Chapter 4: Setting Four

Setting Four: Welcome to “Role-Play.”

[Quantum terminal connected. Beginning data retrieval.]

[Detected that this is your first connection to “Role-Play.” Please read the game agreement.]

A game agreement for Role-Play immediately appeared before Shan Ziwei’s eyes. Compared to the dense, text-heavy terms of other games, Role-Play’s agreement was just one sentence—simple to the point of being terrifying:

[The game assumes no responsibility for any incidents arising from a user’s entry into “Role-Play,” including but not limited to: mental illness, physical injury, or even death.]

There were no restrictions whatsoever—meaning that anyone in the Federation, regardless of age or gender, could enter Role-Play’s game world as long as they had the device and agreed to that wildly irresponsible clause. Shan Ziwei stared at the word “death.” Though he’d never heard of anyone actually getting hurt playing Role-Play, the disclaimer was rather alarming.

Shan Ziwei took a deep breath. At this point, even if this game was as unreliable as it seemed, he had no choice but to go for it.

“I agree.”

[You have agreed. Your game device will be bound in 5 seconds—5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Binding successful. You may enter “Role-Play” instantly at any time and from any location, with connection sessions not exceeding 12 hours. Game ready. Beginning neural link… Link complete.]

The elegant system prompt chimed in Shan Ziwei’s ear. His vision went black, and the world went dark before brightening again.

[Welcome to “Role-Play.”]

Shan Ziwei’s eyes widened slightly as he gazed up at the massive clock overhead. A moment ago, he’d been lying in his own bed—and the next, he was seated on a throne with a gilded rim and crimson cushion.

It felt like he’d time-traveled.

—So this was a full-immersion VR game?

Shan Ziwei raised a hand and pinched his own cheek.

The soft texture, the pressure of his fingertip against his skin—all of it was so real it made his heart bleed.

Want to know how to kill someone with his condition? Simple—throw him into a crowd.

A full-immersion VR game might not have crowds, but it would absolutely have mobs. When someone with this condition got swarmed by monsters…

Shan Ziwei didn’t dare imagine that scene—it was too gruesome.

If that were all, it might still be manageable. If he couldn’t tank, he could always kite—run and fight, hit and run. But cold, merciless, irrational reality delivered the final blow: he was an MT. Not only could he not avoid monster attacks—he had to actively run up to them and let them wail on him.

…People with this condition are delicate. Please take good care of him! QQ

To make the world take pity on the few remaining sufferers of this condition, Shan Ziwei had contacted Zhao Qing before entering the game to ask if he could amend the contract—say, let him be a ranged DPS or something—and was brutally rejected.

Unable to reach Ye Ye, Shan Ziwei had only two options: pay the exorbitant penalty for breaking the contract, or suck it up and be the MT.

Faced with the cruelty of reality, this particular sufferer finally snapped: Fine, it’s just an MT. Fine, it’s just a full-immersion VR game. There’s no way the devs actually made it so you can get frisky in the game!

So Shan Ziwei steeled himself, put on the headset, and dove straight in—that was always his personality: the more he was pushed, the more he pushed back.

In simpler terms: he’d given up and embraced the disaster.

Shan Ziwei rose from the throne and looked around. The room he was in resembled a giant birdcage. A black-and-white checkerboard floor radiated outward from the throne. Curved black walls were set with tall floor-to-ceiling windows, and the dome was covered by the face of a Roman-style clock. The entire space exuded a strong European fantasy aesthetic.

The moment Shan Ziwei’s gaze landed on the clock, the second hand—which had been stopped at “XII”—let out a rusty creak and began to turn slowly.

A scroll of parchment materialized before Shan Ziwei.

[Invitation

To my dear, lovely, beloved you:

Almost there.

Wait just a little longer.

Until I meet your expectations, so that my most beloved you won’t be bored, let’s play a game.

If you win, I will grant you great power.

If you lose, you must stay with me forever.

Agree? Agree, agree, agree!

Hurry up and sign your name on the contract—this game is prepared just for you.]

When he finished reading the last word of the invitation, all the text vanished, and new content appeared on the parchment.

[Contract

Play “Role-Play” with ???.

