Chapter 119: Artificial Souls - Part 46 |
August 15th, the sixth day since returning to the First World.
The experiences in the Second World were filled with enough peril and exhaustion.
In comparison, although the First World still harbored some dangers, overall it was much calmer. At least Kui Xin no longer had to live constantly on edge, fearing for her life.
Su Rong’s health hadn’t fully recovered from her severe illness, leaving her weak and fatigued. Concerned about her well-being, her family arranged for additional days off, so Kui Xin didn’t tutor her during this period.
These leisurely days were rare opportunities. Kui Xin diligently followed her daily training routine, occasionally browsing forums and news updates to keep track of developments across various fronts. She paid particular attention to the activities of secret cult members.
Some players, after transitioning to the Second World, became members of the secret cult. Fang Zhi was one such example, and the black-robed figure Kui Xin killed on the train seemed to be another.
The black-robed figure’s words just before his death had caught her attention: “I’m not alone; God is watching you.”
Initially, Kui Xin assumed he made such a threatening statement because he had accomplices on the train. However, she later discovered that wasn’t the case—the attacker was only him throughout the incident. Thus, the black-robed figure’s final words might have meant: “Many other Variant Blood individuals have their eyes on you; they will come for you, and there’s no escape.”
Kui Xin couldn’t help but associate these words with Fang Zhi.
Currently, Kui Xin’s primary threats in the First World stem from Variant Blood individuals and the “God” they believed in.
To avoid sudden confrontations with Variant Blood beings, Kui Xin deliberately connected herself to the city’s surveillance system. She didn’t yet have the capability to analyze every camera feed in real-time, so she focused on monitoring areas near her own home, Su Rong’s residence, and He Kangshi’s dwelling.
Additionally, Kui Xin obtained a copy of resident information, as well as a facial recognition program. After much effort, she entered the resident data into the program. This way, if individuals from outside provinces or cities appeared in the closely monitored zones who were not listed in the database, Kui Xin would be alerted.
Because of her smartphone’s limited data storage capacity, it couldn’t handle such vast amounts of information processing. Consequently, she had no choice but to visit a computer market, purchase components, and assemble a high-performance PC tailored to her needs. She then integrated the meticulously crafted data into the system and connected the alert mechanism to her phone.
Kui Xin felt like a skilled opportunist, exploiting every available resource.
She wasn’t proficient in writing facial recognition programs, so instead, she infiltrated the systems of specialists and directly copied their existing identification codes. With her own capabilities limited in scope, leveraging the pre-existing surveillance network was an excellent option.
One must learn to effectively utilize the tools at hand.
Kui Xin had other tasks to attend to and couldn’t devote all her energy solely to managing data and guarding against Variant Blood individuals. By utilizing the computer, she could save time and focus, only needing to intervene when automatic alerts were triggered.
Over the past few days, He Kangshi’s contacts with Kui Xin decreased as he became busy making money.
With no easy means to venture outside or appear online, He Kangshi lost his primary income sources. Forced by circumstances, he created a secondary account for streaming, focusing on voice commentary without showing his face while playing games.
While setting this up, he specifically consulted Kui Xin to help him create encryption, ensuring that his identity would not be exposed through doxxing.
“I bought a vocal modulator online, and it has already arrived,” He Kangshi said. “I’ll go live every night. Boss, you can tune in too.”
At Kui Xin’s request, he changed his nickname for her; instead of calling her “the mighty one,” he now referred to her as “Boss.”
In the evening, with nothing else occupying her time, Kui Xin casually clicked into He Kangshi’s livestream. A peculiar expression involuntarily appeared on her face.
The vocal modulator he purchased transformed his voice into a mature female tone. The chat was filled with compliments like, “Sis, your voice sounds amazing! That clapback was so satisfying; give us some more!”
Upon further inspection, she noticed He Kangshi’s new account bio: “Making money—nothing embarrassing about that!”
Impressive. This guy truly understood the code to garner internet traffic.
August 15th, evening.
After photographing the mirage in the sky, Kui Xin had dinner, took a short break, completed a few exercise sets, and then, as usual, conducted an additional check of the city surveillance cameras.
Tonight would be crucial, as past midnight, it would become August 16th.
The official announcement stated that at midnight on August 16th, the list of Crimson Earth’s second batch of closed beta players would be promptly released.
For many people, this night was destined to be sleepless.
Those who had not yet entered the game eagerly anticipated being selected, while players who had already experienced it awaited the influx of one hundred thousand newcomers to the forum, ready to educate them immediately upon arrival.
Ten minutes before midnight, Kui Xin stopped all her tasks, sat on her bed, and began refreshing the forum page.
The discussions among players on the forum were fervent.
“Will the newbies entering the forum think we’re all engaged in some weird role-playing? With screens full of incomprehensible terms and strange discussion threads, they’ll likely be scared by how deeply everyone seems invested.”
“As soon as these hundred thousand newcomers arrive, there’s no hope of hiding the secret about crossing over. Someone will undoubtedly leak information from the forum; just thinking about it gives me a headache.”
