Chapter 32: Setting Thirty-Two

Setting Thirty-Two: When Heaven bestows a great mission upon a protagonist, it first steels his mind and exhausts his body.

This wasn’t the first time Shan Ziwei had fled the game in panic, but it was the worst. He was even reluctant—or rather, afraid—to continue playing Role-Play the next day. Since it was the weekend, he gave himself a day off. But his condition was still his condition, even two hundred years later—he didn’t have the nerve to go out and cause trouble. So he just stayed home and studied quietly.

He read for the entire day. Perhaps because he already had a foundation in computer science, or because he was simply born for it, Shan Ziwei had expected to struggle understanding the technology of this era—given the two-century gap—but surprisingly, the seven-day study plan he’d set was completed in a single day. And he hadn’t felt the slightest strain—it was like a fish in water, natural and effortless.

Shan Ziwei pondered deeply: had lying around for two hundred years somehow made his brain sharper?

The ease of learning gave this particular sufferer a taste of satisfaction, so on Sunday he couldn’t help studying all day again. It wasn’t until the morning light of Monday fell on him that he realized: he couldn’t keep slacking off like this—he had to get back to the game.

The two days of “slacking” had eased a lot of his psychological burden, and like someone who forgets the pain once the wound heals, Shan Ziwei reluctantly put down his books and dug out the Role-Play device.

Before logging in again, he finally couldn’t take it anymore and opened his quantum terminal to contact the fat guy—what about those game materials he’d promised? A week was enough time to finish a whole thesis!

To his surprise, the other party was even more distressed.

“Huh? The boss said you wanted to quit the studio, so we didn’t bother compiling the materials for you.”

After the fat guy’s shock, it was Shan Ziwei’s turn to be stunned: “When did I ever say I wanted to quit the studio?”

“That night you arrived. The boss said you didn’t want to be an MT and might break the contract and leave.”

Shan Ziwei remembered his desperate struggle before entering the game. He’d spoken with Zhao Qing, yes, but he’d only said he wanted to be a ranged DPS—he’d never said he was quitting.

The fat guy on the other end also realized there might have been a misunderstanding. He chuckled cautiously: “Maybe I got it wrong. Hold on, Fanzi—let me check with the boss—”

“Sorry, I probably didn’t explain myself clearly and caused a misunderstanding.” Shan Ziwei took a deep breath. “I’m not quitting the studio. As long as Ye Ye doesn’t ask me to leave, I won’t. You can rest assured—I can’t afford the penalty for breaking the contract.”

“Oh, oh.” The miniature projection of the fat guy showed a hint of awkwardness. To fill the gap, he patted his own flab and said: “That’s what I thought—this place has lolis and big sisters and Lord Fatty—why would Fanzi want to leave? Just wait a bit—three days, no, two days—and Lord Fatty will get the materials ready and send them to you.”

“Thank you.” Shan Ziwei said sincerely. He genuinely liked the fat guy’s cheerful, slightly mischievous personality—talking to him was easy and pressure-free. The game materials would be a couple more days, so he took the chance to ask a couple key questions: “I’m about to go into the game. The system prompted me that ‘Story Mode is unlocked.’ What’s Story Mode?”

“Oh, Story Mode… pfft—cough cough—wait! Story Mode!?” The fat guy didn’t think much of it at first, but once he processed what “Story Mode” meant, his whole body of flab went stiff with shock: “You—what level are you? Don’t tell me you’re Level 3!”

“…That’s right, Level 3.”

“Holy crap! You’re actually Level 3!!!” The fat guy bounced up like a rubber ball. “It’s only been a few days! And you’re already Level 3! You—” The fleshy ball took a sharp breath, looked around furtively, pressed his fat face to the screen, and whispered: “What cheat did you use?”

“…”

Shan Ziwei was hit square in the face by the familiar word “cheat”—still alive and well two hundred years later.

Before he could respond, the fat guy had already dismissed the idea: “No way—Role-Play’s server is the Central Computer. Nobody in the world could pull a fast one under the Central Computer’s nose. But it doesn’t make sense—five days to Level 3? Even a genius like Lord Fatty took nine days at least…”

Hearing the fat guy’s muttering, Shan Ziwei finally realized just how astonishing his 5-day Level 3 was—and in fact, two of those days had been spent “slacking off.”

This kind of success made him uneasy, as if he hadn’t been hit by a pie from the sky, but by feed meant to fatten a pig for slaughter. He thought for a moment—both to reassure himself and to explain to the fat guy: “I chose 100% pain sensitivity. Double experience bonus.”

The fat guy swallowed, then asked cautiously: “All the time?”

“All the time.”

Instantly, the way the fat guy looked at him changed. He gave Shan Ziwei a thumbs up.

“Brother, you’re hardcore.”

Doing it once could be a mistake or a trial run. Doing it all the time? That was truly hardcore—hard on oneself. Shan Ziwei’s past gaming experiences had been painful, but seeing the fat guy’s admiring look, though it couldn’t erase the suffering, at least gave him some comfort—his pain hadn’t been in vain.

