Not long after Bai Liu left the game, he walked beside Mu Shicheng, chatting as they went.
“What are these panel attribute points?” Bai Liu pointed to one of the rewards he had received from The Last Train to Blast Off. “Are they what I think they are—points I can freely add to different attributes to improve my stats?”
“Yes and no,” Mu Shicheng explained simply. “A player’s rank in this game is determined by four attributes: Stamina, Agility—basically speed—Attack, and Resistance. Attribute points can only be added to those four bars.”
Bai Liu considered this. “I didn’t receive any attribute points as a reward in my previous game.”
Mu Shicheng rolled his eyes. “Those are extra system rewards. You already grabbed a Personal Skill as an extra reward in your first newbie single-player instance. You want attribute points too? Dream on. These things are hard to get. You only receive a hundred points for clearing a Level 2 game, and the system is stingy as hell. Besides, you can’t just keep adding points infinitely. Once you hit your potential limit, your panel attributes won’t rise no matter how many points you throw in.”
“However...” Mu Shicheng paused meaningfully. “Most people die before they ever reach their potential limit. A Level 2 game only gives a hundred attribute points. Players without big guilds backing them, or without strong enough skills, have a very hard time improving. But there is one way to gain panel attribute points quickly. Not many people use it, though.”
Bai Liu looked at him. “What way?”
“Participate in the League,” Mu Shicheng said in a low voice. “That’s how Spades became an S-level player and beyond. The attribute point rewards for winning players in the League are extremely high.”
Before Mu Shicheng could finish speaking, several bursts of colorful virtual fireworks suddenly exploded across the Game Lobby. Brilliant fragments scattered down in a dazzling display, forming lines of text that drew the attention of nearby players.
[Heavyweight news! Heavyweight news! The annual Horror Game Esports League is about to begin! Don’t miss it as you ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) pass by! This is the grand yearly event for all game players!]
The surrounding players glanced at it and quickly looked away, seemingly used to the spectacle.
“Sigh. Wonder which guild is rich enough to start buying system fireworks for advertising this early.”
“The Support Season has started. From this week on, the major guilds are going to start buying ads like crazy to promote their players. Last time, the King’s Crown Guild burned ten million points on advertisements and almost didn’t make the money back...”
The virtual fireworks fell onto the players, and their system panels automatically opened a game event interface that looked remarkably like a grand opening promotion.
[System Event — The Horror Game Esports League is about to begin!]
[Players may choose their participation identity: League Contestant or Spectator.]
[As a League Contestant, you must fight passionately against other contestants in the arena, regardless of life or death. As a Spectator, you may watch one thrilling match after another, cheer passionately, charge points, and like your favorite teams and players.]
[This is a competition where lives and desires are wagered. Have you chosen your position? Will you become a contestant who sacrifices everything to realize their desire, or a calm bystander who watches like a god?]
...
[League Contestant Registration Requirements: A team of 5 players, each of whom has cleared more than 52 instances.]
[Match Format: Two teams will face off in one team match, one doubles match, and one singles match. The team with the higher total score across all three matches will advance.]
[Note: If a team member dies during the competition, the team may recruit replacement players on its own.]
...
Below that was a long list of event rules, including the disabling of the System Shop during matches.
Fireworks also landed on Bai Liu, prompting the same advertisement to appear on his system interface. He skimmed through it briefly. It felt very similar to esports tournaments in reality.
However, Bai Liu was not particularly interested in this type of competitive game. After all, Bai Liu created horror games, not competitive ones.
Still, he was somewhat surprised that a horror game actually had an esports league.
Mu Shicheng, on the other hand, had clearly known about it for a long time. He clicked his tongue, closed the system notification window, and complained, “So annoying. The guilds and the system are starting their advertising bombardment again. The League Support Season really is here.”
“Support Season?” Bai Liu looked at Mu Shicheng. “What does that mean? Is this the League you mentioned, the one with high attribute point rewards?”
Mu Shicheng pouted impatiently. “Just scroll down and you’ll see. It’s all promotional ads and viral marketing.”
Bai Liu scrolled to the very bottom of the system page. Sure enough, just as Mu Shicheng had said, the lower section was filled with promotional pages for various players and guilds. There were team posters and solo player posters, each with “Charge” and “Like” buttons beside them. The higher the combined number of charges and likes, the higher the promotional page ranked.
