Sure enough, the game possessed authority higher than that of the real world and could tamper with reality itself.
This was a world that had been altered. The selected players were allowed to discover that truth—yet forbidden from revealing it.
He just didn't know how far that authority extended.
Erasing objectively existing things—such as deleting words written on paper or removing a Weibo post—was relatively simple. Even humans could achieve that degree of falsification in the real world.
Bai Liu picked up his old phone with the cracked screen, the one he refused to replace, and called a friend. Before the other person could react, Bai Liu quickly recounted everything he had experienced.
When he finished, his friend tapped his fingers on the table and casually began counting down. "Seven, six, five…"
"Why are you counting down? Keep talking! Is this real? You didn't make it up? This is too exciting—"
Bai Liu lowered his eyes. "—three—two—one."
His friend's voice cut off abruptly.
Then it returned, confused. "Huh? Bai Liu, why are you calling me? Wait—when did I answer? I don't remember picking up at all!"
"It's nothing," Bai Liu replied lightly. "I just thought of you and gave you a call."
Seven seconds.
That was the time between when Bai Liu posted on Weibo and when the final word disappeared completely. He had deliberately measured it.
He hadn't expected the game to be able to tamper not only with objective data but also with human memory—and to do so within seven seconds. To the game, altering a person's memory seemed no more difficult than deleting a line of code.
"I feel sick listening to you," his friend said jokingly. "You only think about money. Don't gross me out."
Then he asked more seriously, "So why did you suddenly call? Is something wrong?"
"I was thinking about something," Bai Liu said calmly. "Lu Yizhan, do you think a person's memory lasts only seven seconds?"
As he spoke, Bai Liu wrote down everything about the game on a piece of paper.
Then he watched the words fade away one by one.
Lu Yizhan sounded puzzled. "Why are you suddenly asking philosophical questions? And you remembered it wrong. Isn't the saying that a fish's memory only lasts seven seconds?"
"Did I remember it wrong?" Bai Liu stretched lazily. "Maybe. If memory only lasts seven seconds, it's normal to misremember things. What if the original sentence was 'a human's memory lasts only seven seconds,' and something altered it to 'a fish's memory lasts only seven seconds' to fool humans, who only remember seven seconds anyway?"
Lu Yizhan sighed helplessly. He was used to Bai Liu saying strange things ever since losing his job. "What are you thinking about these days? Anyway, I got paid today. I'll treat you to dinner. Stop thinking about humans, fish, and seven seconds of memory. If everyone only remembered seven seconds, how would we survive when you make us memorize French clauses every day?"
"If you're treating, I'll definitely come," Bai Liu replied.
He casually tucked the coin at his neck back into his shirt, only to be chilled by a different cold touch.
It was the Siren King's scale, resting against his heart.
Before hanging up, Bai Liu couldn't help asking, "If humans remember seven seconds and fish remember seven seconds, then how many seconds does a mermaid remember?"
"You're still stuck on this—and now you're dragging in a mermaid?" Lu Yizhan laughed. "According to your logic, if humans and fish both remember seven seconds, then a mermaid probably remembers even less. Maybe just a fraction of a second?"
"Probably."
Although he had said goodbye to the merman called Tawil, perhaps Tawil had already forgotten him the moment Bai Liu left.
For once, Bai Liu felt a faint disappointment at being forgotten.
He didn't crave human approval. As long as he had money, he could entertain himself well enough. But the Siren King had been an unprecedentedly beautiful piece of data. Even someone as emotionally detached as Bai Liu felt a slight regret at being erased from that being's memory within seconds.
Just a little regret.
About the size of a fish scale.
The reason Lu Yizhan and Bai Liu got along so well was simple: they were equally stingy. Their friendship had been cemented through sharing discount lottery information.
Some people thought they were close because both were orphans who understood each other's hardships. That might have been partly true—but their shared frugality was far more solid.
The moment Bai Liu sat down at the barbecue stall, Lu Yizhan smiled and announced, "Bai Liu, I'm getting married."