He cleared his throat to hide the smile tugging at his lips, and steered the conversation back on track: “Story Mode?”

“Story Mode is like writing a novel—they give you a beginning and an ending, and you fill in the rest.” Seeing Shan Ziwei’s confused look, the fat guy cut to the chase: “Just go try it once. The first time you enter Story Mode, the game will give you a tutorial. One piece of advice: don’t make your Personal Settings too overpowered. The more overpowered they are, the more the system will push back and increase the difficulty—with great power comes great responsibility~”

Shan Ziwei didn’t fully understand but nodded in acknowledgment. He set Story Mode aside for now and raised another concern: “By the way, what’s a title?”

“Titles are special achievements in Role-Play—sort of like unique荣誉称号. They’re taken from the Tarot Major Arcana.” The fat guy rubbed his hands together with a lecherous look of longing. “They’re really good—each comes with a badass built-in setting. Take that famous player Bai Huahua—her title is ‘The Hanged Man,’ which comes with the ability to sacrifice herself to resurrect one person. Holy crap, resurrection! That directly breaks Role-Play’s rule that death means elimination!”

Shan Ziwei listened, stunned. He hadn’t realized titles were such a big deal. No wonder Chunqiu had always shown Host an undercurrent of respect, sometimes even deferring to him—Shan Ziwei had thought it was his imagination.

The fat guy wiped a suspicious drop of drool from the corner of his mouth and asked Shan Ziwei: “Where’d you hear about titles?”

“…I met a player with the title ‘The World.'”

The fat guy’s eyes immediately went wide as saucers on screen.

“You! Actually! Met! A title holder!” The fat guy’s voice grew thick with emotion. “You’re Level 3 and you’ve met a title holder! I’m Level 8 and I’ve only ever heard of them!”

Shan Ziwei silently moved his hand away from the comm screen—the fat guy looked like he was about to crawl through the screen and throttle him. There were only 22 Tarot Major Arcana cards, so there were only 22 titles, spread among hundreds of millions of players—a drop in the ocean.

The fat guy was still flailing on screen: “Spill it! What cheat did you use to meet a title holder!”

“Bad luck… uh, good luck, I guess.”

“This isn’t about luck.” The fat guy’s face turned serious. “You shouldn’t have been able to meet a title holder at all. You’re only Level 3—in Role-Play, that’s barely a beginner. Title holders are at least Level 5 and above, and they’re among the top-tier players—the title’s built-in setting can push a second-rate player to first-rate, and a first-rate player to super-first-rate. There are no title holders below second-rate, because titles can be stolen. Third-rate, fourth-rate, fifth-rate players can’t hold onto them. That makes titles a kind of status marker—every title holder is a pro—uh, I’m getting off track.”

The fat guy cleared his throat. “Anyway, as high-level players, title holders shouldn’t appear in the same Chessboard as beginners, because it’s unfair to the beginners. If a high-level player is in a Chessboard, the system scales the difficulty to match their level.”

A herd of a million alpacas stampeded through Shan Ziwei’s mind. No wonder his game experience had been so torturous—he’d been playing on advanced difficulty the whole time!

The fat guy was startled by Shan Ziwei’s sudden change in expression. He asked nervously: “You met a title holder—how was the Chessboard…?”

Shan Ziwei’s “don’t even ask” expression said it all. The fat guy’s envy quickly turned to sympathy.

“Brother, you’ve been through a lot.”

The fat guy made a pat-on-the-shoulder gesture through the screen and comforted him: “But there’s a silver lining—if the Chessboard is harder, whether you clear it or not, the experience payout is huge~”

Well, that explained his freakish leveling speed—it had been bought with blood, sweat, and tears.

“At your pace, you should catch up to us in about a week—we can play together then!” The fat guy beamed. “Anything else you want to know? Ask away—Lord Fatty’s got you covered—”

He stopped mid-sentence, turning to look outside the screen as if someone was speaking to him.

“Sorry, Fanzi—the boss is calling me. I’ll send you the materials later. Gotta go.”

Shan Ziwei acknowledged and watched the projection fade from his black ring. The game materials were sorted out. He exhaled—talking to the fat guy had lightened his mood again. Before, he’d been pushing hard in the game but felt aimless, not knowing where his efforts were leading. Now, hearing the fat guy’s explanation, he had a sense of direction—and even felt the urge to jump back in and catch up with his friends.

I’ll chop off my hand if I ever look at the back of a settlement report again, Shan Ziwei silently vowed. He gave in to the impulse, grabbed the game device beside him, and headed for the nutrition pod.

[Quantum terminal connected. Beginning data retrieval.]

[Welcome to “Role-Play.”]

Shan Ziwei opened his eyes on the golden-red throne and nearly got scared into disconnecting by the black-and-white ghostly eyes inches from his face.

