Terrabyte did not perform any form of screening.
In its logic, when the observation scale was elevated to the level of an entire species, individual differences became insignificant. Placing the smartest and the most foolish individuals on Earth side-by-side, their mental activities, in Terrabyte's eyes, were nothing more than two chaotic electrochemical signals of roughly similar complexity.
Just as humans wouldn't meticulously select which ant was better suited to carry a grain of rice, Terrabyte wasn't bothered to distinguish which soul was more "suitable" for its game.
Thus, amidst the data stream of hundreds of millions of registrations, it merely extended an invisible tendril and gently prodded ten times.
Ten lucky, or perhaps unlucky, individuals were thus born.
The game streamer Robert was one of these ten.
The sensation of consciousness detaching from the real world lasted less than a second, immediately followed by a tsunami of sensory information that completely overwhelmed Robert.
Cold, coarse fabric rubbed against his skin, the hard-soled military boots underfoot provided a firm sensation, and the air was filled with an indescribably complex scent.
His hastily chosen game ID—Dr. Dixy Normous—floated above his head in light green text.
The surrounding environment was dim and oppressive, with rusty metal walls. He could seemingly hear the low rumble of some large machinery in the distance. This unparalleled realism made his heart pound, and instinctively, he tried to take a deep breath to calm himself.
"Cough! Cough, cough, cough… Ugh…"
A breath inhaled into his lungs felt like swallowing a whole piece of glowing charcoal, and the scent of industrial waste, acidic fumes, and rotting organic matter instantly ignited his respiratory tract. Robert was choked, tears streaming down his face, and he bent over like a boiled Shrimp, coughing violently.
He was not an exception. Looking around, the other eight players, dressed in the same uniform as him, also wore expressions of utter shock, and their alternating coughs formed a symphony of pain in the bunker.
"Holy crap," one player, leaning against the wall, finally caught his breath, his face flushed red as he complained, "This crappy air is more choking than swallowing an entire cigar! Is the development team sick? Putting so much effort into such details?!"
"Real… too real…" another person wiped away tears, his voice trembling.
Just as everyone was gradually getting used to the dreadful air, an exclamation broke the awkward silence.
"Dude! How are you a God damn ogryn? God daamn!"
This shout instantly drew everyone's attention. In the furthest corner of the room, a figure almost touched the ceiling. He was two heads taller than an average person, his shoulders as wide as a door, and his thick arms were even more exaggerated than a normal person's thighs. On his slightly simple-looking head, his facial features were squeezed together, and he was staring blankly at everyone.
This ogryn player, who had given himself the classic ID of Ciaphas_Cain_Investigates_Chaos_Tax_Evasion, scratched his bald scalp and spoke in a booming, muffled voice: "I don't know, the system didn't tell me I could choose a race?"
His pure, south-flavored accent made one player laugh: "Oh wow, an old friend from Jersey."
The ogryn player looked even more confused: "How did you hear that? I don't think I have an accent."
"Could it be a randomly assigned race?" Robert speculated, which seemed to be the only explanation.
"Holy moly, then I'm pretty lucky," the player who had complained about the air earlier patted his chest, "Good thing I didn't become a Beastman, or I'd be shot by the Inquisition as soon as I landed."
Just as these players were joking around and the atmosphere was gradually heating up—
"Bang!"
With a loud crash, the already dilapidated iron door was kicked clean off by a gleaming military boot. A man in a black trench coat, a high-peaked military cap, and a stern face stood at the doorway. His crimson epaulets and belt were particularly striking in the dim light.
Commissar!
His gaze, as sharp as an eagle's, swept over everyone present. The authority and oppressive feeling in his eyes made these fearless players collectively recall their high school days, when their homeroom teacher stood by the back door window.
The information popping up on the data panel also showed his Name: Walter Fuller
In an instant, everyone's bodies stiffened, and almost instinctively, they all stood at attention, their joking expressions instantly frozen.
Commissar Walter seemed quite pleased with this reaction, a nearly imperceptible curve forming at the corner of his mouth as he muttered, "Not bad men. Not bad"
Then, he roared with a volume that could shake the entire bunker: "Follow me!"
His gaze finally fell on the towering ogryn. He walked forward, deliberately slowing his speech, and used the simplest, most direct words: "Big guy, me, boss. You, follow me. AN DER STOOD?"
The ogryn player froze for a moment, then instinctively nodded heavily.
A flicker of surprise crossed Walter's eyes. This ogryn… so smart? But he had no time to ponder. The front lines were urgent, and to have a batch of cannon fodder that didn't show obvious malnutrition and understood basic obedience was already a blessing from the Emperor.
The group of players, knowing full well this was triggering the main quest, obediently followed the Commissar and boarded a chimera troop transport, its interior cramped and smelling of engine oil.
The vehicle started with a jolt. Robert grabbed a handrail and couldn't help but ask, "Commissar Walter, where are our lasguns?"
Walter glanced at him, his tone as flat as if commenting on the weather: "What's the rush? When we get there, there will be plenty of guns for you to take. If you're lucky, you might even pick up a master-crafted bolter."
Robert's heart sank, and a very ominous premonition arose. Did that mean… they would have to strip them from corpses on the front lines?
Discovering that the NPC could trigger dialogue so smoothly, the other players immediately became interested and began their "newbie village questioning session" in a flurry of chatter:
"Commissar! Logically, our squad's NCO should be leading us, so why are you personally picking us up?"
"The chain of command is long gone," Walter replied without looking back, "Be grateful you even have a living officer to lead you."
"Commissar, are we fighting orks or genestealers this time?"
"Young man, you have quite the dreams. First, pray you can defeat a giant scavenging worm in the Lower Hive's sewage pit in a one-on-one fight."
"Commissar, are you from the Schola Progenium? Your demeanor is extraordinary!"
"If I were from the Schola Progenium, would I be exiled here to command you lot of cannon fodder?"
"Commissar, how old are you? Are you married? Would you consider a man?"
Walter suddenly turned around, his icy gaze making the player swallow the latter half of his sentence: "My life belongs to the Emperor, soldier. I suggest you quickly adopt the same realization, or I won't hesitate to use my bolt pistol to help you remember it."
"Commissar…"
Finally, seeing these questions become increasingly nonsensical, even starting to verge on a Turing test, Walter's patience reached its limit. He couldn't believe he got saddled with the buffons!
"Where do you all get so much nonsense from!!" He slammed his hand against the inner wall of the vehicle with a loud "CLANG," "All of you, be quiet! Say one more bit, and I'll throw you out of the vehicle to experience the Hive City's air purification system!"
The vehicle instantly fell silent.
A few seconds later, the players lowered their voices and communicated in whispers.
"Uh… the Commissar seems a bit angry? What should we do?"
"Then let's not ask anymore. We don't even know the death penalty in this game. What if the Commissar really kills us, whose fault would that be?"
Cain in the corner, after hearing this, nodded heavily and rumbled his agreement: "Makes sense!"
Walter, who was driving, almost couldn't maintain his composure when he heard that. Did you, an ogryn, even understand what they were saying? And you think it makes sense?
He suddenly regretted coming to receive this batch of suddenly arrived new recruits. Who would have thought they would be so lively? This attitude wasn't like going to war; it was more like going on a tour.
But there was no choice; if their defenses didn't receive manpower replenishment, they wouldn't even be able to withstand the onslaught of Lower Hive rioters.
And in the warp, undetectable by anyone, was where Terrabyte resided.
The God of Information looked at his experimental results with satisfaction. It seemed his perception filter was successfully deployed, and no one had discovered any abnormalities. Now, he only needed to anticipate what surprises the active-minded players would bring him.