As a member of the Kings Guild, Wang Shun's skill was related to information gathering. Therefore, he was mainly responsible for two tasks: collecting instance clearance data for various games and identifying players with high potential for recruitment into the guild.
Wang Shun had originally intended to report Bai Liu's data and secure him for the guild. However, when he saw the King's Guild's announcement recruiting puppet players, he hesitated.
If he submitted Bai Liu's data now, Bai Liu's outstanding intelligence and mental value statistics would certainly attract attention. It would be very easy for him to be selected as a puppet player. For ordinary players, being chosen as a puppet was considered a good opportunity. But for a newcomer like Bai Liu, who possessed S-grade potential, becoming a puppet would be a waste.
There was another concern. During his statistical analysis, Wang Shun discovered that players who became puppets either stopped improving entirely or progressed extremely slowly.
In contrast, Puppet Master's intelligence had risen from 71 to 93, and his other attributes had soared as well.
Only someone like Wang Shun, who handled internal data collection and analysis within the Kings Guild, could clearly see this pattern. It had long been speculated internally that Puppet Master's skill was not merely "player manipulation," but also "potential absorption." However, to the public, his skill was only known as player manipulation.
Many players whom Wang Shun had evaluated as highly promising eventually fell into Puppet Master's hands and became puppets. Over time, they grew mediocre and were either abandoned by him or died in the game. They changed from raw jade that could shine after polishing into crushed mud.
Wang Shun felt regret—but he also understood the helpless reality.
The game operated under the law of the jungle. Once low-tier players were squeezed dry of their remaining value, they would be discarded by guilds or stronger players. In this place, the least valuable commodity wasn't the unsellable discounted items that cost one point—
It was human life.
Therefore, joining a guild wasn't necessarily the best path for a conspicuous player like Bai Liu. It was too easy to become bound by guild rules and used by higher-ranking players.
Mu Sicheng had seen through this as well, which was why he never joined the Kings Guild.
Coincidentally, it had been Puppet Master who noticed Mu Sicheng and invited him to join. Mu Sicheng had refused, saying he would never become a puppet under anyone's control.
Later, Mu Sicheng suffered greatly at Puppet Master's hands—but he also grew stronger. His ranking gradually climbed into the top 300, forcing Puppet Master to back off.
But Bai Liu was currently ranked around 3,000. He was a newcomer with enormous potential. Puppet Master wouldn't let him go so easily.
Although Wang Shun hadn't submitted Bai Liu's data out of selfishness, Bai Liu's eye-catching performance and panel attributes had still drawn Puppet Master's attention.
Puppet Master had been stuck at an intelligence value of 93 for a long time. He needed high-intelligence players as "nourishment" to further develop. Was there a better target than Bai Liu—a newcomer who had only cleared a single-player game?
Wang Shun wanted to warn Bai Liu about Puppet Master and his people, who were also searching for him. But Bai Liu's current appearance—messy multicolored hair and black lipstick—made him almost unrecognizable. Even Lu Yizhan, who had known him for over ten years, might not recognize him at first glance.
Unexpectedly, someone did.
Mu Sicheng stood with his arms crossed, staring at Bai Liu at the entrance of the game area.
"…Bai Liu, what did the real world do to you? In just a few days, you've transformed into something that doesn't even discriminate between human and animal?"
"You can recognize me?" Bai Liu was genuinely surprised. He had wandered through the game hall several times with this face, and no one had recognized him. Yet Mu Sicheng had identified him instantly.
Mu Sicheng grinned proudly, revealing his tiger teeth. "Bai Liu, I can recognize you no matter how you disguise yourself! I said I'd take back everything you stole from me—you can't escape. I'll always find you."
"Since you don't rely on appearances…" Bai Liu's gaze swept over the bizarre hip-hop monkey hat on Mu Sicheng's head. "You recognized me by smell, didn't you? Is your personal skill related to that monkey? Enhanced five senses?"
Mu Sicheng's grin widened. "Wrong. My skill isn't sensory enhancement—but yes, I recognized you by smell. You have a very strong scent of copper. Or in other words, money."
"Then it should smell pleasant," Bai Liu replied indifferently. He looked at Mu Sicheng calmly. "So, what do you want?"