Contractor: __________]

Was this asking him to enter his game name?

Shan Ziwei glanced at the quill that had suddenly appeared in his hand and thought as he signed: This game really nails the immersion. For a split second just now, he’d felt an inexplicable chill run down his spine. The atmosphere was like selling your soul to a demon and signing a contract with him.

Shan Ziwei instinctively began to write his usual screen name, “Ghost.” But the moment he wrote the “G,” he froze.

—Ghost?

—Like a shapeless phantom, a detestable fiend. I live in reality like a ghost… Hey, I just realized it suits you too. How about from now on I call you “Ghost”? I’m the fiend in reality, and you’re—

Shan Ziwei’s hand started trembling. He forced himself to change the subject: the past was the past. At least he was living in the present, in this era two hundred years later.

Then he thought of the nickname Ye Ye had given him—”Fanzi.” It was a name someone from this era had given him, and proof that he was living in the 23rd century.

The “G” he’d already written couldn’t be changed, so Shan Ziwei simply added “Fanzi” after it. “GFanzi” looked a bit awkward, but he consoled himself that at least it avoided duplicate names.

After he signed, the system seemed to pause for a moment, likely checking whether his game name was valid. After a while, blood seeped from the contract, forming a line of text:

[Your joy, your sorrow, your anger, your fear—all of them are mine.]

The entire line was written in handwriting, as if one could glimpse the cruel tenderness of the one who wrote it. After that, the parchment rolled itself up, burst into golden flames, and the ashes swirled into the shape of a human—and then Shan Ziwei saw his virtual avatar in the Role-Play world.

“Gotta say… I wish I were this handsome in real life too.” Shan Ziwei studied his character and sighed. “Even if I lose control, at least girls won’t hate me as much—this is a world that judges by looks.”

The avatar before him had features almost identical to his own. At first glance, it was clearly Shan Ziwei, but on closer inspection, there were subtle differences—no one in reality could have a face and body so perfectly symmetrical and flawless. It was like a standard model with Shan Ziwei’s features artificially applied, closer to a beautiful mannequin in a store window than to a real person.

To prevent people from confusing reality with the game and causing serious consequences, the Federation had mandated that all online games could not use real-life likenesses. Even though current technology could perfectly replicate reality, in-game characters had to be those “almost but not quite” simulations—detailed, yes, but clearly artificial.

The system voice prompted again: [Please customize your character’s appearance, talent, and pain sensitivity settings.]

An appearance customization interface popped up before Shan Ziwei, with so many numerical options that his head spun.

[Appearance settings: You may adjust your character’s hair, facial features, and body proportions. The degree of change must not exceed 40%.]

Shan Ziwei had no patience to tweak eyebrow thickness, mouth size, arm length, and all that nonsense. But leaving everything default felt like a waste—after all, in any game, appearance-change items were always the biggest money sinks.

—Old-timer, after you get out, go dye your hair white. At your age, stop trying to look young. An old man should act like an old man.

Shan Ziwei unexpectedly recalled the director’s parting words. A sudden impulse made him click on the “hair color” option and select white. In an instant, his character’s black hair turned snow-white, giving him a somewhat weathered and ineffably settled look.

“It actually suits him.” Shan Ziwei studied it for a moment and clicked confirm. “I’ll go with this.”

After the appearance settings closed, the system immediately brought up the next option.

[Talent settings: In “Role-Play,” there are four attributes: Spade, Heart, Club, and Diamond. Each attribute contains two talents. When a player uses skills within their talent range, they receive corresponding bonuses.

Spade talents: Melee Combat, Ranged Attack;
Heart talents: Healing, Support;
Club talents: Curse, Assassination;
Diamond talents: Defense, Summoning.

Your detected attribute is “Spade-Club.” Please choose one of the following as your primary talent: Melee Combat, Ranged Attack, Curse, or Assassination.]

A Spade and a Club floated before Shan Ziwei, with four talent options lined up below, waiting for him to touch one.

Shan Ziwei stared at his Spade and Club, dumbfounded.

“Wait—if I’m not Diamond-attributed, I can’t choose the Defense talent?! What are these attributes even based on?”

