Chapter 18: Setting Eighteen

Setting Eighteen: The Prisoner and the Prison (Part 9)

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

Shan Ziwei jumped out of bed and tore off the game device, hurling it onto the mattress. He panted heavily, staring at the Role-Play headset with an expression cycling through a spectacular range of emotions.

Remembering what had just happened in the game, he shook as if he couldn’t bear the weight, slowly crouching down on the bed and burying his face in his knees. His ears, visible beneath his black hair, were burning red—the color spoke less of anger and more of utter mortification.

Shan Ziwei had always known that Role-Play’s Spirit Collapse was shameless—he’d witnessed plenty of bloody examples. This particular sufferer had thought he’d built up some immunity. What he hadn’t expected was that when Spirit Collapse happened to him, the game developers’ lack of standards would far exceed anything he could handle.

When his Heart SP hit 0%, Shan Ziwei knew he was done. His immobile body and the abnormal blood-red tint of his vision told him clearly that he had entered Spirit Collapse.

At that moment, he was furious—he wanted nothing more than to tear Host apart along with himself. But in the Spirit Collapse state, he couldn’t control his body. All he could do was glare helplessly at Host.

Doesn’t Spirit Collapse make you go berserk?! Shouldn’t you turn into a little monster like the mirror image and Mr. White Rabbit and attack the Ultraman in front of you?!

While Shan Ziwei gritted his teeth, the system seemed to sense his rising fury and guided him toward Host—like a skill prompt directing him to perform the corresponding action. He felt like a vegetable—conscious, aware, but unable to move on his own, manipulated like a puppet by the system.

Host stood still, letting Shan Ziwei approach. The white-haired youth, eyes blood-red, stared unblinkingly at the black-haired youth, reaching out as if to grab his throat.

Then Shan Ziwei watched his own hand caress Host’s face, heard his own voice ask, “Do you like me?”

……What. The. Actual. FUCK!!!

Shan Ziwei felt like he’d been struck by lightning—but it didn’t end there. His fingers traced Host’s face of their own accord, his voice soft and coquettish.

“Will you like me?”

Mom! Mom!! Please believe that the pervert fawning over the enemy is NOT your son!!!

Shan Ziwei wanted to strangle that shameless “himself.” If he could move, he would’ve hacked off those paws that were still groping Host, and beaten that mouth that kept begging for affection. This particular sufferer even forgot about revenge, pleading with his eyes for Host to put him out of his misery.

Getting groped by a guy is disgusting, right?! So use Death Powder and send this disgusting guy out of the Chessboard!!! QAQ

In the sea of blood-red, Host’s expression was indistinct. He neither finished Shan Ziwei off nor walked away.

Shan Ziwei was despairing that Host must have run out of Death Powder when he felt “himself”—disappointed by Host’s lack of response—slowly lower his hand.

“If I give you my heart, will you like me then?”

Before Shan Ziwei could process the words, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. A pulsing, crimson object was cradled in his hands, offered to the black-haired youth like a sacrifice.

—Please like me.

The white-haired youth said nothing—because he had already died the moment his heart was torn out. The black-haired youth gazed silently at the empty shell, then bent down slightly and kissed the heart, as soft as its original owner.

“As you wish. I like you.”

—

Back in his personal space, Shan Ziwei sat frozen on the golden-red throne. The pain of his chest being torn open had been sharp, but it lasted only an instant—the moment he returned to his space, all pain vanished like an illusion. What lingered was mostly fury.

Seething, Shan Ziwei wanted nothing to do with the game. He logged out immediately, tore off the headset, and threw it onto the bed.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

What grudge did this game have against him?! Was Spirit Collapse even something a human being should experience?!

Shan Ziwei buried his face in his knees, breathing in and out to suppress the flame of shame and anger.

After the adrenaline faded, he relaxed and flopped back onto the bed, meeting the gaze of the double-faced logo on the Role-Play device. The expressionless face was the spitting image of Host.

After all that, Shan Ziwei’s feelings toward Host had grown even more complicated.

At first, it had been admiration. After being helped multiple times, he’d mentally considered Host a friend—which was why being killed by him had hurt so much. He’d rather have died at Dragon Emperor Unrivaled’s hands—death by Dragon Emperor would have brought only pure anger, but dying by Host’s hand brought betrayal along with the fury. And now…

Shan Ziwei tilted his head slightly, and as his viewing angle shifted, the logo’s double face changed expression—one half now wore a mournful grimace.

This dark history would be an eternal scar on this particular sufferer’s life—bar none.

Unable to bear revisiting the trauma, Shan Ziwei turned over, lay flat on the bed, and began to reflect on his first proper Chessboard.

