selected as a [Puppet Player].
For an ordinary player, being chosen as a [Puppet Player] might seem like a profitable arrangement. But for a newcomer with development potential as high as S-grade, becoming someone’s puppet would be a genuine waste.
Moreover, while conducting statistical analysis on player data, Wang Shun had discovered something strange: after becoming [Puppet Players] under [Puppet Master], those players’ panels either stopped improving entirely or grew at an extremely slow rate.
By contrast, [Puppet Master]’s intelligence stat had risen all the way from a mere 71 points to 93, and his other panel attributes were also increasing at a frightening pace.
This kind of data was only known to internal analysts like Wang Shun within the Kings Guild. He had long suspected that [Puppet Master]’s personal skill was not merely [Player Manipulation], but also [Potential Absorption]. However, most players currently only knew his skill as [Player Manipulation].
Many high-potential players Wang Shun had once evaluated eventually fell into [Puppet Master]’s hands. They became puppets, gradually lost their brilliance, and were then either abandoned by [Puppet Master] or simply died in a game.
They had once been pieces of jade that could shine with a little polishing. In the end, they became nothing but mud scraped clean, wrung dry, and crushed.
Wang Shun found it a pity, but he also had no choice but to accept this helpless reality.
This game was a place where the weak were prey for the strong. Once low-level players had been squeezed of their last bit of value, they could be discarded at will by guilds or powerful players.
Here, the least valuable thing was not a clearance item sold for one point.
It was human life.
That was why joining a guild was not necessarily the best choice for a player as eye-catching as Bai Liu. It made it far too easy to be restricted by guild rules and exploited by higher-ranked players. Back then, Mu Shicheng had seen through this as well, which was why he had stubbornly refused to join the Kings Guild.
Coincidentally, the person who had taken an interest in Mu Shicheng back then had also been [Puppet Master].
Mu Shicheng had directly stated that he would never become anyone’s puppet and would never allow anyone to control him, flatly refusing [Puppet Master]’s invitation.
After that, Mu Shicheng had suffered quite a bit at [Puppet Master]’s hands. It was only after he grew stronger and gradually climbed to around 300th place on the Comprehensive Points Leaderboard that [Puppet Master] finally let him go.
But a newcomer like Bai Liu, whose current ranking hovered somewhere around 3,000 yet who possessed immense potential, would not be so easily released by [Puppet Master].
Although Wang Shun, out of personal bias, did not submit Bai Liu’s information to the Kings Guild, Bai Liu’s conspicuous performance and panel data still attracted [Puppet Master]’s attention.
[Puppet Master] had been stuck at an [Intelligence Value of 93] for a very, very long time. He needed a high-intelligence player to serve as “nutrients” for the further development of his intelligence stat.
Was there any better nutrient than Bai Liu, a newcomer who had only played one single-player game?
There was not.
Wang Shun wanted to warn Bai Liu to be careful of [Puppet Master], while [Puppet Master]’s people were also searching for Bai Liu.
However, with Bai Liu currently sporting rainbow-colored bird’s-nest hair and black lipstick, even Lu Yizhan, who had known him for over ten years, might not recognize him if Bai Liu stood right in front of him.
To Wang Shun’s surprise, someone did recognize him through that bizarre appearance.
Mu Shicheng crossed his arms and stared at Bai Liu, who was standing at the game entrance, with an indescribable expression.
“...Bai Liu, what did the real world do to you? How did you turn into this neither-human-nor-beast mess in just a few days?”
“You recognize me?” Bai Liu was genuinely a little surprised.
He had walked around the lobby several times looking like this, and not a single person had recognized him. Yet Mu Shicheng had identified him at a glance.
Mu Shicheng smiled with a hint of smugness, revealing a small tiger tooth on one side. “Didn’t expect that, did you, Bai Liu? No matter how you disguise yourself, I can recognize you. I said I’d make you return everything you stole from me last time. You can’t run. I’ll find you.”
“If you’re not recognizing people by appearance...” Bai Liu ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) glanced at the strange hip-hop monkey on Mu Shicheng’s hat. “Then you recognized me by scent, didn’t you? Is your skill related to that monkey? Enhanced senses?”
Mu Shicheng’s smile deepened. “Wrong guess. My personal skill isn’t enhanced senses. But I did recognize you by scent. You have a very strong smell of copper on you—or rather, the smell of money.”
“Then I must smell quite nice.” Bai Liu neither confirmed nor denied it. He looked at Mu Shicheng calmly. “What do you want from me?”
“One player looking for another player—”
Mu Shicheng raised his head and looked at the enormous game entrance behind Bai Liu. The smile on his face turned obscure, and a red light flickered in his eyes.
“—is naturally looking to play a game. I won’t let you hide in single-player games. That would be too boring, and the death rate is too low.”
