Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Sea Without Light 01

Author’s Note:

The female protagonist’s name: Kui Xin. Kui, pronounced the same as Kui.

Please do not post recommendations in my comment section; it is not a sharing area. If you want to share recommendations, go elsewhere.

Bugs can earn you red envelopes.

Approach with caution if you have moral expectations for the protagonist; those with strong beliefs should tread lightly.

Slow burn, plot-driven, with extensive early setup. The Cthulhu elements are minimal; it’s not traditional horror. This is my take on cyberpunk, leaning towards the popular settings of the last century; I create my own world~

…

Below is an introduction to [Cyberpunk], sourced from Baidu Encyclopedia.

Cyberpunk (English: Cyberpunk) is a portmanteau of “cybernetics, neuromechanics” and “punk,” also known in Chinese as “赛伯朋克.”

Works in the cyberpunk genre are usually set against the backdrop of “low-end living combined with high-end technology,” often featuring advanced science and technology contrasted with a somewhat decayed social structure. They display a dazzling array of visual effects, such as street neon lights, iconic advertisements, and tall buildings, typically in shades of black, purple, green, blue, and red. The story framework usually involves social order being heavily controlled by governments, corporations, or secret organizations, while the protagonists exploit weaknesses within this setup to make breakthroughs.

Cyberpunk narratives often revolve around conflicts between hackers, AI, and large corporations, set on a dystopian Earth not far in the future, rather than in the outer space of early cyberpunk. It represents a significant improvement and advancement over previous sci-fi novels, which often neglected to focus on concrete information technology settings.

—

Kui Xin was jolted awake by a notification from her class group.

Still blurry-eyed, she fumbled for her mobile phone under her pillow, squinting to make sense of the information on the screen.

“The first batch of beta test players for ‘Crimson Soil’ has been announced!”

“Is it for real?”

“It was just posted on the official website three minutes ago [image].”

“Wow! Who’s so lucky?”

“Only 10,000 players for the first beta test? That’s a global selection, and the official quota is so small!”

Kui Xin took a moment to process this, finally remembering that, under the encouragement of her classmates, she had applied for a beta testing qualification by randomly filling out a questionnaire on the official website ten months ago.

At that time, ‘Crimson Soil’ had just released its teaser trailer, promoting itself as “a groundbreaking holographic game, a real Second World.”

The teaser quickly attracted the attention of players worldwide, with the game highlighting its open world for free exploration and multiple career paths.

It was a mix of cyberpunk and extraordinary abilities, where players could opt to become heavily modified cybernetic humans or awaken various unusual powers.

It existed in a reality-based environment elevated above reality, offering an unparalleled sense of authenticity, as if seamlessly connecting to the real world.

What truly captivated Kui Xin were the last two sentences of the game’s description.

“Light will always foster darkness; beneath the glamorous facade of the city lies a rotten and decayed side.”

“Compared to money and power, survival and death are the eternal propositions of that world.”

Since the description stated this… perhaps ‘Crimson Soil’ included a dark core aside from the appeal of cyberpunk aesthetics and extraordinary abilities?

Kui Xin clicked on the screenshot in the chat group and saw that the official game would send beta test invitation emails to players’ inboxes. Indeed, the first batch of beta testers consisted of only 10,000 players, with the official testing date set for tomorrow.

It’s worth noting that, just a day after ‘Crimson Soil’ opened pre-registration, the number of global sign-ups had already surpassed ten million; now, after months of anticipation, that number had exceeded one hundred million. The odds of being selected as one of the ten thousand lucky testers from this vast pool were minuscule.

Though not expecting much, Kui Xin still opened her email to check.

“You have an unread message.”

The notification flashed on her screen, startling Kui Xin and causing her heart to race as she leapt out of bed.

“Congratulations! You have been awarded a beta test qualification for the game ‘Crimson Soil.'”

The email subject was prominently in red. Kui Xin stared in a daze, repeatedly checking the sender against the official email account released, unbelievingly confirming again and again.

When she finally verified that this email was indeed from the official sender, the first thought that flooded her mind was—I’m going to get rich! I’m going to get rich!!

Selling this beta test qualification will surely earn a lot of money!

She was ecstatic!

Kui Xin was a perennial unfortunate soul. Her father had vanished after failing an investment, and her mother, after remarrying, sent her eight hundred yuan for living expenses every month. It was enough for food, but buying study materials and clothes was a struggle. The second-hand smart phone she owned was something she had bought herself with her earnings from her part-time job at a tea shop.