The player ranked first was represented by a side-profile photo of a man whose bangs covered his eyes.
His lips were pale, and his jawline was thin and sharp. A long black whip was wrapped around his cold, slender wrist, its tail gripped in his hand. His head was tilted slightly upward, his narrow eyes seeming to glance sideways. He gave off an extraordinarily sharp, icy aura. The player’s image was rather blurry, but even with Bai Liu’s lack of ordinary appreciation for human beauty, this person was undeniably good-looking—beautiful in a way that could be measured by artistic standards.
A perfect model of bone structure.
He reminded Bai Liu of Tawil, but this person’s appearance was much colder and harsher. If Tawil’s beauty was fluorescent and bewitching, like moonlight, then Spades was like an unsheathed blade. Staring at him for more than a few seconds felt as though it might cut one’s eyes.
Even through such a blurred photo, he exuded cold murderous intent and untouchable indifference.
(T/N: Bears a resemblance to Tawil? My spidey senses are tingling.)
Bai Liu clicked on the person’s profile.
[Player: Spades]
[Current Combined Support Data: 1.3 million. Ranked first among all participating players. Death-Exemption Gold Medal unlocked.]
[Note: Due to exceptionally high popularity, this player has received system protection and obtained a Death-Exemption Gold Medal. When the player enters a near-death state during a competitive game, the system will forcibly remove them from the game and place them inside a protective shield.]
[Overall Points Leaderboard: First]
[Affiliated Guild: Killers’ Sequence]
Bai Liu continued scrolling down.
The solo poster of the player in second place was completely different from Spades’s. Spades’s personal poster looked like a random candid shot taken by a passerby, while this second poster was clearly a professionally retouched, high-end photo produced by a top entertainment-industry team. Even the fine hairs on the person’s face were visible.
Second place belonged to someone Bai Liu had heard of before.
The poster showed a glamorous woman in a cheongsam, with snow-white skin and black curls. Her hair was medium-length and softly curled, her eyes almond-shaped, her lips red. Beneath her right eye was a Heart icon. She wore a bright red cheongsam with a single-sided slit and black satin heels. One leg was crossed over the other, revealing black stockings. A deck of cards shuffled between her fingers, and her half-smiling expression looked lazy and seductive. One glance carried a soul-stirring fragrance and an overwhelming sense of desire.
[Player: Queen of Hearts]
[Current Combined Support Data: 970,000. Ranked second among all participating players. Death-Exemption Gold Medal unlocked.]
[Overall Points Leaderboard: Second]
[Affiliated Guild: King’s Crown]
...
As Bai Liu looked through the page, Mu Shicheng explained, “Every year after August, the game holds an Esports League. Players can form their own teams and participate. Of course, ordinary players who join are basically just throwing their lives away. The League is a playground for big guilds. They have deep foundations.”
“To gather votes for their contestants, these guilds set off fireworks in the game and use every promotion method imaginable. That’s what we call the Support Season.”
“They also hoard props like crazy to prepare for their participating players and boost their attributes.”
“This kind of massive hoarding and advertising is really annoying. It makes it hard for players like me, who don’t care about the League, to buy the props we actually need,” Mu Shicheng complained. “And I heard Puppet Master was originally a reserve member for the King’s Crown team. That’s why the King’s Crown Guild put so much effort into cultivating him. He was also hoarding new puppets like crazy. Who would’ve thought he’d die at your hands? They’ll probably have to replace their reserve member now.”
“This year, King’s Crown is very ambitious. They also recruited a newcomer called Little Witch. Her personal skill can restore health in-game, which is an extremely rare player type. All the major guilds were fighting over her. She was also number one on the Rising Star Rankings, and in the end, King’s Crown snatched her up.”
“Originally, I heard King’s Crown planned to combine Puppet Master’s control skills with Little Witch’s healing skills to form a very unusual tactic. They were already practicing it. But then you took Zhang Kui down, so now they’ll have to change their strategy.”
At that, Mu Shicheng let out a rather gleeful snort.
