# Chapter 1: Sea Without Light 01
The author has something to say:
The female protagonist’s name: Kui (隗) Xin. Kui, pronounced like “kui.”
Don’t promote in my comment section; my comment section is not for promotion. If you want to promote, go elsewhere.
Bug catching has rewards.
Exercise caution if you have moral expectations of the protagonist; those with strict values should proceed with caution.
Slow burn, plot-driven with a lot of early setup. The Lovecraftian elements are relatively minor, non-orthodox Cthulhu, not horror. This is my take on cyberpunk, with content leaning toward the cyber settings popular in the last century. In my world, I am in charge~
…
Below is a brief introduction to [Cyberpunk], sourced from Baidu Baike.
Cyberpunk is a blend of “cybernetics, neuro-mechanics” and “punk,” also known in Chinese as “赛伯朋克.”
The background of cyberpunk works is primarily built on the foundation of “low-end living combined with high technology,” often showcasing advanced scientific technology contrasted against a somewhat collapsed social structure; it features a dazzling array of visual impacts, such as neon lights on the streets, iconic advertisements, and towering buildings, usually paired with colors predominantly of black, purple, green, blue, and red. The story framework is characterized by a society under high control from the government, corporations, or secret organizations, while the protagonist exploits loopholes for some form of breakthrough.
Cyberpunk plots typically revolve around the conflicts between hackers, AIs, and large corporations, set in a not-too-distant future dystopian Earth, as opposed to the outer space settings of early cyberpunk. It represents a marked improvement and advance over past sci-fi narratives that overlooked specific information technology settings.
—
Kui Xin was jolted awake by the notifications from her class group.
Still groggy from sleep, she fumbled under her pillow for her mobile phone, squinting to decipher the information on the screen.
“The first batch of beta testers for ‘Crimson Soil’ has been announced!”
“Is it real?”
“The official website posted the news three minutes ago [image].”
“Damn! Who’s so lucky?”
“Only ten thousand in the first batch? This is a global selection, and the official slots are just too few!”
After a moment of dull realization, Kui Xin recalled that at her classmates’ urging, she had applied for the game’s beta testing qualification. She had casually filled out a questionnaire and clicked submit on the official website, and that had been ten months ago.
At the time, ‘Crimson Soil’ had just released its trailer, marketed as “a groundbreaking holographic game, a real Second World.”
The trailer had immediately attracted the attention of players worldwide; the game’s selling points were its open-world exploration and multiple career paths.
Moreover, it was a game that combined cyberpunk and extraordinary abilities, allowing players to take a tech path to become cyborgs with mechanical limbs or to awaken all kinds of strange powers.
It was based in reality but elevated above it, blending illusion with unparalleled realism, as if connecting to the real world.
What truly attracted Kui Xin was the last two sentences of the game introduction.
“Light always breeds darkness, and beneath the glamorous façade of the city lies a rotting decay.”
“Compared to money and power, survival and death are the eternal themes of that world.”
Since the introduction claims so… perhaps ‘Crimson Soil’ has added a bit of a dark core aside from its cyberpunk aesthetic and extraordinary abilities?
Kui Xin opened the screenshot in the class group to take a look; the game officials would send the beta invitation emails to players’ inboxes, and it was indeed only ten thousand in the first batch, with the official beta date set for tomorrow.
To know that ‘Crimson Soil’ had opened for reservations just one day prior, the global reservation count had already exceeded ten million, and now, after months of fermentation, it had long since broken a hundred million. To select ten thousand lucky individuals from these hundreds of millions of players for the beta was an incredibly low probability.
Though she held little hope, Kui Xin opened her email to check.
“You have an unread email.”
The prompt that popped up made Kui Xin startle, her heart racing as she sprang up from her bed.
“Congratulations! You have qualified for the beta testing of the game ‘Crimson Soil.’”
The email subject was in eye-catching red; Kui Xin’s expression was dazed as she repeatedly checked the sender and compared it with the official email account, confirming it over and over in disbelief.