"Congratulations." Bai Liu wasn't surprised. Lu Yizhan and his girlfriend had been together for years. Marriage was expected. "Since that's the case, I'll let you treat me tonight. I'll transfer you 2,000 yuan later."
Lu Yizhan nearly sprayed beer in his face. "Are you insane? Giving me money when I'm the one treating you? And 2,000 yuan?! Didn't you swear you'd never give wedding money in your life? Why are you doing this 'throwing a bun at a dog' thing?"
(Throwing a bun at a dog—never expecting it back.)
It was true. When a colleague had gotten married and asked for money, Bai Liu had said calmly, "I don't plan to get married, so I won't give strangers wedding money. That's like throwing a bun at a dog—no return on investment."
The colleague had been furious, interpreting himself and his wife as the "dogs." He cursed Bai Liu's nonexistent descendants.
Bai Liu hadn't reacted. He didn't plan to have children anyway. The curse was merely a factual description of his future.
"That's different," Bai Liu said now, taking a sip of beer. "I just don't give money to strangers. You're not a stranger. We maintain contact. Investing in you isn't invalid."
Lu Yizhan felt touched—and amused. "What, you expect returns from me? Really, I don't need your money. I'm just happy to be getting married. I wanted to treat you because you're my friend. And aren't you unemployed right now? Forget it."
He waved his hand firmly. "We'll talk when you're rich."
Lu Yizhan's frugality was forced by life. He was a poorly paid police officer. Recently, he was doing better—but still far from wealthy. He truly didn't want Bai Liu giving him money.
Bai Liu finished a skewer of grilled kidneys and said calmly, "I earned 100,000 in the past week."
"Pfft—!" Beer sprayed everywhere.
"What did you do?!" Lu Yizhan demanded.
He knew Bai Liu didn't lie. If Bai Liu said 100,000, it was real.
"You didn't do anything illegal, did you? I'll arrest you myself!"
Lu Yizhan knew Bai Liu's brain was brilliant—but often applied to morally gray paths, like designing airtight horror plots or flawless crime scenarios.
His first reaction wasn't jealousy. It was dread.
"I changed jobs. It's legal—I checked." Bai Liu peeled a peanut calmly. "High income. Higher risk. It suits me."
"What kind of job pays 100,000 in a week?"
Bai Liu considered. "I basically sold my soul to a large underground organization. I can't reveal its existence."
Lu Yizhan froze.
"Then I go on stage—call it a live broadcast. I perform things that sell my body and soul. Strange creatures insult and attack me for entertainment. Viewers pay to watch. That's how I made 100,000."
Silence. Confusion. Shock. Horror. Pity.
Finally, Lu Yizhan asked carefully, "Are you working as a male prostitute in a nightclub?"
Bai Liu: "..."
After much explanation, Lu Yizhan reluctantly accepted that Bai Liu wasn't selling himself, but he still refused to accept any money.
He felt the money was "earned with Bai Liu's body" and absolutely wouldn't take it.
Bai Liu: "..."
If Lu Yizhan insisted on interpreting it that way, it wasn't entirely inaccurate.
-----------------
After their brief meeting, Bai Liu went home and rested for two days. He prepaid six months' rent, cleaned his apartment, and prepared to reenter the game.
Although the system only required entry once every seven days, Bai Liu wanted to go back early to investigate further.
Still, he decided to have a proper meal first.
If he died inside, it would count as a decent final supper.
With that thought, he went downstairs and ordered a bowl of noodles with fried eggs.
The small noodle shop owner cooked well. An old, grease-coated television hung above the counter, playing social news directly over Bai Liu's head as he ate.
The female anchor reported evenly, "The lawyer of Li Gou, the primary suspect in the rape and murder of a high school girl, has filed another appeal, claiming insufficient evidence for the original death sentence. Preparations for a second trial are underway."
On the screen, a fleshy-faced suspect and a smiling schoolgirl—with a mosaic over her eyes—were displayed side by side.
