Wayne Shin was jolted awake by a notification from her class group chat.
Her vision was still blurry from sleep. She fumbled under her pillow for her phone, squinting to make out the message on the screen.
"The first batch of Deep Crimson Soil beta testers has been announced!"
"No way!"
"Official site posted it three minutes ago [image]."
"Damn! Who's that lucky?"
"Only ten thousand people for the first beta? They selected globally, and the official quota is way too small!"
Wayne Shin took a moment to process the news, her drowsiness finally fading. She recalled applying for the beta test months ago, egged on by classmates. She'd casually filled out a questionnaire on the official site and hit submit—ten months ago now.
Back then, Crimson Earth had just released its trailer, touting itself as an "epoch-making holographic game, a truly existing second world."
The trailer exploded onto the scene, instantly capturing the attention of gamers worldwide. The game's selling points were its open-world freedom of exploration and multi-path career choices.
Moreover, it blended cyberpunk aesthetics with supernatural elements. Players could either pursue a tech-focused path, becoming cyborgs with full-body mechanical prosthetics, or choose a supernatural route, awakening various extraordinary abilities.
Grounded in reality yet transcending it, the game delivers unparalleled immersion within its fantasy, seamlessly bridging the virtual and real worlds.
What truly captivated Wayne Shin, however, were the final two sentences of the game's description:
"Where there is light, darkness inevitably follows. Beneath the city's glittering facade lies a decaying underbelly."
"Compared to wealth and power, survival and death are the eternal questions of this world."
If the description implied this... perhaps Crimson Earth added a darker core beyond its cyberpunk aesthetic and supernatural abilities?
Wayne Shin opened the screenshot in the class group chat. The game developers would send beta test invitations to players' email addresses. The first batch of testers was indeed limited to ten thousand players, with the official beta starting tomorrow.
Remember, when Crimson Earth first opened pre-registration, it hit ten million sign-ups globally in just one day. After months of buzz, pre-registrations had long surpassed one hundred million. Selecting ten thousand lucky players from hundreds of millions for the beta meant the odds of being chosen were minuscule.
Though holding little hope, Wayne Shin opened her email anyway.
"You have one unread email."
The notification from her inbox made Wayne Shin freeze. Her heart raced as she shot up from the bed.
"Congratulations on being selected for the closed beta of Crimson Earth."
The subject line blazed in vivid red. Wayne Shin stared blankly, repeatedly checking the sender's name and cross-referencing it against the official email address. She confirmed it over and over, still unable to believe it.
When she finally accepted this email was genuine, the first thought that flooded her mind was—I'm rich! I'm rich!!
Selling this beta spot would bring in a fortune!
A penniless girl's wild joy!
Wayne Shin was a perennial unlucky soul. Her father had absconded with funds after a failed investment, and her mother, after remarrying, sent exactly eight hundred yuan monthly for living expenses. It barely covered meals, leaving her stretched thin for study materials and clothes. The secondhand smartphone in her hand was bought with money she earned working at a bubble tea shop.
Wayne Shin lived alone in the old house left by her grandparents, studying tirelessly from dawn till dusk. Like a resilient weed, she'd fought her way through life.
This summer break marked her final hurdle before college. Her grades were solid enough to get into a good university, but tuition and living expenses loomed large.
If she could sell her beta test access for Crimson Soil, she wouldn't have to worry about living expenses for quite some time.
But the next sentence in the email dashed Wayne Shin's hopes.
"Crimson Soil beta test access is non-transferable and non-giftable. Beta invitation codes are permanently bound to the player's registered account and cannot be altered. This beta test is free-to-play with no data wipe."
Wayne Shin's face fell into a gloomy cloud as her path to easy money was ruthlessly cut off.
She didn't really care about the game anyway. Her gear was so crappy she didn't even have a holographic helmet—she couldn't play it properly. Filling out the game survey had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to join the hype, mostly fueled by the thought, "What if beta access turns out to be tradable? That'd be a huge win."
