Chapter 33: Setting Thirty-Three

Setting Thirty-Three: Fairy Tale (Part 1)

Pale white light once again filled his vision, spreading all around him. But unlike before, it didn’t fade—instead, it dyed the entire space pure white.

In this white space, Shan Ziwei felt a faint sense of weightlessness—because even the ground beneath him was white. The only colorful things in the entire space were himself and… Gaia.

…Wait, Gaia?

Shan Ziwei stared in shock at the black-robed youth ahead. He was still sitting atop an old-fashioned monitor, his silver hair blending into the space around him, beneath which was that face—perfect as a deity.

His first instinct was to look at his left shoulder—and was shocked to find his Toy Box gone. His mind went into chaos. He slowly, stiffly turned his head back, even more incredulously staring at that artificial deity—surely it couldn’t be what he was thinking?

Under Shan Ziwei’s fearful gaze, the silver-haired youth blinked gently. On the monitor beneath him, text appeared character by character, as if typed by an invisible hand.

[You are about to enter a Story Mode Chessboard. In Story Mode, the Toy Box is disabled, and the system will not actively give settings.]

That scared the hell out of him! Shan Ziwei finally managed to breathe. He’d thought there was some unspeakable connection between his Toy Box and Gaia—the moment Gaia appeared, his Toy Box vanished. Turns out the Toy Box was simply disabled in Story Mode.

So this was what the fat guy meant by “the game will give you a tutorial”—and it was Gaia itself delivering it. Shan Ziwei read Gaia’s words carefully. Without the Toy Box, players were reduced to blank slates with no equipment, no skills, no inventory. And “the system will not actively give settings” seemed like the removal of the “system setting” restriction—but the word “actively” was still there. It was like getting a handful of candy only to find grains of sand in it.

“Not actively give settings,” Shan Ziwei said carefully. “So that means ‘passively’ adding system settings?”

The Gaia atop the monitor moved. It extended its delicate hand and pointed gently. Blue light particles gathered from all directions, coalescing before Shan Ziwei into ten Setting Cards laid out in a row.

[At the start of the Chessboard, you will receive ten special Setting Cards.]

Shan Ziwei instinctively took one to examine it. Normally, the backs of Setting Cards bore the Role-Play logo, and the fronts were like playing cards—suits and numbers with images and descriptions in the center. But the card in his hand had no suit, no number—just a colorful jester painted on it.

For a moment, he thought he was holding not a Setting Card, but the Joker from a deck of cards.

[You may use Joker cards to add any Personal Setting you wish.]

“Anything!?” Shan Ziwei was incredulous. “If I set myself to be able to destroy the world, that’s allowed?”

[Please be specific to skills, equipment, or relationships. The Joker will automatically match with similar existing Setting Cards and become your Personal Setting.]

Shan Ziwei thought for a moment, then rephrased: “So if I set myself to have a world-destroying skill—one activation and the world ends—that would work?”

The monitor was silent, but the Gaia above nodded, confirming his suspicion. Shan Ziwei’s hand trembled as he held the Joker—this wasn’t a card, this was pure power! With Jokers, he could have anything he wanted. Joker in hand, the world was his!

Just as he was joyfully gathering all the Jokers in his hands, the monitor unhurriedly typed another line.

[In Story Mode, every time you use a Joker to add a Personal Setting, the game will give you one System Setting.]

Shan Ziwei… Shan Ziwei finally understood what “not actively” meant. It was a buy-one-get-one-free deal. He could almost see a System Setting personified, teasing him: “Want me to stay away? Fine—then don’t use any Jokers~”

This game’s way of handing out benefits was always so malicious, this particular sufferer thought indignantly.

Though the “system won’t actively add settings” question was resolved, a new one arose.

“If I never use a Joker, then there will never be any System Settings.” Shan Ziwei asked. “Then how do I clear a Story Mode Chessboard?”

Previous Chessboards were Adventure Mode, where the system periodically gave System Settings and always provided a “checkmate” clear condition. Story Mode didn’t seem to have that tradition—so how did you clear it?

In response to his question, Gaia’s hand gently tapped the monitor. Instantly, an antique hardcover book appeared on the screen.

[You need to complete a story.]

The hardcover book opened itself, settling on two pages. Shan Ziwei looked closely—the open pages had only two passages of text: one in the upper-left corner of the first page, like a beginning; the other in the lower-right corner of the second page, like an ending; with large blank spaces in between.

[Wang Xiaoming has graduated and is about to enter the workforce.