"When one player looks for another—" Mu Sicheng glanced at the massive game entrance behind Bai Liu. A dark smile curved his lips, and a red light flickered in his eyes. "It's natural to play a game. I won't let you hide in single-player games. That's too boring. The death rate is too low."
Bai Liu nodded thoughtfully. "I've discovered that multiplayer games offer ten times the rewards of single-player ones. I've already given up on that poor division."
"..." Mu Sicheng had intended to intimidate him, but now he found himself at a loss for words. Watching Bai Liu carefully browse multiplayer games with serious focus, he asked helplessly, "Aren't multiplayer games dangerous? The death rate is high. Aren't you afraid?"
Behind Bai Liu, a massive projection screen displayed rotating covers and names of various games.
While scanning the list, Bai Liu responded casually without even looking at Mu Sicheng. "Objectively, I do fear death. But that fear is insignificant compared to my fear of poverty."
Mu Sicheng couldn't comprehend Bai Liu's thought process at all, yet the suffocating frustration Bai Liu caused him was painfully real. "You're really not nervous about entering a game? Aren't you a bit too calm?"
"I'm calm," Bai Liu replied, "because I treat entering the game as going to work."
"Going to work?" Mu Sicheng was speechless. "You're treating a horror game like a job?"
"Yes. I work once a week and get five days off. If I perform well, I can earn at least 200,000 yuan. There's no boss deducting my salary or bonus. I don't have to understand, deceive, or reluctantly communicate with other people. I just do what I'm good at—play horror games."
Bai Liu finally turned to meet Mu Sicheng's eyes and shrugged. "The death rate is a bit high. But I often stay up late working in the real world—there's no guarantee I won't suddenly die there either. Compared to that, this risk is negligible. In summary, it's a high-income, ideal job. I could never find something like this in reality. So it's difficult for me to feel afraid."
Mu Sicheng: "..."
For a brief moment, Mu Sicheng felt like he had actually been persuaded.
"Can I ask something?" Bai Liu said, pointing at the projection wall. "Are there only 100 horror games here? Judging from the number of TVs and players, that seems too few. Are there other games?"
The forum discussions mostly focused on specific players or individual games. There was almost no information about the fundamental mechanics of the system itself. Bai Liu had searched for quite some time without finding anything useful. Now that Mu Sicheng had appeared, Bai Liu treated him as a source of information.
"There are countless horror games in this system—we don't even know how many," Mu Sicheng explained, spreading his hands. "This wall only displays 100 at a time. Once all 100 are full, the screen refreshes and new games appear. Sometimes previously displayed games will show up again."
Bai Liu touched his chin. "In other words, this game has a total 'question bank.' It isn't clear how many games are included in this question bank for us players.
"Each time, the system will randomly—or not randomly—select 100 game questions from the question bank and display them on the screen. Then the candidate players will choose a game question and answer it. If we're lucky, there might be repeated questions; if not, they might all be new. Is that correct?"
"That's right."
"If that's the case, it's no wonder there are guilds in the game."
Bai Liu looked thoughtful. "The large guilds must compile the repetitive questions that appear. In other words, information on how to quickly and safely clear instances is shared internally. Through this, they can recruit powerful newcomers.
"Meanwhile, players with strength or potential will challenge new games to accumulate 'answers' and receive more resources from the guild. However, there is live broadcasting, and at a certain level, the answers become public. That means this system can't last long. Current guilds probably don't rely on game answers to develop anymore. They should now be relying on cultivating high-level players within the guild."
"If I wanted to develop a guild, I would have senior players lead lower-level players. The lower-level players would have to pay a certain number of points to the seniors. For the senior players, this would be equivalent to remuneration. Then they would pay a portion of those points to the guild—essentially taxes."
"At the same time, any items obtained by the lower-level players would be distributed to the guild, and most of them would flow into the hands of high-level players to ensure they remain in the guild." Bai Liu sighed. "However, this inevitably leads to high-level players exploiting lower-level players and suppressing their development. Many lower-level players won't have items or personal skills, so they can only survive by relying on high-level players in the guild.
