Chapter 22: Setting Twenty-Two

Setting Twenty-Two: Monster Hunter (Part 4)

The monster rolled away smoothly. Shan Ziwei lowered the Tracking Marker Gun and didn’t give chase.

Clearly, he couldn’t take down that monster alone. He felt a pang of disappointment—the full-health recovery on evolution essentially made it impossible for one person to finish it off at the start. His damage output wasn’t high enough to reduce the monster’s SP to zero before it evolved. If Xiao Shuai and the others had come with him, a four-person team could have definitely killed it while it was still a Pawn-rank.

He was down for a moment, but quickly rallied. At least his effort wasn’t wasted—he’d re-marked the monster before the previous mark expired. Otherwise, tracking a constantly moving monster in a hospital this size would have been a nightmare. He slung the Tracking Marker Gun back over his shoulder, swapped out the dead battery in the multi-function panel, and turned it back on. Selecting Mode 1, he looked at the radar scan—two blue dots. Reassuring—wait, two?

He only froze for a second before realizing: he’d indeed hit two Chess Pieces with the Tracking Marker Gun. One was the monster, the other was…

The white-haired youth turned toward the window. The withered mother still stood there, head bowed, motionless. Shan Ziwei wanted nothing more than to leave, but he hesitated, then walked over.

“You…”

Tap.

His foot kicked something. He looked down—a black Pawn piece. This chess piece told him clearly: the Maria before him, his “wife,” was dead.

He picked up the piece and looked at the mummified corpse with complicated feelings. He found he’d rather face this wrinkled, skin-crawling face than the beautiful, vibrant one from before. That first sight of her had scared 60% of his Diamond SP (Fear) clean off.

Just thinking of the initial Maria sent an inexplicable chill crawling up from his feet, threatening to freeze him solid. He shook his head hard, picked up the fallen white bedsheet, and draped it over the dead Maria’s head. But that flimsy sheet was the straw that broke the camel’s back—the decayed corpse collapsed along with the falling fabric. Shan Ziwei stared at the white shroud burying the bones, chilled to the core.

The departed pass away, and decay is as such.

So terrifying—

The blinding white was quickly covered by pure darkness. Shan Ziwei said nothing as Little Gaia lay on his head, using its long sleeves to cover his eyes. Even without words, he could feel his little companion’s concern and care.

The chill that had spread through him vanished as if it had never been. Shan Ziwei lifted Little Gaia’s sleeve, eyes looking upward. “I’m fine.”

Those black-sclera, white-iris eyes blinked. Though he couldn’t see the mask’s expression, Shan Ziwei had a sense it was smiling. He couldn’t resist reaching up to touch it, to confirm whether the mask on the doll’s head was indeed smiling.

His fingertips first brushed the soft silver hair—cool and smooth as it appeared—then found the hard edge of the mask. The silver-haired doll seemed caught off guard, as if it hadn’t expected its owner to touch its mask. Shan Ziwei’s fingers traced across the mask—first the eyes, then the straight nose, finally the mouth. He followed the lip line to the corner, checking if it curved upward.

When he felt the expected smile, his fingertip seemed to be licked.

“!”

Startled, he pulled his hand back. He stared at his tingling, numb fingertip, then pulled Little Gaia down to inspect its mask. The plaster mask was indeed smiling—sweetly, contentedly. It changed expressions often, but no matter how he looked at it, it was a solid plaster mask. Even when he lifted it to peek underneath, the back was hollow like any mask—there was no tongue.

Could it have been a trick of the light, accidentally brushing against Little Gaia’s hair?

He lifted Little Gaia to eye level. The silver-haired, black-robed doll’s tiny face was utterly expressionless—serious, innocent, practically flawless. Giving up on that mystery, he turned his mind to another matter.

“Did you level up?”

In the last Chessboard, he’d fed Little Gaia a Bishop piece, and his Toy Box had slept ever since—only waking by the time he’d logged on. But with all the chaos, he hadn’t had a chance to ask about it. Now that he had a moment, he quickly investigated.

Little Gaia nodded. Shan Ziwei pressed eagerly: “What’s changed?”

At his question, Little Gaia opened its mouth and spat out two speech bubbles:

[Toy Box Inventory]

[Shop]

Shan Ziwei checked the Toy Box inventory—it had expanded from five slots to ten. But he was more interested in the second speech bubble. He hadn’t expected the upgrade to unlock the “Shop” function. Remembering the potions Dragon Emperor Unrivaled had used, Shan Ziwei’s excitement surged—after all, using potions in combat was the eternal theme of MMORPGs. Red potions, blue potions—they were the soul of the genre. Each potion was another life for the player!

“Show me!”

And then cold water was poured over him—the “Shop” function could only be used in the personal space!

…There once was a shop before me, and I didn’t cherish it. Only when I lost it did I regret it. There’s no greater pain in this world than this. QQ

But Shan Xiaoqiang quickly bounced back—it was fine, he still had another surprise waiting!

“What’s your special ability?”

Little Gaia tilted its head, seeming confused. Shan Ziwei gestured as he explained: “Back when I was choosing a Toy Box, each one talked about their… um… something unique, an additional function. What’s yours?”

Little Gaia listened quietly to Shan Ziwei’s words, its ghostly eyes fixed unblinkingly on him.

[Love]

The black speech bubble drifted from Little Gaia’s lips, wobbling its way to Shan Ziwei’s line of sight. It trembled like a shy maiden, brushing against the one it longed for—then shattered in embarrassment.