His performance could only be described as “a near miss that ended in failure.” The final setting had clearly been designed to make them kill each other. Dragon Emperor Unrivaled’s target was the murderer (Host), Host’s target was the con artist (him), his target was the rapist (Rice Grain Darling), and by extension, Rice Grain Darling’s target should have been the robber (Dragon Emperor Unrivaled). Because he’d lied at the start and claimed to be the murderer, he’d ended up as the target of both Dragon Emperor and Host—as the real murderer, Host must have seen through his lie immediately.

Shan Ziwei couldn’t believe his luck was so bad that a casual lie had hit the jackpot. In hindsight, neither Dragon Emperor nor Host had done anything wrong—it was a game, and following the rules was perfectly reasonable. He was the one who’d taken it too personally.

He covered his eyes with the back of his hand and let out a bitter laugh. There was no helping it. As someone who’d lived in the 21st century with his condition, all he’d ever played were keyboard-based MMOs—staring at a monitor, clicking a mouse and keyboard, never touching anyone, never reading their expressions. Everything was spelled out in text, even emotions reduced to emoticons.

But in Role-Play, everything was too real. He knew it was a game, but the hyper-realistic scenes kept pulling his true self into them. That not only made it hard to play a different role—it also affected his grasp of the game itself.

For a moment, Shan Ziwei even doubted himself—could he actually play Role-Play well?

He crushed that thought the moment it arose. Dropping his hand, he sat up, his lips pressed into a stubborn line.

If you asked Shan Ziwei what his hobby and specialty were, his only answer was “online games.”

He loved online games because, in the 21st century, trapped at home by his condition, the internet was his only way to connect with others. And among all online spaces, games were where he could interact with people most deeply, make friends. He was good at games because with enough skill, you could become a top player and be admired no matter what you played.

Shan Ziwei craved friends, so he’d worked hard to hone his skills. In other words, he’d made online games his “hobby” and “specialty” for the sake of making friends. In the end, it had become a source of pride and persistence.

He gently picked up the Role-Play device and held it before his eyes, staring into the logo’s double face—half joy, half anger, half sorrow, half fear.

As long as it was an online game, he could master it!

With renewed determination, Shan Ziwei got up and had dinner. Even as he lay in bed preparing to sleep, he was still planning for the future.

Maybe, he thought, he could use his old method.

After breakfast the next day, Shan Ziwei called in a jellyfish node to apply for a loan from the Federal Bank. Because his credit rating was low, the amount he could borrow was very small. He looked at his shopping list: 1 nutrition pod ×1, computer ×1, sensory equipment ×1, books on virtual technology and modern computing (to be determined)…

The nutrition pod and computer were the big-ticket items. He calculated: if he wanted to buy everything on the list, even with the loan, he’d have to wait until next month’s paycheck.

Penniless, Shan Ziwei agonized for a moment, then reluctantly postponed buying the computer and sensory equipment. To master an online game, you had to guarantee playtime—so the nutrition pod was his priority. Role-Play’s online limit was 12 hours, and unlike other VR games that were dreamlike entertainment during sleep, Role-Play’s 12 hours were fully conscious, solid training. There was also that ridiculous “must wait 8 hours after logging out before re-entering” restriction—it was maddening: continuous gaming or getting up to eat—that was the question. So companies had introduced nutrition pods: you just lay inside, and when the time came, it would automatically infuse nutrients.

After ordering the nutrition pod, Shan Ziwei’s money shrank by four-fifths. He opened a book site and started browsing books on modern computing. Shan Ziwei had always been a programmer. When he was fifteen, forced to drop out and stay home because of his condition, he’d picked up Programming Language Design by chance—and from then on, he was destined for this path. When God closes a door, He opens a window—this particular sufferer had an unusual sensitivity to programming. Online games were his hobby, but programming sustained his entire life.

His plan was simple: the computer would have to wait until next month. This month, he’d catch up on two hundred years of knowledge. He’d taught himself before—he could definitely learn this era’s computer knowledge, even if only at a basic level. He wanted to build a model like he used to, analyze Role-Play’s game data, and formulate optimal strategies. He’d done it before, until…

His thoughts broke off for a moment. When he came back to himself, he couldn’t quite remember what he’d been thinking. Suddenly, a book title caught his eye. His finger paused as he scrolled through the light screen, then gently tapped on the title.

The Miracle of Creation: Gaia

Role-Play’s server was the Central Computer. Understanding how the Central Computer operated would definitely help him. With that thought, he decisively tapped the screen and added the book to his cart.