Bai Liu nodded in agreement. “After I discovered that the point rewards for multiplayer games are ten times higher than those for single-player games, I gave up on that poor district.”
“...”
All the words Mu Shicheng had prepared to intimidate Bai Liu got stuck in his throat.
He stared at Bai Liu, who was now seriously filtering through the multiplayer games he wanted to enter, and asked in despair, “No, Bai Liu. Multiplayer games make it very easy to die. Aren’t you afraid?”
Beside the entrance behind Bai Liu was a giant projection screen, randomly displaying various game covers and titles.
Bai Liu propped his chin on one hand as he selected a game, his eyes rapidly scanning the options without giving Mu Shicheng another glance.
“Objectively speaking, I do fear death,” he said indifferently. “But compared to my fear of poverty, it isn’t worth mentioning.”
Mu Shicheng completely failed to understand Bai Liu’s logic, but the frustration Bai Liu gave him was very real.
“No, aren’t you nervous about entering this game at all? Aren’t you a little too calm?”
Bai Liu skimmed the games on the screen ten lines at a time while multitasking through his conversation with Mu Shicheng.
“The reason I’m calm and not afraid might be because I approach this game with the mindset of coming to work.”
“Coming to work?” Mu Shicheng was utterly speechless. “You come to a horror game to work?”
“Yes. I work once a week and get five days off. If I perform well once, I can earn at least 200,000. There are no bosses deducting my bonuses or salary, and throughout the entire process, I don’t have to deal with incomprehensible humans, play nice with them, or force myself to communicate. I only need to do what I’m good at—playing horror games.”
Bai Liu finally deigned to turn and glance at Mu Shicheng. He shrugged.
“Aside from the slightly higher death rate—but when I worked in the real world, I often stayed up late, so I might have dropped dead at any moment anyway. Therefore, the high death rate can be disregarded. To summarize, for me, this is an ideal high-income job. I could never find a job like this in the real world, so it’s hard for me to develop much fear toward the game.”
Mu Shicheng: “...”
Mu Shicheng felt like he had actually been damn well convinced by Bai Liu.
“Can I ask a question?” Bai Liu pointed at the various games on the giant wall. “Are there only these one hundred types of horror games on the screen? Judging by the number of mini-TVs and players in the game, one hundred types seems too few. I want to know whether there are more.”
Forum discussions usually focused on specific players and specific games; there was not much discussion of the game’s basic mechanisms. Bai Liu had browsed for a while without finding any relevant introductory posts.
Now that Mu Shicheng had come to him on his own, he was the perfect person to ask.
“There are far more horror games than that. We don’t know exactly how many there are.” Mu Shicheng spread his hands. “This wall just projects one hundred games at a time. Once all one hundred games are full of players, the screen refreshes and displays a new batch of games. Sometimes there are repeats from the previous batch.”
Bai Liu rubbed his chin. “In other words, it’s equivalent to the game having a total question bank. We players don’t know exactly how many games are in that bank.”
“Each time, the system randomly—or perhaps not randomly—selects one hundred game ‘exam questions’ from that bank and places them on the screen for us players to choose from. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you encounter a repeated question. Sometimes, they may all be new questions. Is that what you mean?”
“Exactly,” Mu Shicheng said.
“Hmm. In that case, no wonder there are guilds in this game.”
Bai Liu thought for a moment. “The early large guilds in the game must have summarized the ‘answers’ to the ‘repeated questions’ that appeared—that is, how to clear those games quickly and safely—and then used that information as internal resources to recruit capable newcomers.”
“Capable players or high-potential players could pioneer new games, accumulate new ‘answers,’ and receive more resources from the guild in return. But since [Live Streams] exist, the ‘answers’ to games are public to a certain extent. That system couldn’t last forever. Modern guilds probably no longer rely on game ‘answers’ as their main foundation. They should have reached the stage of relying on the advanced players cultivated within the guild.”
“If I were developing a guild, I would have high-level players lead low-level players through games. But the low-level players would have to pay a certain number of points to the high-level players as compensation, and another portion to the guild as tax.”
“At the same time, the items obtained by low-level players would be allocated by the guild, with most of them flowing into the pockets of high-level players to keep them attached to the guild.”
Bai Liu sighed. “But this inevitably leads to high-level players exploiting low-level players and suppressing their development. Many low-level players can only survive as appendages of high-level players because they lack items and personal skills.”
“But as long as newcomers continue entering the guild, exploited low-level players can then exploit those newcomers. A stable guild can only exist by forming a chain of exploitation, layer by layer. Tsk. Newcomers are just bottom-tier leeks waiting to be harvested. No wonder so many low-level players in this game are so hostile toward a newcomer like me.”