"Still, there's a steady stream of newcomers joining. The exploited lower-level players can, in turn, exploit newer players. Only when a guild is structured layer by layer like this can it stabilize its existence. No wonder so many lower-level players are hostile toward strong newcomers."
Bai Liu had seen all the criticism directed at him on the forum, but he hadn't cared much. Now he understood it a little better.
Mu Sicheng: "..."
Everything Bai Liu said was correct. It was almost identical to the current guild structure that Mu Sicheng had learned about.
Bai Liu looked at Mu Sicheng curiously. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I was thinking…" Mu Sicheng's face was full of vicissitudes. "Is your intelligence really only 89?"
This was too fucking outrageous! How on earth had he inferred something like that? Mu Sicheng had only answered one question about the game, and this guy had deduced the entire guild system!
"Many newcomers join guilds in order to survive because high-level players will indeed protect them and help them clear instances. Although they have to pay one-third of the points they earn, it's safer and reduces the risk of death. A high-potential newcomer like you would be directly trained. I was going to ask why you didn't join a guild." Mu Sicheng tore open a lollipop in frustration. "Now I don't think I need to."
"It's stupid to join a guild," Bai Liu replied bluntly. "In a life-threatening game like this, there are no charitable organizations. Helping someone must bring profit."
"In the short term, a guild reduces your mortality rate, but you're timidly handing over a large number of points in exchange. In a game that requires expressiveness to attract an audience, that's self-defeating. Once the guild can no longer gain benefits from you, it will abandon you. By then, you'll have handed over most of your points and items and won't have the capital to survive independently. You'll inevitably die."
Mu Sicheng stared at Bai Liu in astonishment—and with growing interest. "What exactly do you do in the real world? Why are you so clear about how guilds operate?"
Indeed, many useless lower-level players were rarely protected by high-level guild members in the later stages.
"This is how most companies operate in the real world. They attract employees with grand promises and so-called internal resources. Then they make them work overtime until their productivity declines. After that, they fire you and hire younger workers to squeeze instead."
Bai Liu was expressionless. "In the real world, I'm just a low-level corporate drone who was exploited and then fired. So it's absolutely impossible for me to join a guild and be exploited again after entering the game."
Mu Sicheng: "..."
This guy was radiating intense resentment while talking about his real-life corporate job…
"Have you thought about which game you want to play?" Mu Sicheng glanced at the screen. "Is there anything you're interested in? Or do you want to look more?"
"The login limit for single-player games is 100. All the single-player games on this screen are fully logged in." Mu Sicheng pointed to the 'Full' symbol in the lower right corner. He spoke vaguely around the lollipop in his mouth. "If there's a 'Full' mark on the icon, it means the game has reached its login limit and no new players can enter."
"For multiplayer games, each one has a different login limit. I've played ones with four players and others with fifty. It depends on the specific game. By the way, these multiplayer games—'Ghost House,' 'Doomsday City,' and 'Ghost Power'—have appeared before."
Mu Sicheng casually pointed at several icons. "Do you want to try these? I can help you get clearance information for some of them—but it won't be free."
"No." Bai Liu didn't hesitate. "Even with information, I would react more slowly than guild players who've cleared old games many times. It would be easy for them to preempt me. My advantage lies in playing new games."
"That's true." Mu Sicheng bit down on his lollipop. "You're quite adventurous. Most newcomers stick to old games for stability."
"My goal is to make money, not just survive," Bai Liu said flatly. "I need to win and rank first to earn enough points."
"You're really strange—" Mu Sicheng paused, then gave up trying to understand him. He wrinkled his nose. "You earn so many points, but if you die in the game, there won't be anywhere to spend them."
"I don't earn points to spend them. I earn them to hoard." Bai Liu suddenly smiled strangely and turned to Mu Sicheng, who was startled by the abrupt expression. "Besides… do you think I'll die in this game?"
"I'm fairly confident. Horror games are what I'm best at. I probably won't die so easily." Bai Liu smiled faintly. "I'm better at designing games where other players die. I've never died in a game designed by someone else."
Mu Sicheng: "..."
What the hell did this guy do in real life? Was he some kind of criminal?
"What about this one? Why are there no players logged in?" Bai Liu tapped the icon of a burning train on the screen. The icon enlarged and entered the game manager on his chest. He opened the details. "'Exploding Last Train'?"