The system gave no reply. Shan Ziwei suddenly remembered the psychological test he’d taken in the studio that day, and the result had been Spade-Club.

What the hell, this makes no sense—why does a game have to involve psychological temperament? That’s something you’re born with, not something you can just change on a whim—okay, fine, in a sense it does fit the word “talent,” but come on, it’s just a game! Do you have to be so serious?!

It wasn’t that Shan Ziwei was overreacting. If he were just a casual player, he’d be thrilled with this setup—look, there’s even Ranged Attack, a no-contact option! But he’d already signed a contract. He had to be the damn MT, and he might even have to compete. In high-stakes matches, the smallest difference could decide victory or defeat. Without the Defense talent option, Shan Ziwei was already losing the MT race from the starting line.

He couldn’t choose Defense, and he couldn’t indulge himself by picking Ranged Attack—MT and ranged were incompatible, much like MT and his condition were sworn enemies. So in frustration, he slammed his finger down on Melee Combat.

Perhaps sensing the collective resentment of Shan Ziwei—and thousands of other players—the system mercifully added another option to appease the masses:

[You may also determine your secondary talent. Would you like to choose a talent from your Spade and Club attributes, or randomize a talent from all attributes? (Note: duplication of talents is possible.)]

“Random!”

At Shan Ziwei’s shout, a newly generated roulette wheel began spinning its pointer. The pointer swept across the four suit zones and eight talent options, and amid Shan Ziwei’s muttered chant of “Diamond Defense, Diamond Defense,” it finally came to rest in the Diamond zone.

…Great. It’s Diamond.

Shan Ziwei stared at the glaring words “Summoning” and shed two streams of tears.

Why does my heart hurt so much… (;3」∠)

As Shan Ziwei contemplated whether to go down with the game developers in a blaze of mutual destruction, or mutual destruction, or maybe mutual destruction, the system leisurely rolled out the next option.

[Pain sensitivity settings: Please set your pain sensitivity in-game. Default is 50%. This setting will affect your in-game earnings. You may modify it once per game session.]

A slider appeared before Shan Ziwei, with a circular marker at 50% and an annotation: Comparable to menstrual cramps. 100% experience yield.

…How the hell would I know what menstrual cramps feel like!!!

Shan Ziwei nearly spat blood. He dragged the marker all the way to 0 on the far left, and the annotation changed to: Pain? Is that edible? 0% experience yield.

Shan Ziwei forced himself to ignore the first half and think seriously about the implications. No pain = no experience… that made sense. After all, this was a game for training mental power. You needed stimulation to strengthen your mental power, which meant leveling up, right?

He dragged the marker to the far right: 100% original flavor pain. 200% experience yield.

…Despite all the memes in the annotation, it did point out one fact: at 100% pain sensitivity, getting slashed in-game would replicate the full agony of being cut by a blade. That’s why most people chose the default 50%. However…

Our poor sufferer wept rivers of silent tears and confirmed the 100% setting.

It wasn’t that he wanted to be some ultra-macho tough guy who feared no pain. The problem was, if he lowered his pain sensitivity, then when others attacked him, he’d only feel touch—not pain. And getting turned on by getting beaten up sounded even creepier, didn’t it? What was he supposed to do…

Poor Shan Ziwei could only comfort himself with that double experience bonus. Full-immersion VR games used a headset or pod to reflect brainwaves into the system. That meant each person had only one character—unlike keyboard-based games where you could create multiple characters or swap accounts for power-leveling. Role-Play had already been running for two months. Shan Ziwei, joining now, would have to work twice as hard to catch up to the others in the studio.

After setting the pain sensitivity, the entire initialization process was complete. The system, which had been its usual mechanical self while tormenting Shan Ziwei for half an hour, chimed again:

[As this is your first time entering “Role-Play,” you will now proceed through the newbie tutorial. This tutorial is primarily adventure-based. Upon completion, you will receive an exclusive toy box. Enjoy the game.]

As the system’s final words faded, Shan Ziwei saw his game character suddenly move, crossing the distance to him in an instant. Shan Ziwei watched helplessly as that face—both like and unlike his own—pressed close, so near that it would kiss him in the next second.

“…!!”