Bai Liu looked at the various teams and players on the promotional panel. After thinking for a moment, he asked, “There’s something I’ve been confused about for a while. In a life-and-death game like this, why are spectator tips so intense? First place has already accumulated over 1.3 million points in combined likes and charges. And there are even esports-style competitive entertainment events.”
“Spectators are just ordinary players. For them to be this entertainment-focused in a game involving life and death... it’s somewhat abnormal.”
Mu Shicheng swiped across his own system panel a few times, then handed it to Bai Liu.
“Because the points spectators charge for these contestants aren’t just tips. They’re bets. The player only gets ten percent, the system takes five percent, and the rest enters the betting pool.”
[System Reminder: 85% of the points spectators charge for a specific player before a match will enter the gambling system. If that player wins the competition, the spectator may win the charging points of the losing side.]
[Small bets are entertaining; large bets harm the body. Players are requested to charge carefully and gamble moderately.]
“What’s 1.3 million?” Mu Shicheng said. “You didn’t see last year’s League. During the finals, both sides’ charging points reached a hundred million. The Support Season has only just started. These numbers still have plenty of room to grow.”
“Usually, the points spectators charge for ordinary players like us are just pocket change. They’re used for practice or to nurture newcomers.”
“A hundred million charging points...” Bai Liu’s focus quickly drifted.
He did the math.
Even if the winning player only took ten percent, that was still ten million points.
Ten million points.
Ten million points.
Ten million points.
Bai Liu’s gaze gradually deepened.
Mu Shicheng, completely unaware of what was happening in Bai Liu’s head, continued providing information. “The champion’s reward is one hundred million points per person. First place in singles, doubles, and team matches also receives attribute point rewards, but I’m not clear on the exact amount. Apparently, it changes every year. But between the point reward and the share of the charges from the match, the winning player gets an astronomical amount. Win once, and you’re set for life. That’s why League guilds go all out during Support Season.”
Bai Liu’s finger hovered over the system panel for five seconds.
When he heard “one hundred million per person,” his gaze froze for a long time.
Then Bai Liu took a calm, deep breath and quickly flipped back to the registration page he had skimmed over earlier.
To hell with the story-game experience.
He wanted to participate.
Let him participate.
In that instant, Bai Liu’s mind was filled with nothing but those one hundred million points. It would not be an exaggeration to say that both his eyes and brain had been stimulated into the shape of coins.
He quickly opened the registration interface.
[Time Remaining Until Registration Deadline: 2 Months : 01 Day : 7 Hours : 34 Minutes]
[Player is still missing the following participation requirements: 50 instance clears, 4 teammates.]
He was far from qualified.
Bai Liu cooled down slightly and began thinking rationally.
He had only sixty-one days left and needed to clear fifty game instances. On average, he would have to clear roughly one instance every day in reality. Even if time flowed more slowly inside game instances, playing one game per day...
His mental stamina might not hold up.
To be honest, the games drained him heavily. Otherwise, Bai Liu would not sleep so deeply every time he exited one.
But then his eyes flicked back to the one hundred million point reward.
Mu Shicheng was still rambling. “But this year’s competition has nothing to do with us newcomers. You need to have cleared fifty-two instances to participate. I usually clear one a week, and I’ve only cleared twenty-six so far. With only two months left, there’s no way I can make up the remaining count...”
As he spoke, Mu Shicheng met Bai Liu’s gaze.
A chill ran down his spine, and he instinctively took two steps back.
“Bai Liu, what are you planning to do to me?!”
Bai Liu smiled.
“My friend, do you want to stay up late playing games? The kind where we clear fifty instances in two months?”
Mu Shicheng: “??????”
—
Mu Shicheng and Bai Liu logged out of the game together.
Their logout point was set to Bai Liu’s home.
Mu Shicheng wanted to contact Bai Liu offline, but the game did not allow players to discuss specific real-world information, such as addresses or phone numbers. Just as in reality, where players could not discuss game information, anything like phone numbers, WeChat IDs, or QQ numbers would be blocked by the system as soon as it was spoken.
Because of that, the fastest way for two players to communicate offline was to log out through the same player’s logout port.
Each player’s logout port had a twelve-digit password, like a code. After confirming logout, entering the password would send the player to the logout port corresponding to that password.