Shan Ziwei stood frozen, staring blankly as the silver-haired doll, as if afraid he wouldn’t understand, or perhaps emphasizing, silently repeated over and over:

[Like]

[Like]

[Like]

[You like me]

A sky full of black speech bubbles surrounded the white-haired youth, draining the color from the space itself. Shan Ziwei felt a strange dizziness—as if he were back in that dim, box-filled maze, facing the deity-like youth atop the monitor, confessing.

—I like you—

“I… like you…”

As if drawn by the memory, Shan Ziwei unconsciously repeated the confession. The silver-haired doll, the spitting image of that perfect youth, pulled the mask that had been resting askew over its face. It covered most of its face with its sleeves—and the lips that matched the mask curved into a smile so sweet it was impossible to look away.

Shan Ziwei stared involuntarily at that smile. It felt familiar—so familiar—yet he couldn’t pinpoint whose smile it resembled.

They said Role-Play’s logo was the most standard human face, without any distinguishing features—anyone could see themselves or others in it. So Little Gaia’s mask must have given him that inexplicable sense of déjà vu. He shifted his gaze to the SP bars in the upper-left corner—just now, when he’d said those words, the Heart SP (Joy) that had dropped when Xiao Shuai crashed into him was fully restored.

His heart pounded. He had a pretty good idea of Little Gaia’s special ability. Perhaps because of that initial Relationship Setting Card that bound them together, he was effectively bonded with Little Gaia on an [A Crush (Active)] Relationship Card—as long as he confessed to his Toy Box, he could restore his Heart SP!

Shan Ziwei’s hands trembled with excitement as he gazed at Little Gaia with burning intensity.

This ability wasn’t the strongest or the best, but it was the one most suited to him. Ever since entering Role-Play, this particular sufferer had been constantly worrying about his fluctuating Heart SP. To make matters worse, SP couldn’t be restored with potions—you could only raise related SP by building relationships with others. And the Relationship Setting Cards for Heart SP were especially shameless. As a player with a good sense of decency, Shan Ziwei would rather die.

Now with Little Gaia, everything was different. It was still a bit embarrassing, but confessing to his own Toy Box was far better than confessing to strangers. And Little Gaia was always with him, always on hand—it was essentially an infinite Heart SP recovery potion!

Content, Shan Ziwei patted Little Gaia’s head. The doll no longer hid its face, but rubbed against his hand with its head, the mask’s eyes squinting in comfort. Little Gaia hadn’t taken off the mask since putting it on. Shan Ziwei eyed it curiously, then set the silver-haired, black-robed doll back on his shoulder. He’d lingered here long enough—now he needed to focus on the Chessboard again.

As he turned, his peripheral vision caught the spiderweb bullet scar on the windowsill. He stopped again, replaying the battle.

During that fight, he’d been in top form—hit whatever he aimed at, no awkwardness handling a real gun at all. It was as if he were back in the past, sitting before a computer, freely controlling the guns on screen.

The spiderweb crack on the windowsill was proof. When he realized Maria would shield the monster with her body, he’d instinctively used a ricochet shot—a legendary technique in shooting games, legendary because so few players mastered it that most thought it was a myth. Ricochet shooting used bullet refraction to hit targets behind obstacles. It sounded simple enough—just calculate the angle like pool. But because bullets were pointed, the refraction angle was notoriously uncontrollable. Even in online games where refraction angles and material requirements were simplified, landing a ricochet shot was still mostly luck.

Though rare, ricochet shooters did exist—and Shan Ziwei was one of them. He’d used his own programs to simulate bullet trajectories, both direct and refracted, combined with relentless practice, to become one of the top shooters in online games.

He never expected to use that technique in the 23rd century—and succeed. He stared at the bullet scar, a chill running through him. He’d been in a trance state, operating the gun on pure instinct. His mind had held only one thought: kill the monster and leave the Chessboard. He hadn’t even considered the difference between keyboard and full-immersion controls—he’d chosen to ricochet without hesitation. One misstep, and instead of hitting the monster, he’d have hit Maria—and with his Club SP (Sorrow) already at half, another violation would have instantly zeroed it out.

Shan Ziwei took the Tracking Marker Gun down again, loaded it with ordinary bullets, and fired at the discarded flesh.

“Bang!”

The bullet made the flesh jump and land—it hit, but lacked the fluid, effortless precision from before. Earlier, he’d been controlling the shot independently; now, it felt like the system was guiding him. The two were completely different. The former was active—under the influence of his old gaming instincts, he’d seamlessly integrated familiar shooting techniques. The latter was passive—just following a template, and even ordinary shots felt awkward.

People really did perform best under pressure. He must have gone into “overdrive”/”limit break”/”cosmo burst” mode just now!

He tried to recall that state—basically, a spike of adrenaline from fear, hyper-focus, faster reflexes, accelerated breathing, heartbeat, and blood flow, providing more energy to the body—wait. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like… his “condition” acting up.

There had to be something off about that connection!

Unable to figure it out, Shan Ziwei decided to set it aside and search for information online after clearing this Chessboard. He wasted no more time and left the room.

After the white-haired youth left, the room fell into dead silence. A while later, a flesh-ball with two tentacles reappeared. The returning monster first crawled under the bedsheet on the floor, rolled around a few times, then emerged, leaving a perfectly flat sheet behind. It used its tentacles to adjust the white hair on its head, as if an idea struck it, then rolled over to the discarded flesh. It twisted its tentacles together, squeezing out liquid that dripped onto the lump.

A sound like sprouting echoed in the room—like a tiny bud breaking through soil. Thin red tendons split and grew from the flesh, intertwining and connecting like a crimson spiderweb, slowly spreading across the room…