Chapter 35: Reality
As expected, the [Game] possessed authority above the [Real World] itself and could alter the very [Facts] that governed reality.
This world had already been tampered with. Those selected as [Players] had uncovered that [Truth], yet all of them had been [Silenced], incapable of revealing even the slightest fragment of it.
The limits of that [Silence] remained unknown. Things with an objective existence—things that could be recorded—were easy enough to erase or alter. Words written on paper could disappear. Posts on Weibo or Moments could be deleted. Even humans in the real world were capable of that level of [Erasure].
Bai Liu pulled his old phone from the drawer—the one he had stubbornly refused to replace despite its shattered screen. He found a friend’s number and dialed it. Before the other person could respond, Bai Liu rapidly recounted everything he had experienced.
After listening, the friend immediately burst out with several shocked curses.
Bai Liu rested one hand against the table and began tapping lightly with his fingers as he counted down in a calm voice.
“Seven... six... five...”
“Why are you counting down?! Hurry up and tell me more! Wait, is this actually real? You’re not making this up, right? This is insane—!”
Bai Liu lowered his eyes.
“Three... two... one.”
The voice on the other end abruptly cut off.
A second later, confusion replaced it.
“Eh? Bai Liu? Why did you call me? Wait—when did I even answer the phone? I seriously don’t remember this at all!”
“It’s nothing,” Bai Liu replied casually. “I just missed you, so I called.”
Seven seconds.
That was exactly how long it had taken for the final character in the Weibo post Bai Liu had uploaded to vanish completely. He had made a point of timing it.
He hadn’t expected the [Game] to be capable of manipulating even something as intangible as human memory—a [non-objective existence]. And it had only taken seven seconds to complete the overwrite.
Not one second more.
To the [Game], rewriting human memory seemed no more difficult than editing a line of data.
“Ugh, stop talking nonsense. A guy like you only ever says ‘I miss you’ to money.” The friend snorted. “Seriously though, why’d you suddenly call? Something happen?”
“I was thinking about something.” Bai Liu idly tapped his pen against the desk while writing down his experiences from the game, only to watch the words gradually disappear one by one. “Lu Yizhan, do you think humans only have seven seconds of memory?”
Lu Yizhan paused, sounding baffled.
“Why are you suddenly asking philosophical questions? Besides, didn’t you remember it wrong? Isn’t the saying supposed to be that fish only have seven-second memories?”
“Did I remember it wrong?” Bai Liu stretched lazily. “Maybe. If humans only remember seven seconds at a time, remembering things incorrectly would be normal. Say... do you think it’s possible the original sentence was actually [Human memory only lasts seven seconds], and then something altered it into [Fish memory only lasts seven seconds] just to fool humans?”
Lu Yizhan had already grown accustomed to Bai Liu’s increasingly bizarre trains of thought ever since he lost his job.
He laughed helplessly.
“What exactly have you been thinking about lately? Anyway, I got paid today. Let me treat you to dinner. Stop obsessing over humans, fish, and seven-second memories. If people really only remembered seven seconds at a time, what would people like us do? I memorize legal statutes for a living.”
“If you’re paying, then of course I’m coming.”
Bai Liu casually slipped the coin hanging around his neck back beneath his collar.
A cold sensation brushed against his chest.
Not the coin.
The Siren King’s scale.
The thin piece rested quietly over his heart.
Bai Liu hadn’t hung up yet, but as though possessed, he suddenly asked:
“If human memory only lasts seven seconds, and fish memory only lasts seven seconds... then Lu Yizhan, how many seconds of memory does a merman have?”
“You’re still thinking about this? Now you’re dragging mermen into it too?” Lu Yizhan sounded both amused and helpless. “According to your theory, if both humans and fish only have seven-second memories, then a merman’s memory would probably be even shorter, right? Zero point something seconds?”
“Probably.”
Although he had already parted ways with the merman called Tawil, the other had likely forgotten him the very instant Bai Liu disappeared.
Bai Liu rarely felt lonely because of being ignored or forgotten.
He had never cared much for recognition from others. As long as he had enough money to entertain himself, he could live perfectly well.
But the Siren King had been an unprecedentedly beautiful piece of data.
Even someone as emotionally detached as Bai Liu felt the faintest trace of regret knowing that those few seconds of himself in Tawil’s memory had already vanished.
But only a little.
No larger than a single fish scale.
The reason Lu Yizhan and Bai Liu got along so well was simple:
They were equally stingy.
The two had forged a rock-solid friendship through sharing discount coupons, promotional deals, and lottery information.
Of course, some people believed they only stuck together because neither of them had parents—two orphans who understood each other’s loneliness.
The moment Bai Liu sat down at the barbecue stall, Lu Yizhan grinned.
“Bai Liu, I’m getting married.”
“Congratulations.” Bai Liu wasn’t surprised. Lu Yizhan and his girlfriend had been together for years already. Marriage was only natural. “Then this meal is on me. I’ll also prepare a two-thousand-yuan wedding gift for you later.”