Alone in the old house left by her grandparents, she woke early and stayed up late studying, like a resilient weed fighting to survive.

Once this summer ended, Kui Xin would head to university. She had good grades and entered a prestigious school, but tuition and living expenses were a concern.

If she could sell the beta test qualification for ‘Crimson Soil,’ she wouldn’t have to worry about living expenses for a while.

However, the next line in the email dashed Kui Xin’s hopes.

“The beta test qualification for ‘Crimson Soil’ is non-transferable and non-giftable. The beta test invitation code is bound to the player’s registration information and cannot be changed. This beta test will not involve charges or data wipes.”

Kui Xin’s face fell in disappointment, her path to making money ruthlessly severed.

In truth, she didn’t really care about the game. With her trash equipment and lack of even a holographic helmet, she couldn’t possibly play it. Filling out the game questionnaire was simply a whim, mostly driven by the hopeful thought of “What if the beta qualification could be traded? That would be a big win.”

After contemplating for a while, Kui Xin sadly realized that although she had become one of the global ten thousand lucky players, she was still a perennial unfortunate soul. Winning a beta qualification but being unable to experience the game felt as frustrating as having mountains of gold yet being unable to spend it.

She sighed and scrolled down to continue reading.

The email content was brief and offered little substantial information. When Kui Xin flipped to the back, she was pleasantly surprised to find a statement: “If the player agrees to join the game, the game company will provide the player with special game equipment.”

Kui Xin: Yay!

Her worries were resolved; she could finally play the game! Her mood soared like a roller coaster ride.

At the end of the email, there was a link to a player questionnaire survey.

Curious, Kui Xin clicked on the link.

Question 1: If given the chance to embrace a new life, would you accept it?

Did this even need to be asked? Without hesitation, Kui Xin selected the answer that indicated “yes.”

New life meant a fresh start, and her current life was bad enough; how much worse could it get?

Question 2: Do you believe in the existence of deities?

Kui Xin chose “no.” She was a staunch atheist.

Question 3: Do you want superpowers?

“Yes”! Wanting superpowers did not conflict with her being an atheist!

“You have completed the questionnaire.”

“Game-related documents and precautions have been sent to your email; please check them.”

“The anonymous forum for beta players has been opened for you; please save the URL and register in a timely manner.”

Kui Xin carefully read the new messages and saved the URL for the player anonymous forum as instructed.

Some game beta content is considered trade secrets and cannot be disclosed. The existence of beta players is to help developers identify bugs and fix game loopholes. The developers of ‘Crimson Soil’ provided a forum for beta testers, possibly to give them a place to interact.

With ten thousand players having acquired beta qualifications, the content in the forum should be quite limited, and she would be one of the first pioneers.

Kui Xin didn’t immediately register on the beta forum but opened her email to check the newly sent game files. Such files usually required a player’s signature to acknowledge, essentially constituting a contract, as breaching it would entail legal responsibilities.

She opened the new email and froze after reading just the first few lines.

“Six pieces of advice for players of ‘Crimson Soil.’ You may choose to follow them or choose to violate them, but the consequences of violation shall be borne by you.”

“First, please treat the game world as a real world.”

“Second, do not disclose your player identity to anyone.”

“Third, do not leak any game content to anyone.”

“Fourth, life is only lived once; death cannot be revived.”

“Fifth, if you choose to start the game, then you only have two paths: ‘complete the game’ or ‘character death.’”

“Sixth, everything has a cost.”

This…only these few words? Was this game statement a bit too hasty?

Kui Xin was bewildered.

It was just a game; manufacturers over-complicating statements with dramatic wording was quite meaningless, and the so-called “real world” was merely a marketing gimmick; everyone knew that world was false.

Kui Xin opened the game file, which required her signature.

She read it thoroughly from beginning to end, finding no confidentiality clauses, but the earlier “six pieces of advice for players” clearly stated not to disclose game content.

Strange, wasn’t this contradictory? If they didn’t want players to leak information, then why not write a confidentiality agreement in a legally binding document? Those few pieces of advice had no binding authority.

At the end of the file was an electronic signature field, and Kui Xin wrote her name in it.

As soon as she finished writing, a small page popped up, boldly stating in red font—”Do you confirm you wish to join the game? You have only this one chance to exit.”

Only this one chance to exit?

Kui Xin paid little attention and clicked confirm without a second thought.

The page changed, and a new prompt appeared.

“Contract completed.”

“Welcome to your new life, Kui Xin.”