The contrast was jarring.
The noodle shop owner wiped his hands on his apron and sighed. "What evil. Such a good girl ruined. If I were her parents, I'd go insane. He was about to be sentenced, and now they say the evidence is insufficient. I heard the evidence suddenly disappeared. It's all over the internet."
The anchor continued calmly, "The victim's family has experienced severe emotional distress. Crowds have gathered outside the courthouse. Authorities have dispatched personnel to investigate and maintain order."
Behind the anchor, the footage showed a hysterical middle-aged woman with disheveled hair being restrained by several people.
She was so emaciated that she had almost lost her human shape. Her hair was completely white, and deep wrinkles around her tear-filled eyes trembled as she cried. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, but with every breath, more tears and mucus poured down.
Struggling free for a moment, she rushed toward the courthouse doors and collapsed to her knees, letting out a heart-rending howl like a wounded beast.
"She was only eighteen! Why is the evidence missing?!" she screamed. "Why has all the evidence recording what that monster did to my Guoguo disappeared? Are you protecting him?!"
Beside her, a middle-aged man had already been pinned to the ground by a security guard. His head was forced down, his clothes torn from struggling. He writhed and shouted hoarsely through his tears.
"Let me go! Give my daughter justice! Give back my daughter's innocence! Bring out that brute Li Gou! I swore at Guoguo's grave that I would kill that scum and avenge her!"
The footage soon switched.
Li Gou appeared on screen, his eyes obscured by a mosaic blur. He pressed his lips together, but the smugness of someone who believed he had escaped punishment leaked through his expression.
"I didn't do it," he said flatly. "The previous evidence was fabricated by that couple to frame me."
"A good person like me…" The corners of his mouth curled upward. With his eyes hidden, the smile looked strangely ferocious and tyrannical. In a hoarse whisper, he added, "God will help me. Those people who casually spread rumors about me deserve to be burned to death."
"That's just too tragic." The noodle shop owner, a soft and doughy middle-aged man, wiped his eyes with his apron. "I know them. They used to live around here. Their daughter, Guoguo, had excellent grades. I never imagined… How could this happen?"
"The evidence suddenly disappeared?" Bai Liu raised an eyebrow as he finished the last bite of noodles, still watching the news.
The method of erasing something's existence was eerily similar to the game's…
"Where is that girl's grave?" Bai Liu asked calmly. "Or do you have her parents' phone number?"
The owner blinked in surprise. "I do. What are you planning to do, Bai Liu?"
"Maybe I can help them."
Bai Liu wiped his mouth, placed ten yuan on the table, tucked it under the bowl, and stood.
"Help them? How could you possibly help?"
"By using an unconventional—but legal—method," Bai Liu replied evenly.
Bai Liu had already realized that the game operated like a multi-level marketing scheme.
Players were like dominoes, falling one after another. On the surface, the triggering events seemed unrelated. But in reality, there was always an underlying chain reaction pushing them forward—nudging them step by step into carefully prepared despair. Once their desires were pushed to the extreme, they would be drawn into the game and sell their souls in exchange for fulfilling those desires.
The condition for entering the game was simple: a personal desire so intense that one no longer cared about life or death.
For example, Bai Liu's obsession with money.
If his guess was correct, the next batch of players in this world might include a pair of grieving, desperate parents.
Li Gou was likely a player as well. He must have used some in-game item to erase the evidence of his crimes. By doing so, he had pushed the girl's parents into utter helplessness—into a state of overwhelming desire for revenge.
They now met the game's recruitment criteria.
It was the same pattern as Mu Ke, who longed to experience life because of his failing heart and was suddenly inserted into the company, replacing Bai Liu. Bai Liu lost his job, his financial stability collapsed, and his obsession with money spiraled out of control—qualifying him for entry into the game.
Everyone in this world was nothing more than chess pieces. Or building blocks.
The game played the role of God, rearranging lives at will. And human lives were merely its amusement.
What a cunning and cruel game.