Bai Liu had seen the forum tear him apart until it became a complete mess, but he had never cared much. Now, he understood it a little better.
Mu Shicheng was stunned. “...”
Everything Bai Liu had said was correct. It almost perfectly matched the current state of the guilds Mu Shicheng knew.
Bai Liu looked at Mu Shicheng strangely. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m thinking...” Mu Shicheng looked exhausted. “Is your intelligence value really only 89?”
This was outrageous.
How the hell had this guy deduced all that?
He had merely answered a question about the types of games, and Bai Liu had already inferred the entire guild system of the game.
“Many newcomers join guilds to survive, because high-level players in the guild really will protect them during clears. Although they have to hand over one-third of the points they earn, it’s definitely safer and less likely to result in death. But a high-potential newcomer like you would probably be cultivated directly.”
Mu Shicheng tore open a lollipop and put it gloomily into his mouth. “I was just about to ask why you haven’t joined a guild. Now I feel like there’s no need to ask.”
“Because joining a guild is very stupid,” Bai Liu said bluntly. “In a game that deals in human lives, there won’t be any charitable organizations. If someone helps you, it must be profitable for them.”
“In the short term, a guild’s help lowers your death rate. But in a game where personal performance is required to attract viewers, continuously and timidly paying large amounts of points to a guild is self-destruction. Once the guild can no longer squeeze profit out of you, they will undoubtedly abandon you. By then, after surrendering most of your points and items, you’ll have no capital left to survive independently. Death will be inevitable.”
Mu Shicheng looked at Bai Liu with both surprise and interest. “What exactly did you do in the real world? Why are you so clear about how... guild organizations operate?”
Indeed, for many useless low-level players, high-level players rarely continued bringing them along in the later stages.
“Most companies in the world operate like this. They use empty promises and so-called internal resources to attract employees, then fire those employees once their productivity drops from staying up late and replace them with younger workers to exploit.”
Bai Liu was expressionless. “In the real world, I was simply a low-level corporate slave who got fired after being exploited. So entering a game only to join a guild and be exploited again is absolutely impossible.”
Mu Shicheng: “...”
This guy radiated such intense resentment whenever he talked about being a corporate slave in the real world.
“So have you decided which game to enter?” Mu Shicheng looked at the screen. “Is there any game up there you like? Or do you want to keep looking?”
“The login limit for single-player games is one hundred, and all the single-player games on this screen are already full.”
Mu Shicheng pointed at the [FULL] symbol in the lower right corner of a game icon, explaining while mumbling around his lollipop, “See that? If a game icon has that [FULL] mark, it means the game is already at capacity and no more players can enter.”
“As for multiplayer games, the login limit varies from game to game. I’ve played games with only four people and others with fifty. It depends on the specific instance. By the way, ‘Haunted House,’ ‘Doomsday City,’ and ‘Ghost Power’ over there are all old games that have appeared before.”
Mu Shicheng casually pointed at a few games. “Do you want to play those? I can help you find clearance data for them, though not for free.”
“No.” Bai Liu refused without hesitation. “Even with data, I would definitely react more slowly in an old game than guild players who have played it many times. It would be easy for them to take the initiative. My advantage can only be used in new games.”
“That’s true.” Mu Shicheng bit down on his lollipop. “You certainly have an adventurous spirit. Most newcomers choose old games for stability.”
“My goal is to earn money, not merely survive,” Bai Liu said calmly. “I need to win first place in order to get enough points.” ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com
“You really are strange...”
Mu Shicheng thought for a moment, gave up trying to understand Bai Liu’s train of thought, and wrinkled his nose in confusion.
“If you earn all those points and then die in the game, you’ll have nowhere to spend them.”
Bai Liu answered naturally, “I don’t earn points to spend them. I earn them to hoard them. And—”
He suddenly revealed a very strange smile.
Bai Liu turned to look at Mu Shicheng. For a moment, Mu Shicheng was stunned by that sudden smile.
“Do you think I’ll die in the game?”
“I still have some confidence. Playing horror games is what I’m best at. I may not die that easily.” Bai Liu smiled. “I’m quite good at designing levels inside games to make other players die, but I’ve never died in a game designed by someone else.”
Mu Shicheng: “...”
What the hell did this guy do in real life?
Was he really not some kind of criminal?
“Why are there no players logged into this game?”
Bai Liu tapped a game icon on the screen showing a burning train. The icon enlarged and dropped into the game manager in front of Bai Liu’s chest. Bai Liu clicked on it to view the detailed game information.
“‘The Last Train to Blast Off’?”
Among the hundred games on the screen, nearly all of them were almost full, yet this one was completely empty. It stood out in a very strange and conspicuous way.