Wayne Shin mulled it over, sadly concluding that even as one of the world's 10,000 lucky winners, she remained a perpetually broke and unlucky soul. Winning beta access yet unable to play felt like sitting on a mountain of gold and silver without being able to spend a single coin—utterly frustrating.
She sighed and swiped down to read further.
The email was brief and contained little of substance. Scrolling further, she was delighted to find a sentence: "If players agree to join the game, the company will distribute custom in-game gear."
Wayne Shin: Yay!
Her worries were gone—she could play the game! Wayne Shin's mood soared like a rollercoaster.
At the end of the email was a link to a player questionnaire.
Wayne Shin clicked it out of curiosity.
Question 1: If given a chance to embrace a new life, would you accept it?
Need I ask? Wayne Shin selected the "Yes" option without hesitation.
A new life meant a fresh start. Her current existence was already miserable enough—how much worse could it possibly get?
Question 2: Do you believe in deities?
Wayne Shin chose "No." She was a staunch atheist.
Question 3: Would you like to possess superpowers?
"Yes!" Wanting superpowers didn't conflict with being an atheist!
"You have completed the questionnaire."
"Game-related files and instructions have been sent to your email. Please check it."
"The anonymous beta tester forum has been opened for you. Save the URL and register promptly."
Wayne Shin carefully reviewed the new messages and followed the instructions to save the anonymous forum URL first.
Certain beta test contents are considered trade secrets and must not be disclosed externally. Beta testers exist to help developers catch bugs and fix game vulnerabilities. The developers of Crimson Soil likely provided this forum to give beta testers a place to communicate.
With only ten thousand players currently holding beta access, the forum's content would likely be sparse. She would be among the first forum pioneers.
Wayne Shin didn't register on the beta forum immediately. Instead, she opened her email to review the newly sent game files. Such documents typically required player signatures as contractual agreements, binding them legally in case of breach.
She clicked the new email and froze after reading just the first few lines.
"Six pieces of advice for Crimson Earth players. You may choose to follow them or break them, but the consequences of breaking them are yours alone to bear."
"First, treat the game world as the real world."
"Second, never reveal your identity as a player to anyone."
"Third, never disclose game content to anyone."
"Fourth, life is given only once; death cannot be undone."
"Fifth, once you begin the game, your only paths are 'completing the game' or 'character death'."
"Sixth, everything comes at a price."
This... just these few sentences? Wasn't it a bit too perfunctory for a game disclaimer to consist solely of these lines?
Wayne Shin was utterly baffled.
It's just a game. If the developers are going to be so cryptic and write atmospheric nonsense in the disclaimer, it's just boring. The so-called "real world" is just a marketing gimmick—everyone knows that world is fake.
Wayne Shin opened the game file, which required a signature.
She read it carefully from start to finish, twice over, yet found no confidentiality clause within. However, the "Six Points of Advice for Players" at the beginning explicitly stated not to disclose game content.
This was bizarre—utterly contradictory. If they didn't want players to leak details, why not include a legally binding NDA? Those advisory points held no enforceable weight.
At the end of the document was an electronic signature field. Wayne Shin typed his name into the box.
The moment he finished typing, a small pop-up window appeared. In bold red letters it read— "Confirm joining the game? You have one and only one chance to back out."
One and only one chance to back out?
Wayne Shin didn't think much of it. Without pausing, he clicked Confirm.
The screen shifted, revealing new prompts.
"Contract completed."
"Welcome to your new life, Wayne Shin."
...What kind of weird game is this? Wayne Shin stared at the computer screen in puzzlement.
After a moment of contemplation, she opened the anonymous beta forum and clicked to register.
The registration process was absurdly simple—just enter the beta invite code and you're done.
Wayne Shin casually typed the number "233" into the nickname field. All her gaming nicknames were '233' because she lacked creativity for names. The few she did come up with were prone to duplication, so Wayne Shin stuck with "233" until the end.
"Nickname cannot be changed once confirmed."
Wayne Shin didn't think much of it and clicked "Confirm" anyway.
A new message popped up.
"You have become the 233rd registered player on the forum."