The silver-haired doll was holding his face through its sleeves, leaning in so close, its black-sclera, white-iris eyes fixed unblinkingly on him—like mercury beads floating in black ink, coldly reflecting his image.

For a moment, Shan Ziwei felt himself being swallowed by that silver-white gaze.

“Hiss—”

He yanked Little Gaia away, covering his flushed face. Just now, he’d been bitten by his own Toy Box.

“Bite” was perhaps not the right word—”nibble” fit better. The silver-haired doll had taken a soft grip on his cheek flesh with its lips and given it a firm press. Though the sensation was lifelessly cold, it still nearly made this particular sufferer jump out of his skin.

[Sorry]

A speech bubble hit him, freezing him in place. He watched Little Gaia raise its hand, holding it straight up before him.

“…?”

Little Gaia looked at its hand, completely hidden in its sleeve. It tugged at the fabric, struggling to free one small hand from the long sleeve.

This was the first time Shan Ziwei had seen Gaia’s hand—it was delicate, like carved jade. Its fingernails were black too, matching its eyes, exuding a ghostly aura. Now that exquisitely formed little hand was clenched in a fist, with two slender fingers extended upward.

Shan Ziwei stared at those two fingers, then at the pitifully aggrieved mask on Little Gaia’s head—and understood. Was it scolding him for not logging in for two days?

He’d never owned a pet, but in that moment, he truly understood the feeling of a cat, left alone for days, biting its owner and then carefully licking them afterward.

“I’m sorry.” Shan Ziwei promised his adorable companion: “I’ll log in every day from now on.”

Little Gaia looked at him, its mask still on the verge of tears. It put away one finger and pointed to itself, floating a speech bubble with an expressionless face.

[Forgive?]

“No need to forgive.” Shan Ziwei ruffled Little Gaia’s head. “You didn’t do anything wrong—I did. Next time I slack off on the game, remember to bite harder.”

At that, Little Gaia’s eyes narrowed. The mask on its head finally broke into a smile—its lips curved a little too wide, with the unsettling look of someone who’d done something bad and been praised for it.

After smoothing things over with his Toy Box, Shan Ziwei looked up and saw the little wolf doll still lying on the black-and-white checkered floor. He remembered he still hadn’t contacted Sha Polang.

Perhaps the soothing had been effective—this time Little Gaia obediently told Shan Ziwei how to use the friend function in Role-Play. He walked over and touched the little wolf, finding that Sha Polang had left another message, roughly asking when he’d be online so they could set a time to play together.

Checking Sha Polang’s status and seeing she was currently in-game, he left a message about what had happened and his play schedule, then started preparing to enter a Chessboard.

“Show me the shop,” Shan Ziwei said to Little Gaia.

He hadn’t been able to access the shop function inside a Chessboard, so now was his chance to check out the legendary store. He cracked his knuckles—his wallet was ready and waiting.

Little Gaia jumped to the ground, dragged its sleeves as it pattered forward a few steps, then turned around, opened its mouth wide, and reached both hands inside to pull out the shop… Shan Ziwei stared in shock at the building now occupying half his personal space—it was an actual, honest-to-goodness shop, dammit!

How did such a building come out of that tiny mouth? He couldn’t figure it out. He stood at the shop entrance for a while, then finally stepped inside.

Inside, it was much larger than it appeared from the outside. But though the space was vast, the selection was sparse. All the goods floated in midair—Shan Ziwei could take it all in at a glance. Basically, it was various standard SP potions—Spade, Heart, Club, Diamond—no Setting Cards, no other items. Just potions, potions, and more potions.

He looked down at Little Gaia, who was following at his heels, unwilling to accept the harsh reality: “That’s all?”

His Toy Box blinked and floated a speech bubble: [Upgrade]

Shan Ziwei was silent for a moment. He bought three of each potion, then took out the chess box from his inventory. The monster’s evolution in the last Chessboard had been a vivid lesson in the ranking system. He now knew just how precious that complete set of chess pieces was. Though he felt sorry for the deceased teddy bear, he was shamelessly grateful to Chiron for that arrow shot.

No risk, no reward. Steeling himself, Shan Ziwei took out a Castle piece and a Bishop piece and handed them to Little Gaia.

“Use these to upgrade.”

Little Gaia accepted them joyfully, put away the shop, and held the chess pieces like a hamster nibbling sunflower seeds, taking tiny bites.

Shan Ziwei set Little Gaia back in its usual spot. After getting everything ready, he looked around. Two floor-to-ceiling windows were now wide open—one at the 4 o’clock position, and another that had opened when the system announced “Story Mode unlocked,” at the 11 o’clock position.

With a new mode available, he naturally wanted to try it. He carried Little Gaia toward the 11 o’clock window and reached out to touch the light screen.

The system immediately prompted:

[This Chessboard is in Story Mode. Enter?]

Shan Ziwei looked at the words “Story Mode,” feeling both anticipation and nervousness as he confirmed:

“Yes!”