A player’s initial logout port password corresponded to the location where they first logged into the game, which also served as their default logout location. In Bai Liu’s first game, he had not entered any password, so the system had automatically logged him out at the address where he had first entered the game.
For example, if Bai Liu logged into the game from home, the game would generate a twelve-digit password for him. The logout port corresponding to that password would be Bai Liu’s home. Anyone who entered that password could log out at [Bai Liu’s home].
Mu Shicheng was still a college student. He had logged in from his dormitory. If Bai Liu logged out there, he would be caught on the spot by the dormitory auntie.
So the two of them chose to log out into Bai Liu’s tiny rented room.
But the moment they appeared in Bai Liu’s room, Mu Shicheng had only just begun speaking earnestly—
“Bai Liu, listen to me. Don’t participate. And you can’t even gather enough people, right? How are just the two of us supposed to—”
Before he could finish, Mu Shicheng stopped.
He stared at the exquisite-looking young man asleep on Bai Liu’s bed with an extremely strange expression.
The boy’s face was streaked with tears.
Mu Ke had clearly experienced something in the game. His face was covered in tear tracks, and there were red marks on his wrists and ankles that looked as if he had been whipped. He was hugging one of Bai Liu’s shirts, his entire face buried in it, curled into a small ball at the edge of the bed like an insecure little animal, sleeping deeply like a cat.
Bai Liu remained completely unfazed.
He barely glanced at Mu Ke on the bed. Without turning his head, he walked past the sleeping Mu Ke and casually replied to Mu Shicheng, “It’s three people. The one on the bed will also participate.”
“??????” Mu Shicheng’s face filled with question marks. “Fuck, Bai Liu, are you serious? Who is this?”
It was not that Mu Shicheng was blind and failed to recognize Mu Ke.
He simply had never imagined that Mu Ke—the newcomer from the same batch as Bai Liu—would appear on Bai Liu’s bed in such a state.
Bai Liu turned to look at him.
“Mu Ke. The newbie player I brought out of the game last time. I’ll take him with me to grind instances.”
Both Mu Ke and Bai Liu were pure newcomers, and both had only cleared two games. The number of games they lacked was the same. If Bai Liu took Mu Ke along to grind instances, they could raise both their clear counts at the same time.
Mu Ke had also logged out at Bai Liu’s home last time, so he knew the logout password to Bai Liu’s house. Bai Liu had expected that after Mu Ke cleared his game this time, he would choose to log out here again.
Before entering the game, Bai Liu had let Mu Ke play on his own and had said he would not interfere much. He suggested Mu Ke choose a single-player game. Only if Mu Ke survived this time would Bai Liu begin seriously training him.
Bai Liu disliked interacting with weak-willed people. They were too good at finding excuses for themselves.
Therefore, Bai Liu had decided to test Mu Ke first. If Mu Ke could clear a game successfully on his own, then Bai Liu would consider training him properly.
That way, he could avoid a situation like Zhang Kui’s. The King’s Crown Guild had spent enormous resources cultivating Zhang Kui, but Zhang Kui relied too heavily on puppets and on the intelligence he extracted from others. In the end, he had fallen to Bai Liu, creating an enormous sunk cost.
Bai Liu disliked creating sunk costs.
But he liked high returns.
It seemed Mu Ke had indeed managed to clear the game on his own with everything he had. But after surviving on the edge between life and death, that intense sense of insecurity had made him subconsciously choose to log out at Bai Liu’s home.
It was both a way of seeking comfort and a way of proving himself.
Mu Ke wanted Bai Liu to see, as soon as he cleared the game, that he had done it.
He was a bit like a child who had finally scored a hundred on a test and was crying while showing the paper to his parent.
Parent Bai Liu took a white shirt and suit trousers into the bathroom to change.
A few minutes later, he walked out looking like a proper gentleman.
Mu Shicheng had already shrunk into a corner as if he had seen a ghost, keeping a considerable distance from Mu Ke on the bed. He pointed at Mu Ke and asked Bai Liu, now changed, with a complicated expression and tone,
“...You kidnapped that newbie you saved last time onto your bed?!”