“I suspect this batch of players will have more stubborn individuals and rebels. After all, despite our strong warnings against playing the game, they insisted on joining. It won’t be our fault then…”
Kui Xin silently scrolled through posts, calmly browsing one after another.
The time on her phone jumped to midnight. As the digits of the clock at the top turned all zeros, Kui Xin swiftly refreshed the page.
Initially, the forum’s screen went blank before subtly transforming.
A navigation bar appeared near the top, displaying sections labeled as First Sector, Second Sector, and Personal Section.
Kui Xin was taken aback.
With another refresh, numerous threads marked with “New” popped up.
“The forum has been divided into sectors! Holy shit! The initial testers belong to the first sector, so the upcoming second batch of closed beta players should be assigned to the second sector.”
“There’s even a personal section next to it?! What is its purpose? Does the Personal Section pertain specifically to individual players?”
“I can’t access the Personal Section… However, I can click into the second sector, which is currently empty with no posts. Maybe the registration for the second wave of beta players isn’t complete yet; let’s wait.”
“What’s up with the Personal Section??”
Cannot access the Personal Section…?
Kui Xin hesitated for a moment before tapping on the Personal Section button. The page loaded, and a pop-up window appeared: “Detected that the player possesses the forum title [Predator], meeting the conditions to open the Personal Section. Upon opening the Personal Section, you will become its sole moderator, possessing rights such as deleting posts, pinning threads, banning users, and setting section rules. You can invite other players to enter this section for discussion and interaction; players without an invitation cannot access it. Do you wish to proceed?”
Kui Xin was greatly surprised, never expecting that the seemingly useless title reward she obtained by killing Fang Zhi would have such a true purpose—only players with specific titles could unlock their personal sections.
Undoubtedly, the introduction of personal sections would accelerate the division of players into factions, leading them to form tighter-knit, smaller groups.
Without further hesitation, she immediately clicked confirm.
“Please set the name for your personal section.”
Kui Xin pondered for a few seconds, then typed in the blank space: “Black Snake.”
“The Personal Section [Black Snake] has been opened.”
The forum page is automatically refreshed.
The navigation bar now shows First Sector, Second Sector, and Black Snake side by side.
The words “Black Snake” stood out conspicuously in the navigation bar, seeming highly incongruous.
The moment these two words popped up, players in the first sector were utterly dumbfounded.
“Personal Section [Black Snake], what’s with this nonsense? It suddenly changed just now!”
“What is ‘Black Snake’? Is this someone’s nickname? I understand it to be a player named Black Snake opening their personal forum, right?”
Kui Xin’s phone beeped incessantly; He Kangshi, who had also stayed awake, was frantically sending her messages.
He Kangshi: “Boss!! Is that ‘Black Snake’ in the Personal Section you?”
Kui Xin: “Yes.”
He Kangshi: “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”
He Kangshi: “Impressive!!! Type ‘impressive’ on the public screen!”
The corner of Kui Xin’s mouth twitched.
Overwhelmed with excitement, He Kangshi seemed almost delirious. “Boss, I feel like I’ve aligned myself with the right person. It’s akin to joining a rebellion led by someone, only to discover halfway through that they’re truly destined for greatness! The one I’m following is bound to become emperor!”
Kui Xin remained silent…
This guy was having a full-blown Chuunibyou moment.
“Being the first player to unlock a personal section on the forum—do you realize what this means? It’s one-in-a-thousand, globally exclusive, making you the ultimate power gamer of ‘Crimson Earth’!” He Kangshi spewed continuous praise without repeating any phrases: “Imagine, whenever new players enter the game from now on and click onto the forum page, the first thing they’ll see is your alias, Boss! The name Black Snake is destined to be etched into everyone’s memory! Isn’t that sheer prestige?”
Kui Xin rested her forehead on her hand and closed the chat window, ignoring him further.
She clicked into her personal section, which was still entirely blank at the moment. After some thought, she posted a new thread containing only a single punctuation mark.
The poster’s nickname is displayed in bold font, showing as “Predator·233” with her title prefix included.
Kui Xin tapped on her nickname and discovered that the ‘Predator’ title could be hidden. She promptly concealed the prefix, leaving only the nickname “233,” then deleted the new thread consisting solely of punctuation marks.
After studying the functions of her personal section for a while, she found the invitation button. In the invite field, she entered He Kangshi’s username, “Mai-chan Is Me,” and pulled him into her section. Then, through her phone, she instructed him, “Without my permission, do not post indiscriminately.”
Having completed this task, Kui Xin returned to the forum’s main page and clicked into the second section to take a look.
Some quick-handed beta players had already registered, resulting in only single-digit posts so far. One thread’s title read: “Can’t Batch 2 Beta Players access the first section? Also, I am unable to enter the section called [Black Snake]. Does anyone know what’s going on?”
Feeling puzzled, Kui Xin returned to the first section and noticed that a veteran player had commented, “I’ve tried it out; it seems like the initial closed beta players can freely access the second section and post there, but players from the second batch cannot enter the first section.”
Kui Xin contemplated this.
The first batch of closed beta players had priority; they could effortlessly access lower-tier sections, while the privileges for the second batch were restricted.
In other words, this forum exhibited a hierarchical structure.