Lu Yizhan nearly spat his beer across the table.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!”
He stared at Bai Liu in disbelief.
“You’re treating me and giving me a wedding gift?! And two thousand yuan?! Weren’t you the one who said you’d never give wedding money to anyone in your entire life because it was like throwing meat buns at dogs—gone forever?!”
Those really were Bai Liu’s exact words.
A coworker had gotten married once.
Normally, that coworker didn’t get along with Bai Liu at all and constantly badmouthed him behind his back. Yet when the wedding came around, he shamelessly approached Bai Liu for gift money, even bringing up how everyone else had contributed 1,200 yuan and saying Bai Liu should do the same to make it a “double happiness” amount.
At the time, Bai Liu had calmly replied:
[I don’t plan on getting married, so I don’t give wedding gifts to strangers. I don’t make investments that disappear like meat buns thrown at dogs.]
The coworker’s face had instantly darkened.
Bai Liu had basically called him a dog.
After that, the man spent days cursing Bai Liu behind his back, saying someone like him was destined to die childless.
Bai Liu remained completely unmoved.
After all, he genuinely had no intention of having children.
To him, those insults were merely objective statements about his future life.
“There’s a difference,” Bai Liu said while taking a sip of beer. “I just don’t give money to strangers. You’re different. We have a reciprocal relationship, so giving you money isn’t an unprofitable investment.”
Lu Yizhan looked both touched and amused.
“What, are you planning to make your money back off me someday?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Seriously, Bai Liu, you don’t need to give me anything. I invited you because I’m happy. I don’t have many friends, but you’re one of them. That’s enough for me. Besides, your financial situation isn’t exactly great right now, is it? Forget it.”
“We’ll talk about it once you actually have money.”
If Bai Liu’s obsession with calculating gains and losses was innate, then Lu Yizhan’s frugality had been forced onto him by life.
Lu Yizhan was just an underpaid policeman.
His situation had only recently started improving, but compared to unemployed Bai Liu, he was still much better off.
He genuinely didn’t want Bai Liu spending that money.
Bai Liu finished a grilled skewer and wiped his mouth.
“I made a hundred thousand this week.”
“Pfft—!”
This time Lu Yizhan really sprayed beer.
“What the hell did you do?!”
He knew Bai Liu didn’t lie.
If Bai Liu said he earned a hundred thousand, then he really had earned a hundred thousand.
That was precisely why Lu Yizhan was horrified.
“You didn’t seriously go do something illegal, did you?!” Lu Yizhan immediately pulled out his phone with a righteous expression. “I’m warning you right now—I’ll personally arrest you!”
Lu Yizhan had always known Bai Liu was frighteningly intelligent.
Unfortunately, that intelligence tended to wander into deeply questionable directions.
Whether it was designing horror games or imagining perfectly traceless crimes, Bai Liu’s mind had never once traveled down a normal path.
So hearing that Bai Liu had suddenly become rich, Lu Yizhan’s first reaction wasn’t envy.
It was sheer alarm.
Bai Liu’s moral standards were already dangerously low to begin with. Combined with his unhealthy obsession with money, there was no telling what he might do after losing his source of income.
“I changed jobs.” Bai Liu calmly cracked open peanuts while speaking. “You don’t need to panic. I already checked—it’s legal.”
“The pay is high, but the work’s dangerous. Still, it suits me.”
“What kind of job pays that much?” Lu Yizhan remained skeptical. “A hundred thousand a week?”
“Mm... basically, I sold my soul to /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ a large underground organization.” Bai Liu thoughtfully rubbed his chin, trying to explain the [Game] in a way that wouldn’t trigger the restrictions. “I’m not allowed to reveal the organization’s existence.”
“Then I go on stage. Or maybe you could call it livestreaming.”
“While performing, I do various things and sell both my body and soul. Strange-looking creatures bully and humiliate me for the audience’s entertainment.”
“Then audience members reward me with money.”
“That’s how I earned a hundred thousand.”
“......”
A complicated mixture of confusion, shock, horror, and pity slowly appeared on Lu Yizhan’s face.
Finally, it settled into grief.
“Bai Liu...” Lu Yizhan looked at him mournfully. “You didn’t become a nightclub escort, did you?”
Bai Liu: “......”
After a lengthy explanation, Lu Yizhan reluctantly accepted that Bai Liu wasn’t actually doing sex work.
However, he became even more determined not to accept the wedding gift money.
In his eyes, that was “selling-his-body money.”
He absolutely couldn’t take it.
Bai Liu: “......”
Honestly, if Lu Yizhan insisted on interpreting it that way... it wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
After their brief gathering, Bai Liu returned home and rested for two days.
He paid six months of rent to the landlord, cleaned his apartment, and quietly prepared to re-enter the [Game].
Although the [Game] only required players to enter once every seven days, Bai Liu wanted to investigate several things further.