“He came here himself. He has my logout number, so there’s nothing I can do about it.” Bai Liu clearly had not realized Mu Shicheng’s thoughts had gone in an entirely wrong direction. “I originally planned to leave him alone for now, but time is tight. I want to participate in the League, and I don’t have many cards in hand. He’s fairly obedient, so I think I can take him along to grind instances and train him.”
After learning that participating in the League could earn him one hundred million points, Bai Liu seemed almost possessed. He insisted on participating no matter what Mu Shicheng said.
Unable to persuade him, Mu Shicheng could only ask where Bai Liu intended to find the five players, each with more than fifty-two clears, required to form a team.
Even if Mu Shicheng, who was still short by over twenty games, was forcibly included, Bai Liu would still be missing three people.
But Bai Liu looked as if he was planning to drag Mu Ke—who, like himself, had only cleared two games—into the competition.
This was simply a joke.
Grinding fifty games in two months without rest... even if a lunatic like Bai Liu could withstand that mentally, how could an ordinary player like Mu Ke survive it?
Mu Shicheng could not help pointing at Mu Ke, who was still lying on the bed.
“Bai Liu, maybe a psycho like you can grind fifty games, but Mu Ke is a newbie. He should’ve just come out after clearing an instance, right? He has injuries on him. Do you know under what circumstances a player brings injuries out of a game? You and I came out without any wounds.”
Bai Liu finished tying his tie. His gaze swept over the marks on Mu Ke’s wrists and ankles before finally landing on Mu Shicheng’s face.
“Under what circumstances does a player bring injuries out?”
Mu Shicheng found a chair, turned it around, and sat down backward on it. He had used up a great deal of energy in the game and looked rather lazy, but aside from his low energy, he had indeed come out uninjured.
Resting his head on the chair back, Mu Shicheng looked up at Bai Liu, who was adjusting his tie.
“For an injury from the game to be carried into reality, the player has to believe they’re injured and that the injury can’t be cured. Then the game follows the player’s own will and lets the injury come out with them.”
“Generally speaking, that only happens under extreme fear—for example, when Mental Value drops below 10. At that point, most people lose awareness that they’re in a game and start believing they’re in reality. Then they believe they’re truly injured, and the injury follows them out.”
As he spoke, Mu Shicheng glanced at the boy on the bed, whose appearance and body language both seemed incredibly fragile—Mu Ke—then looked at Bai Liu with obvious disapproval.
“A player who easily brings injuries out of a game can only mean one thing: their psychological quality is poor, and their panel potential isn’t high. And if I remember correctly, Mu Ke is a player without a Personal Skill, right?”
Mu Shicheng raised an eyebrow.
“Are you sure you want to take him into the League? How is that any different from sending him in to die?”
“But I can say that, to a certain extent, I was able to clear The Last Train to Blast Off because of his help,” Bai Liu said unhurriedly, looking at Mu Shicheng.
In the end, Bai Liu had relied on Mu Ke’s [Siren’s Amulet] as the trump card that allowed him to confront the god-level NPC. It was also because Mu Ke had that [Siren’s Amulet] that Bai Liu had been able to trick Mu Shicheng into joining him.
According to Mu Shicheng, for Mu Ke to bring injuries back into reality, he must have reached a state of extreme fear and urgency inside his own game instance.
But even then, Mu Ke had not used the [Siren’s Amulet] in his own single-player instance.
He had saved his most precious survival item for Bai Liu.
All because before entering the game, Bai Liu had once mentioned to him, “I might need to use your item, [Siren’s Amulet].”
Even after Mu Ke’s Mental Value had dropped low enough for fear to blur the boundary between reality and the game, he had not used that item. Instead, he had struggled out of the game covered in injuries.
This was the same choice Mu Shicheng had made in The Last Train to Blast Off.
“You and he hold the same value to me, Mu Shicheng,” Bai Liu said, looking at him without the slightest ripple in his eyes. “Because both of you kept your agreement with me in a desperate situation. I respect that very much, so I cannot break my agreement with either of you.”
“I said that if he managed to come out on his own this time, I would train him properly and let him live.”
“Just as I won’t give up on you, I won’t easily give up on him either.”
Bai Liu looked at Mu Ke, bruised and battered on the bed, and lowered his eyes.
“Because both of you have proven your value to me.”