[Game Instance Name: “The Last Train to Blast Off”]
[Level: Level 2. Games with a player death rate greater than 50% and less than 80% are Level 2 games.]
[Mode: Multiplayer Mode. 0/7 players.]
[General Description: This is an exciting collection-oriented multiplayer game. The last train burning in fierce flames, scattered glass shards, and charred corpses hanging from the handrails have made many players linger here forever~]
Mu Shicheng frowned the moment he saw the icon. “You want to play this one?”
“What’s wrong with this game?” Bai Liu asked.
Mu Shicheng paused. “Actually, this is also an old game. It has appeared on the game screen several times before, but so far, there’s no clearance data for it.”
Bai Liu understood immediately.
It had appeared several times, and according to the refresh mechanism, all games had to be filled before the screen refreshed. That meant several batches of players must have entered it.
But there was not a single clearance record.
Bai Liu glanced sideways at Mu Shicheng. “Everyone who entered before died?”
“It’s strange. If no players cleared it...” Bai Liu’s gaze swept across the icon for “The Last Train to Blast Off.” His finger tapped twice against the [Death Rate] line. “Then how was its death rate measured as greater than 50% and less than 80%? Based on total party-wipe data, its death rate should be 100%.”
Mu Shicheng stuck his hands into his pockets and dismissed Bai Liu’s point. “It’s just a game grading system. Almost all games have that kind of evaluation.”
“If your theory is correct and the death rate is an actual measurement, then any game with a death rate that isn’t 100% should have surviving players and clearance data. But I’ve watched the VIP library videos and asked a lot of veteran Great Gods. There really hasn’t been anyone found who cleared ‘The Last Train to Blast Off.’ I think there simply aren’t any clearance players.”
Bai Liu suddenly gave Mu Shicheng a meaningful look.
“Just because you haven’t found them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“The death rate of ‘The Last Train to Blast Off’ is between 50% and 80%. According to what you said, if people really cleared it, then at least 20% of the players must have truly existed—” freёweɓnovel.com
Mu Shicheng argued, unconvinced. “For that many players to have appeared on mini-TVs and successfully cleared the game, they would have posted on the forum, or their mini-TVs or videos would have been seen by someone. It’s impossible for there to be no trace at all, right?”
“How many players do you think exist in this game?” Bai Liu turned his head and looked directly at Mu Shicheng.
Mu Shicheng was stunned by the question. “I don’t know, but there should be a lot.”
“In our real lives, does this not-so-small group of players leave any trace of existence?”
Bai Liu asked at an unhurried pace, “Can anything related to us or this game be seen by people in the real world? Can the remarks we post about this game continue to exist in any form, as traces, or be remembered by anyone? For people who haven’t entered the game, do ‘players’ leave any trace of existence?”
“Of course not.”
Mu Shicheng was completely stunned by Bai Liu’s questions.
Bai Liu calmly asked the final question.
“Alright, then back to the first question. We ‘players’ in this game leave no trace of existence in the real world. So, do you think we exist?”
“We certainly exist,” Bai Liu answered himself quickly. “It’s just that the traces of our existence have been erased. So is it possible that the 20% of players who cleared ‘The Last Train to Blast Off’ are the same? Their traces of existence were erased by the game or the system.”
It was like sudden enlightenment for Mu Shicheng.
“Their clearance data and player data were all deleted!”
“It’s very likely that they themselves were also ‘deleted.’” Bai Liu looked at the icon for “The Last Train to Blast Off.” “Those players who cleared it are likely dead. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have failed to return and play the game a second time.”
Mu Shicheng got goosebumps from Bai Liu’s words, but he was still somewhat unwilling to accept it.
“But everything you said is based on the premise that the [Game Death Rate] is an actual measurement. What if the [Player Death Rate] is a simulated measurement...”
Mu Shicheng froze halfway through speaking.
Bai Liu looked at him. “I believe you’ve realized it now. Death rate is a type of data that cannot be simulated.”
“Have you studied statistics?” Bai Liu asked Mu Shicheng. “In statistics, there are two values that absolutely require actual measurement. One is birth rate, and the other is death rate.”
As he spoke, he casually tapped the icon for “The Last Train to Blast Off” on his game panel twice.
Under Mu Shicheng’s horrified gaze and shout, Bai Liu slowly entered the game.
Mu Shicheng broke down. “Why did you suddenly go in?!”
Bai Liu’s figure gradually faded in front of Mu Shicheng.
After thinking for a moment, he answered Mu Shicheng’s question.
“I’m curious about exactly what player data from ‘The Last Train to Blast Off’ the system went out of its way to delete. Experience tells me that the deeper something is hidden by those above, the more profitable it is...”
[Game “The Last Train to Blast Off” has gathered one player. Six more players are needed to begin.]
