It was night, and a fine drizzle misted the air. Yet, even the rain couldn't dampen the brilliance of B City's prosperity. Neon lights flashed relentlessly—the city's acclaimed 'Million Lights Project' was no exaggeration. They weren't talking about a million dollars spent on bulbs; they meant millions of kilowatt-hours consumed in electricity.
The effect was dazzling and drew people out of their homes, fueling the city's thriving nightlife: bars, KTVs, and nightclubs were packed.
However, in one corner of B City, everything was dark. Streetlights were few and far between, and whenever the wind or rain picked up, the dim bulbs flickered erratically. This was the 'Old Community,' known to the citizens as the 'Scar of B City'—a festering slum.
The contrast with the city center was absolute. Just as downtown hit its most opulent hour, the Old Community sank into silence. While the wealthy vented their excess energy, the poor, after a day of crushing labor, were already fast asleep. That was the difference between those who had and those who didn't.
Suddenly, a thin figure dashed through the drizzle, guided by the sputtering streetlights. His movements were clumsy, his body swaying left and right, his steps unstable, as if he were drunk. He stumbled, leaned against a lamppost to gasp for breath, and then staggered onward. In the flickering light, one could clearly see the square cardboard box clutched tightly in his arms. Finally, he escaped the light's weak reach, his frail silhouette dissolving into the pitch-black street.
Creeeak!
The decaying wooden door issued a strange, groaning 'sigh' as I slipped inside. Habitually, I reached out and pulled the string to light the single dim bulb hanging in the shack. I ignored the rhythmic drip from the ceiling and the accompanying symphony of water hitting the collection of mismatched bottles and cans on the floor.
With heavy steps, I navigated around the water traps to my bed. After carefully placing the cardboard box down, I collapsed onto the thin mattress.
Fate had played a cruel joke on me. Half a month ago, a sudden collapse led to a diagnosis that instantly turned my world gray: AIDS.
In the past two weeks, I had meticulously guarded myself. I knew AIDS didn't kill directly; it destroyed the body's immune system, leaving it defenseless. A simple fever or cold would be enough to end me.
Utterly desperate, I prepared for death. I sold everything I owned, including my livelihood—the cargo tricycle. Along with my savings, I scraped together nearly twenty thousand yuan. I sent eighteen thousand to my younger sister, leaving two thousand for myself. I didn't know when I'd die, but I refused to starve while waiting.
I'd considered suicide, but lacked the courage. I couldn't understand the teenagers who jumped off buildings or slashed their wrists—where did they find the sheer nerve? Some people fight tooth and nail to live, and others throw it away so easily. Life truly wasn't fair.
Yet, it seemed even the HIV diagnosis wasn't enough. As I had stood in the long line just moments ago—drenched by the rain, handing over my ID and bank card, filling out a form, and ready to receive the 100,000 yuan game helmet—the beautiful sales assistant delivered a blow that hit just as hard as the disease.
"Thank you for supporting our game, Mr. Liu Yun," she said sweetly. "Please be advised, your helmet and your ID have been permanently locked. This helmet can only be used by you and cannot be resold."
"Wha—what did you say? Locked?! You mean I can't sell it?!" I stammered in shock.
The sales assistant paused, then flashed her practiced professional smile. "I'm afraid that is correct, sir."
"But why weren't the others locked?"
"Because yours is a special account, sir." She explained politely and patiently.
Special my ass! I cursed internally. Nothing free is ever good. Looks like the game company isn't stupid after all.
The assistant, seeing my threadbare clothes, clearly guessed my distress. She offered a new smile. "While the helmet can't be resold, you can still earn money in the game!"
"Earn money?" I was baffled. It's just a game for rich people to waste time, what money can it possibly make?
"Sir, didn't you know that the in-game currency can be exchanged for real RMB?" she asked, looking at me as if I were from Mars. Everyone around me gave me the same look.
"Hey! Old man in front! Are you going to move or block the whole damn line?" A frustrated voice shouted from behind me.
"If you're done doing your business, get out! Go look it up online if you have questions!"
Mortified by the chorus of impatient complaints, I grabbed the box and bolted home.
Running in the fine rain, my steps grew heavier and my head started to spin. Back in the shack, I knew I had a fever brewing. My first thought was the bottle of medication next to my pillow, but a frantic shake confirmed my fear—it was empty.
Sigh. Is this how I go? I haven't even lived yet. I stared at the dripping ceiling, unwilling to accept my fate.
My eyes fell on the game helmet. An idea, cold and reckless, solidified in my mind. Fine. If I have to die, I'm going to spend my last few hours trying out this high-society toy!
I fumbled to open the cardboard box. A sleek, black, rounded object appeared—it really did look exactly like a cool motorcycle helmet, save for the power and telephone lines protruding from it.
"They say six days in the game equals one day in reality. If that's true, maybe I can buy myself a few more days." A desperate, sickly smile stretched across my face. My temperature was spiking, and my consciousness was growing blurry.
I glanced at the alarm clock by the bed: 12:00.
I needed the stroke of midnight. The ads clearly stated that Life's Mirage would launch at 00:00 on October 1st, National Day. And while the first ten players would get rewards, anyone logging in early would be disqualified. No one dared risk it.