Wayne Shin: "...Huh?"
What a coincidence. Could 233 be her lucky number?
After a brief loading screen, Wayne Shin saw the forum page.
The forum's background glowed with a cold metallic sheen. The page was unusually minimalist, with only basic functions: posting, replying, and private messaging.
But in the upper right corner, a striking blood-red Arabic numeral "10000" stood out.
Beside "10000" was a line of small text— "Survivors Remaining."
For some reason, Wayne Shin felt a sharp pang in his heart and a wave of palpitations when he saw the words "Survivor Count."
Dozens of posts marked "new" floated across the forum. The forum had just opened, players had just registered, and all the posts were fresh. Wayne Shin refreshed the page, and another dozen or so posts popped up. Their titles were in English, Japanese, Russian, and Chinese—ten thousand players from all corners of the globe had gathered in this tiny forum.
Wayne Shin could stumble through translating the gist of the English titles, but the other languages were completely beyond her.
She skimmed the existing Chinese posts, finding titles like "Let's start farming!", "Any Shanghai players? Let's meet up!", "My name will be in the top 100 posts"... all meaningless filler.
She hesitated for a moment, then clicked to create a new post. In the title field, she typed: "Does anyone else find 'Six Pieces of Advice for Players' a bit odd?"
After typing the title, Wayne Shin's mouse hovered over the post button for an eternity.
She recalled that line—"Treat the game world as if it were real"—and the subsequent warning: "Life is a one-time deal; death is irreversible." Glancing up at the forum's blood-red "10000" count at the top, something deep within her mind felt struck.
A sudden chill ran down her spine, though she couldn't pinpoint its source.
The sensation was abrupt, almost absurd.
Wayne Shin rubbed her forehead.
How could the fantasy trope of "entering a holographic game actually transporting you to the real world" happen in reality?
Despite trying to reassure herself, Wayne Shin inexplicably deleted her post and resolved to lurk and observe.
She refreshed the forum constantly, reading through every Chinese post.
Minutes later, a new thread caught her attention.
"The game developer never mentioned shipping for equipment. Has anyone received a holographic helmet or installation package?"
The instant she saw this post, a knock sounded at Wayne Shin's door.
She instinctively stood up, walked to the door, and peered through the peephole, but saw no one.
She waited a few minutes before slowly opening the door. She noticed a small, pitch-black box lying quietly on the floor. Words were written on it—Deep Crimson Soil.
Wayne Shin opened the box to find a silver metal card inside. Its intricate yet delicate design featured intertwined lines forming a mechanical hand.
"Is this... a commemorative game card?" Wayne Shin examined the card, then shuddered.
She recalled never having entered her address on the game's official website. So how had this card arrived?
Wayne Shin's heart tightened as she slipped on her slippers and headed downstairs.
She lived in an older neighborhood with outdated facilities, though surveillance cameras had been installed nearby.
A few elderly neighbors sat playing mahjong by the stairwell entrance. Everyone knew each other in this close-knit community. Wayne Shin asked, "Auntie Zhang! Did the delivery guy come by earlier?"
"No, dear. Isn't Comrade Li usually here around three in the afternoon?" Auntie Zhang pushed her mahjong tiles forward with a cheerful grin. "Oh yeah! I won!"
"Did anyone come up the stairs just now?" Wayne Shin pressed.
"No one," Auntie Zhang replied, too busy shuffling tiles to look up.
Hearing this, despite the sweltering July heat, Wayne Shin felt a chill run down her spine.
If no one went upstairs, then who knocked on her door? She hadn't provided any address information—so why was the Crimson Soil game card delivered precisely to her doorstep?
She'd just signed the game agreement, and the card arrived within five minutes...
Wayne Shin stared at the silver metal card in his hand and flipped it over.
Engraved on the back were several words.
— "The Stripper · Wayne Shin. ID: 233."
233 was the game nickname she'd just entered, and also her forum registration number.
Wayne Shin felt a sudden chill run down her spine.
Events seemed to be hurtling toward an eerie conclusion.