… What’s with this game being so cryptic? Kui Xin stared at the computer screen in confusion.

After pondering for a moment, she opened the beta anonymous forum and clicked on register.

The registration process was astonishingly straightforward; only entering the beta invitation code completed it.

In the nickname field, Kui Xin casually typed “233.” All her gaming nicknames were “233” because she had no talent for naming. The names she came up with were easily duplicated, so she just used “233” to the end.

“Once confirmed, the nickname cannot be changed.”

Kui Xin shrugged it off and clicked “confirm.”

A new message popped up.

“You have become the 233rd registered player on the forum.”

Kui Xin: “…Huh?”

What a coincidence, could 233 be her lucky number?

After a brief loading period, Kui Xin saw the forum page.

The forum’s background gleamed with cold metallic luster; the layout was extremely simple, with functionalities limited to posting, replying, and private messaging.

However, a striking blood-red Arabic numeral “10000” appeared in the corner of the forum.

Next to “10000” was a small line of text—“Surviving Players.”

For some reason, when Kui Xin saw the words “Surviving Players,” her heart skipped a beat, a wave of unease washing over her.

The forum featured dozens of posts marked with “new,” as it had just opened and players were only just registering. All the posts were recent. Kui Xin refreshed, and about ten more posts appeared; the titles were in English, Japanese, Russian, and Chinese, with players from around the globe converging in this small forum.

She could fumble her way through translating the gist of the English titles, but she couldn’t understand the other languages at all.

Scanning the Chinese posts, she found titles like “Let’s explore,” “Are there any players from Magic City? Let’s meet up,” and “My name must be in the top hundred posts”… meaningless fluff like that.

After hesitating for a moment, she clicked to post and typed in the title: “Does anyone find ‘Six pieces of advice for players’ a bit odd?”

Finishing the title, Kui Xin hesitated over the post button, her mouse hovering as thoughts raced through her mind.

She recalled the advice that said, “Please treat the game world as a real world,” and the ominous “Life is only lived once; death cannot be revived,” along with that bloodstained number “10000” at the top of the forum, all of which struck her deeply.

Suddenly, she felt a creepy chill, though she couldn’t pinpoint where the feeling came from.

It was an abrupt realization, almost absurd.

Kui Xin rubbed her forehead.

How could the trope of “entering a holographic game is actually crossing into a real world” happen in reality?

Yet despite attempting to reassure herself, Kui Xin found herself inexplicably deleting the post content, deciding instead to lurk and observe the situation.

She kept refreshing the forum, reading through the Chinese posts one by one.

A few minutes later, a new post caught her attention.

“The game company hasn’t mentioned anything about how to deliver game equipment. Has anyone received a holographic helmet or installation package?”

The moment she read this post, there was a knock at her door.

She instinctively stood up and walked to the door to peek through the peephole, but saw no one.

After waiting a few minutes, she slowly opened the door, noticing a small black box lying quietly on the floor. The box had words on it—“Crimson Soil.”

Kui Xin opened the box to find a silver metal card inside, intricately designed, with a mechanical hand depicted among the intertwining lines.

“This is… a game commemorative card?” Kui Xin examined the card, then shivered.

She remembered that she had never filled in any address information on the official game website; how did this card get delivered?

Kui Xin’s heart tightened as she stepped downstairs in her slippers.

Living in an old neighborhood, the facilities were outdated, but there were surveillance cameras nearby.

At the entrance of the stairwell, several elderly folks were playing mahjong, and everyone in the neighborhood was familiar with one another. Kui Xin asked, “Aunt Zhang! Did the delivery guy come by just now?”

“No, Xiao Li only usually comes at three in the afternoon,” Aunt Zhang cheerfully pushed her tiles forward. “Aiyo, I won!”

“Did anyone go upstairs just now?” Kui Xin pressed on.

“Nope.” Aunt Zhang continued focused on her mahjong, not looking back.

Hearing this, although it was a hot July day, Kui Xin felt a chill creep down her spine.

No one had gone upstairs, so who knocked on her door? She hadn’t filled out any address details, so how was the game card from ‘Crimson Soil’ accurately delivered to her doorstep?

She had just signed the game agreement, and the card arrived within five minutes…

Kui Xin looked down at the silver metal card in her hand and flipped it over.

The back was engraved with several words.

—“Remover · Kui Xin. Number: 233.”

233 was both her recently chosen game nickname and her order of registration on the forum.

In that instant, Kui Xin’s scalp tingled.

Things seemed to be spiraling into a bizarre direction.