As soon as the clock struck midnight, I put on the helmet. A flash of blinding, multi-colored light later, I lost consciousness.
I never noticed two things: first, my old clock had stopped ages ago, so I had no idea what day or time it was pointing to. In reality, it was only 11:55 PM.
Second, and far more critically, I was soaked. A large drop of water dripped from my hair and flowed directly into the circuit board of the helmet.
The 68,000 yuan device—tragically lacking proper waterproofing—short-circuited.
A shocking surge of pale violet electricity coursed into my brain, spreading throughout my body. My muscles seized and cramped violently. The small bulb in my shack began flickering wildly. The unstable voltage affected the entire street, causing the lights to fluctuate.
A few 'Trash Kings' playing cards in the alley complained: "Damn it, I paid my electric bill! Why does the cursed power company keep doing this?"
"Exactly! If I had a household registration, I'd sue them!"
Meanwhile, in the headquarters of Tianhua Group, researchers in white coats were frantically tapping keyboards. A massive, cylindrical display spanning two stories (over ten meters high and eight meters in diameter) was covered in unintelligible data.
Behind this screen was the heart of the operation: Tianhua One, the world's most powerful supercomputer, developed by Tianhua Group over five years with limitless resources.
'Tianhua One' was monstrously powerful, capable of supporting the high-speed operation of twenty billion terminals simultaneously. It could handle billions of players worldwide without a single network jam. Furthermore, its stored virtual reality technology was fifty years ahead of the current era. For this reason, the National Defense Ministry classified it as a state secret, deploying an entire company of special forces to guard it and housing it in a bunker one hundred meters underground—safe from even the most advanced spy satellites.
"Chairman, are you sure this is alright?" Zhang Bo, the 45-year-old General Manager, looked anxiously at the 'Tianhua One' through the glass wall.
"What's wrong with it? It's exactly as planned," 38-year-old CEO Qiu Ran replied calmly.
"I just feel a little guilty," Zhang Bo chuckled nervously. "Opening the game five minutes early feels… dishonest."
"Guilt? Forget it. This is self-preservation," Qiu Ran said with a cold, mirthless smile. "Don't forget we invited hackers worldwide to attack our system upon launch, boasting about our 'impenetrable firewall' and 'hacker-catching system.' If we don't make preparations, how can we guarantee our safety?"
"But if someone breaks in now, it seems unfair to the players following the rules later," Zhang Bo argued.
"Fairness? Unfairness? The world isn't fair. If someone has the audacity to log in five minutes early, that top ten player slot is their reward." Qiu Ran's definitive statement silenced Zhang Bo, who secretly marveled at his young boss's ambition.
"By the way, have the other countries reacted?" Qiu Ran asked, changing the subject.
"The other nations are mostly fine. They've accepted the one-month delay; they understand that since Life's Mirage is a Chinese development, we should get to play first. But the Japanese and Americans are kicking up a fuss. They're demanding simultaneous release, calling us 'ultra-nationalist,' 'anti-Japanese,' and 'anti-American'…" Zhang Bo spoke with clear disdain.
Qiu Ran frowned. "What is Yang Tongshu doing? Didn't he explain that the language translation system isn't fully ready? Why did this escalate?"
"Old Yang explained, but they refuse to believe it, calling it an excuse. They even threatened to boycott the game if it wasn't synchronized. Their newspapers are calling Life's Mirage the biggest scam of the century… bigger than the US claiming they got Bin Laden last year. But Old Yang shut them up with one sentence." Zhang Bo looked proud, resembling a child recounting a victory.
"Oh? What did he say?"
"He held a press conference and said, 'The one-month delay for the worldwide release of Life's Mirage will not change. As for those who threaten to boycott the game, I can only say: playing is your freedom; not playing is your right!' Ha! Old Yang's words were immensely satisfying! If it were me, I'd delay it for a year and a half, let our players get to level 80, and then invade their servers and slaughter those bastards! Hahaha!" Zhang Bo burst into childlike laughter.
"General Manager Zhang!"
"Ah!" Startled by Qiu Ran's stern voice, Zhang Bo looked sheepish.
"General Manager Zhang, I want you to understand that we are businessmen, not soldiers. As businessmen, we must prioritize profit over worthless 'nationalistic sentiment.' I don't want to hear such talk from you again."
"Yes, Chairman. I'll keep that in mind." Zhang Bo adopted a submissive expression, though his mind was racing: The Chairman looks like he just got off on that revenge fantasy, yet he can still lecture me with high-minded principles. His level of self-control is truly unmatched.
The two men fell into silence, watching 'Tianhua One' with a mixture of anticipation and tension.
Meanwhile, I was completely unaware of my insane luck. I had inadvertently logged in during the five-minute head start, making me the very first person in the game world. Because of the hypnotic lights and the short-circuiting helmet, my system health sensor had been fried. Even if my body experienced a life-threatening crisis, the game wouldn't pull me out.
Suddenly, a brilliant white light filled my vision. I looked around and found myself in a misty, cavernous hall. Before me stood a six-meter-tall woman with a human torso and a serpent's tail. She was stunningly beautiful, gazing at me with such gentle eyes that my heart warmed.
Am I… in heaven?