So many games were full, yet this one was empty. It stood out—strangely so.
[Name of Game Instance: Exploding Last Train]
[Level: Level 2 (games with a player mortality rate greater than 50% and less than 80% are classified as Level 2)]
[Mode: Multiplayer (0/7)]
[Comprehensive Description: This is an exciting multiplayer game. The last train is on fire. Four shards of broken glass and charred corpses hang from the rings, making players linger and stay here forever~]
Mu Sicheng frowned when he saw the icon. "You want to play this one?"
"What's wrong with it?" Bai Liu asked.
Mu Sicheng hesitated. "It's actually an old game that has appeared on the screen several times, but there's currently no clearance information."
Bai Liu understood instantly. It had appeared several times, and the game wall only refreshed once all games were full. That meant several batches of players should have entered.
Yet there was no clearance record…
Bai Liu glanced sideways at Mu Sicheng. "The players who entered before all died?"
"It's strange. If no players have cleared it…" Bai Liu's gaze swept over the Exploding Last Train icon. His finger tapped twice on the displayed death rate. "How was the mortality rate determined to be greater than 50% and less than 80%? If all the players who entered were killed, then the death rate should be 100%."
Mu Sicheng frowned and waved him off. "It's just a grading method. Almost all games are labeled like that."
He continued, "Following your logic, the mortality rate must be based on real measurements. So any game without a 100% death rate should have players who cleared it and left clearance data. I've checked the VIP video library and asked plenty of veteran gods. I really couldn't find anyone who has cleared Exploding Last Train. I don't think anyone has passed it."
Bai Liu looked into Mu Sicheng's eyes meaningfully. "You didn't find any. That doesn't mean there are none."
Mu Sicheng snorted, unconvinced. "The death rate is between 50% and 80%. If at least 20% of players cleared it like you're suggesting, then that's not a small number. Some of them would've posted on the forum or had viewers watching their small TVs. It's impossible that there wouldn't be any trace."
"How many players do you think there are in this game?" Bai Liu suddenly asked.
Mu Sicheng froze. "I don't know… but there should be a lot."
"There are so many of us," Bai Liu said calmly, "but are there any traces of our existence in reality?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Can anything related to this game be seen by people in the real world? No matter what form we use to describe it, does it remain or get remembered by anyone? For people who haven't entered the game, are there any traces that players like us even exist?"
He paused. "Of course not."
Mu Sicheng was completely stunned.
Bai Liu asked quietly, "Back to the first question. If there are no traces of us in reality, do you think we exist?"
"Of course we exist," Bai Liu answered himself almost immediately. "It's just that the traces of us have been erased. So, isn't it possible that the 20% of players who cleared Exploding Last Train are the same? Their traces may have been erased by the system—or by the game itself."
Mu Sicheng inhaled sharply. "Their clearance data and player records were deleted?!"
"There's a high probability that they themselves were deleted." Bai Liu stared at the Exploding Last Train icon. "The players who cleared this game are most likely dead. Otherwise, they would've come back to clear it again. But no one has."
Goosebumps rose on Mu Sicheng's arms, though he still forced himself to argue. "Everything you're saying is based on the assumption that the mortality rate is calculated from real data. What if the 'player mortality rate' is just a virtual estimate—"
He abruptly stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening.
Bai Liu lifted his gaze. "You've realized it too, haven't you? A mortality rate isn't something that can be fabricated virtually."
"Have you studied statistics?" Bai Liu asked casually. "There are two figures in statistics that must be based on actual measurement. One is the birth rate. The other is the death rate."
As he spoke, he tapped the Exploding Last Train icon twice on his game panel.
Mu Sicheng suddenly screamed as Bai Liu's body began to fade from sight.
"Why are you going in?!"
Bai Liu's figure gradually disappeared before Mu Sicheng's eyes. His voice remained calm, almost thoughtful.
"I'm curious why the system specifically deleted the player data for Exploding Last Train. Experience tells me that the more carefully something is hidden by those in power, the more profitable it usually is…"
[The game 'Exploding Last Train' has gathered one player. Six more players are required to begin.]