(Blank)

Wang Xiaoming became a millionaire.]

Beside the text were lifelike paper-cutout figures. The figure labeled “Wang Xiaoming” stood on the book—it was a miniature version of Shan Ziwei. The beginning “Wang Xiaoming” wore a white shirt, looking young and green. The ending “Wang Xiaoming” wore an expensive suit, sitting amid piles of money like a life-winner.

[You are the protagonist of this storybook. Please guide the story from the beginning to the ending.]

Shan Ziwei looked at the beginning and ending “Wang Xiaoming”: “So you mean, I play ‘Wang Xiaoming,’ my ending is becoming a millionaire—so the moment I become a millionaire, I clear the Chessboard? Are there restrictions on the process? Like, can I rob a bank—get a million that way? Or do I have to work legitimately?”

[As long as you reach the ending, the process does not matter.]

Shan Ziwei saw several more “Wang Xiaoming” figures appear in the blank space between the beginning and ending. They stood apart, as if in different parallel worlds—some working hard, some buying lottery tickets, some dabbling in the underworld—but all eventually converging on the same destination: life-winner “Wang Xiaoming.” It perfectly illustrated the phrase: process doesn’t matter, only results.

—”Story Mode is like writing a novel—they give you a beginning and an ending and you fill in the rest.”

He remembered the fat guy’s words. He had to admit it was apt—Story Mode really was like writing a story, with a beginning and an end, and everything in between was up to the player. Whether it turned into a fantasy drama or a suspense thriller was entirely up to them.

Just as he was marveling at how much freedom Story Mode gave players to go wild, a new rule appeared on the monitor.

[Note: Each story will involve multiple players. Players may “reveal” each other’s identities. When you discover that a character is a player, you may expose their identity to their face. If the character is indeed a player, they will be removed from the Chessboard and you will receive the corresponding chess piece. If the character is a Chess Piece, you will lose 50% of your SP.]

Holy crap—this was a mechanic where you tattle on each other to the system!? Shan Ziwei’s beautiful vision of Story Mode shattered into pieces. With this rule, no player could afford to go wild. Not only did they have to carefully role-play to avoid being found out, but they also lost the option to cooperate with other players to clear. The game developers were playing hardball!

The Gaia above gave a slight nod, as if asking if he understood the rules. Whether on its face or the mask atop its head, its expression remained blank—aloof and unfeeling, exactly how mortals imagined a deity. Under those demonic eyes, Shan Ziwei swallowed his complaints and said with some apprehension: “I understand…”

At this moment, this particular sufferer truly missed his soft, adorable Little Gaia.

Hearing his distant tone, Gaia lowered its heterochromatic ghostly eyes slightly, its gaze turning to imprint the white-haired youth in its sight. It spread its hand, and firefly-like blue light spilled from the monitor, gathering in its palm to form the same hardcover book as on the screen. The youth gave it a gentle push, and the book—weightless as paper—floated into Shan Ziwei’s hands.

[This is your story.]

Shan Ziwei opened the hardcover book. It wasn’t so much that he opened it—it was more like the book automatically flipped to a certain page and stopped.

[The witch living in the fairy tale kingdom finally became queen on this day.

(Blank)

Due to the witch’s actions, the beautiful princess found her true love and her home.]

Shan Ziwei clutched the hardcover book and thought: What the hell.

So he closed the book, as if nothing had happened, and opened it again—the same text appeared: “The witch living in the fairy tale kingdom, on this day…”

After confirming that no amount of flipping would show any other page, this particular sufferer was utterly defeated.

He must have picked up the wrong script! Was he supposed to play the witch or the princess?! Either way, both were female, dammit! Did the game developers have gender identity issues?!

Covered in metaphorical blood, Shan Ziwei looked up, about to ask Gaia—but was shocked to find the youth had vanished along with the surrounding white space. He was now standing in a magnificent palace, in what appeared to be a woman’s bedchamber.

Just then, the door nearby stirred. A court lady entered, talking as she pushed the door open.

“Your Majesty the Queen, are you ready? His Majesty the King has already—”

Her voice cut off. She stood in the doorway, eyes wide, staring at Shan Ziwei in the room as if she’d seen a ghost.

“AH—!!!”

After a moment of dead silence, the court lady let out a scream, gathered her skirts, and ran.

“Someone—quick—there’s a male assassin in Her Majesty the Queen’s bedchamber—”

Shan Ziwei, male playing female, was stunned.

Holy crap—was he about to be exposed already?!