“Ding—”

The speed of information in the 23rd century was astonishing—he’d barely finished buying the books when the nutrition pod arrived. While the technician installed it, this particular sufferer lurked in the kitchen, drawing up a schedule: 12 hours of gaming, 8 hours of sleep, 3 hours of study, 1 hour of exercise. He was only missing a headband with “STRIVE” written on it.

“Thank you for choosing our products! We hope to serve you again~”

“You have a delivery—please sign for it~”

Sweating profusely, Shan Ziwei saw off the technician who’d tried to shake his hand enthusiastically, then turned to find his books had arrived—thankfully delivered by a robotic courier. He carried the books into his bedroom and let out a breath at his newly renovated room.

Half the preparation was done. Now it was time to enter the game.

[Quantum terminal connected. Beginning data retrieval.]

[Welcome to “Role-Play.”]

Logging in, Shan Ziwei opened his eyes to see Little Gaia, looking lonely as it floated speech bubbles.

[G]

[Fanzi]

[GFanzi?]

[GFanzi]

…

As if afraid the person in the speech bubbles would escape, the silver-haired black-robed doll pounced on each bubble it made. The last one floated right to Shan Ziwei’s feet—Little Gaia flopped onto it and popped it, conveniently hugging his calf in the process.

#Every time I log in, my Toy Box is being cute#

Out of habit, Shan Ziwei picked up Little Gaia and first asked for the settlement report from the last Chessboard.

“Give me the settlement report.”

Little Gaia obediently spat out the report—another piece of parchment covered in writing on both sides.

Shan Ziwei unrolled it. In that instant, like opening a bag full of fireflies, countless blue light particles spilled from the parchment and seeped into his body.

[Congratulations on reaching Level 2!] The long-unheard system voice offered its congratulations. [Your Mental Power has increased to 120.]

Little Gaia clapped its hands, its mask beaming with joy—though muffled by its long sleeves, the applause still came through.

Shan Ziwei couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you.”

His earlier gloom gradually faded. He set Little Gaia on his shoulder and read the settlement report together with it.

[Settlement Report
Chessboard: Wuwang Prison
Clear Rating: D
Experience Gained: 105/250
Chessboard Clear Reward: Pawn Piece ×3]

…A “D” rating—enough to make anyone weep. Shan Ziwei decided it was better not to know what Role-Play’s lowest rating was, since he hadn’t even cleared it. He’d gained quite a bit of experience, though—running the Chessboard with 100% pain sensitivity and getting his heart torn out at the end had to count for something!

He unconsciously touched his chest. Honestly, if not for that level-up, he would’ve seriously considered lowering his pain sensitivity. Even though the pain had lasted only a moment, it was the body’s most vital organ—the experience was unforgettable.

Thinking of the heart-ripping brought back the dark history. This particular sufferer took a deep breath to calm his racing blood.

The game was huge—he probably wouldn’t run into Host again… No, let’s say he hoped not to!

Shan Ziwei grumbled and flipped the parchment over. As before, the back was written in elegant calligraphy.

[Prisons are places for guarding prisoners.

They deprive prisoners of personal freedom, isolate them from society, and prevent them from escaping.

I think I finally understand what you mean.

I only want you to stay with me. I don’t want you to be in contact with others. I don’t want you to escape.

So that’s why you said I was keeping you locked up like a prisoner in a prison?

I understand now.

I will build the finest prison in the world for you right away.

Please don’t be angry with me anymore.]

Two people completely talking past each other—ridiculous and absurd. Yet Shan Ziwei couldn’t laugh. He crumpled the parchment, his chest feeling stifled and nauseous, like a heavy cloud of foul air trapped inside.

Even though the words weren’t meant for him, they echoed in his head like a brainwashing chant, buzzing and rattling until Shan Ziwei couldn’t help covering his ears. But the moment his hands pressed against them, all those harsh, discordant noises blurred into a single hoarse whisper:

—I will watch you. Always watch you.

Shan Ziwei shot to his feet, panicked, looking around wildly for the speaker. All he saw was his personal space, shaped like a birdcage—the black walls surrounding him on all sides, just like the parchment described, holding him trapped.

That association made his panic grow. He couldn’t stay another second. Almost fleeing, he sprinted toward the only open floor-to-ceiling window—the one at 2 o’clock—and plunged into the light screen.

[This Chessboard is in Adventure Mode. Enter?]

“Yes!”

Bright light washed over Shan Ziwei’s body, then faded away like rippling water. He realized it wasn’t just his vision shaking—his whole body was. The faint smell of oil and rubber filled his nostrils. He braced himself against the walls to keep from being thrown around, listening to the rumbling noise as he confirmed his current location.

He was… in a vehicle?