Still, before leaving, he decided to have a proper meal.
If he died inside the game, it would at least count as a respectable final supper.
With that thought, Bai Liu went downstairs and ordered a bowl of noodles with an extra fried egg.
The owner of the small noodle shop downstairs was an excellent cook.
A grease-stained television hung from the wall above the tables, currently broadcasting social news while Bai Liu ate.
The female anchor spoke in a clear, professional voice:
“Li Gou, the primary suspect in the rape, murder, and dismemberment case involving a third-year high school student, has once again appealed through his lawyer, claiming the evidence supporting his original death sentence is insufficient. Preparations for the second trial are currently underway—”
Onscreen, a photograph of the bloated-faced suspect appeared beside a school photo of a smiling young girl whose eyes had been obscured with mosaic censorship.
The contrast was grotesque.
The noodle shop owner glanced up at the television and sighed heavily while wiping his hands on his apron.
“What a tragedy. Such a good girl...”
He shook his head.
“If I were her parents, I’d lose my mind too. The sentence was already settled, but suddenly they claim the evidence disappeared. The internet’s exploding over it.”
The anchor continued reporting in the same flat tone.
“The victim’s family is currently experiencing severe emotional distress and has gathered outside the courthouse to protest. Relevant authorities have intervened for mediation and investigation.”
The footage shifted.
A middle-aged woman with disheveled hair struggled violently against several people trying to restrain her.
She had cried so much that the skin around her eyes looked swollen, pale, and wrinkled.
No matter how desperately she wiped her tears away, fresh tears and mucus immediately followed.
Held up beneath both arms, she still lunged toward the courthouse doors like a madwoman.
Her knees nearly slammed into the ground as she screamed.
“She was only eighteen!!!”
Her voice sounded like the howl of a wounded animal.
“How could the evidence disappear?! Why did every document recording what that monster did to my Guoguo vanish?! Are you protecting him?! Are all of you protecting him?!”
Nearby, a middle-aged man had already been pinned to the ground by security guards.
He twisted violently beneath them, clothes torn apart from struggling.
“Let me go!” he screamed while sobbing. “Give my daughter justice! Give my daughter justice! Bring that animal Li Gou out here! I swore at Guoguo’s grave that I’d kill him myself and avenge her!”
The footage changed again.
Li Gou appeared onscreen with a censorship bar covering his eyes.
Though he tried to suppress his expression, smug satisfaction still leaked from every line of his face.
“I didn’t do it,” he said. “So I didn’t do it. The evidence before was fabricated by those two to frame me.”
Then he smiled.
The mosaic over his eyes, combined with the upward curl of his lips, gave him an unnaturally distorted expression.
Something cruel.
Something inhuman.
“I’m a good person,” Li Gou whispered hoarsely. “Even heaven is helping me. The ones spreading rumors about me are the ones who deserve to burn.”
“How awful...”
The noodle shop owner had the soft, rounded appearance of dough.
Now he stood there wiping tears with his apron.
“I actually knew that family. They used to live nearby. Their daughter, Guoguo, was an excellent student. I never imagined something like this could happen...”
“The evidence disappeared?”
Bai Liu finished the last bite of noodles and looked up at the television thoughtfully.
The method used to erase objective evidence felt strangely similar to the [Game]’s [Silence].
“Where’s the girl buried?” Bai Liu asked suddenly. “Or do you have her parents’ phone number?”
The owner froze.
“I do... but what are you planning to do, Bai Liu?”
“I might be able to help them.”
Bai Liu wiped his mouth, stood, and slipped a ten-yuan bill beneath the bowl.
The owner stared blankly.
“Help them? How?”
“With an unconventional but legal method,” Bai Liu replied calmly.
By now, Bai Liu had already realized that the [Game] operated through a pyramid-scheme-like recruitment system.
Players dragged others into despair like falling dominoes.
Events that appeared unrelated were secretly connected beneath the surface.
People became trapped inside carefully arranged tragedies crafted by the [Game], and once their desires reached a sufficiently extreme level, they would be recruited as new [Players].
The condition for entering the game was simple:
A desire powerful enough to outweigh fear of death itself.
Like Bai Liu’s obsession with money.
If his guess was correct, then the [Game] would soon gain two new players.
The grieving parents.
As for Li Gou—he was likely already a player.
He must have used an item capable of erasing evidence of his crimes.
And by doing so, he had forced Guoguo’s parents into utter despair, driving them toward an overwhelming desire for revenge.
That desire fulfilled the [Game]’s recruitment requirements.
Just like how [Mu Ke] had been dropped into Bai Liu’s position because he desperately wanted to experience life despite his weak heart.
That event had cost Bai Liu his job and pushed him toward uncontrollable greed for money.
Which ultimately led him into the [Game].
Everyone in this world resembled chess pieces in the hands of the [Game].
Their lives could be manipulated, rearranged, and discarded at will.
The [Game] treated humanity itself as entertainment.
What a cruel, calculating [Game].