Once she finally confirmed that the email truly was from the officials, the first thought that surged through her mind was—I’m going to make money! I’m going to be rich!!
Selling this beta qualification could definitely net her a nice sum!
The joy of a poor soul!
Kui Xin was a habitual disaster; her father had fled with the investment money after failing, and her mother sent her a monthly living allowance of eight hundred yuan after remarrying. That was enough for food, but buying study materials and clothes left her in a tight spot; the second-hand smartphone in her hand was bought from her earnings when she worked at a milk tea shop.
Living alone in the old house her grandparents left behind, she studied diligently from dawn to dusk, like a resilient weed, stubbornly surviving to this day.
This summer, Kui Xin would be starting university. Her grades were good, allowing her to get into a good university, but tuition and living expenses were a worry.
If she could manage to sell the beta qualification for ‘Crimson Soil,’ it could relieve her financial worries for quite some time.
However, the next line in the email dashed Kui Xin’s hopes.
“’Crimson Soil’ beta qualification is non-tradable and non-transferable, and the beta invitation code is bound to the player’s registration information and cannot be changed. This beta will not be charged and will not reset.”
Kui Xin’s expression fell, the path to making money ruthlessly severed.
She actually didn’t care much for the game since her equipment was terrible and she didn’t even have a holographic helmet, making it impossible to play. Filling out the game questionnaire had just been a whim, mostly driven by the thought, “If I could sell this beta qualification, it would be a big win.”
Kui Xin thought back and sadly concluded that although she had become one of the ten thousand lucky players in the world, she was still a poor soul and a habitual disaster. She had drawn the beta qualification but was unable to experience the game, like owning mountains of gold and silver without being able to spend a dime—it was utterly frustrating.
She sighed and continued to scroll through the screen.
The email content was brief and lacked anything of substance. Flipping to the back, Kui Xin was pleasantly surprised to find a line stating, “If the player agrees to join the game, the game company will provide special game equipment for the player.”
Kui Xin: Yay!
Her concerns were resolved; she could play the game! Her mood soared like a roller coaster.
At the end of the email, there was a link to a player survey.
Curiously, Kui Xin clicked on the link.
Question 1: If given a chance for a new life, would you accept it?
What kind of question is this? Kui Xin unhesitatingly selected the answer representing “yes.”
A new life meant a fresh start, and her current life was already terrible, how much worse could it get?
Question 2: Do you believe in deities?
Kui Xin chose “no.” She was a staunch atheist.
Question 3: Would you like to have superpowers?
“Yes!” Wanting superpowers did not contradict her being an atheist!
“You have completed the questionnaire.”
“Game-related documents and notices 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 anonymous player forum as instructed.
Some game beta content is commercial secrets and must not be disclosed; the existence of beta players is to help developers catch bugs and fix game loopholes. The developers of ‘Crimson Soil’ provided a beta player forum, likely to offer a space for beta players to interact.
Currently, ten thousand players have qualified for the beta, so the forum’s content should be rather limited; she would be one of the first pioneers of the forum.
Instead of registering on the beta forum right away, Kui Xin opened her email to check the newly sent game files. Such files usually require players to sign a confirmation, essentially a contract; breaching it would incur legal responsibilities.
She clicked open the new email and froze after reading the first few lines.
“Six pieces of advice for ‘Crimson Soil’ players. You may choose to obey or violate them, but you will bear the consequences of any violations yourself.”
“1. Please treat the game world as a real world.”
“2. Do not disclose your player identity to anyone.”
“3. Do not disclose game content to anyone.”
“4. Life only happens once; death cannot be revived.”
“5. If you choose to start the game, you will only have two paths: ‘complete the game’ and ‘death of character.’”
“6. Everything comes with a price.”
This… just these few sentences? Was the game statement a bit too hasty, to only include these few phrases?
Kui Xin was bewildered.
It’s just a game; the game company writing such pretentious and vague statements in the precautions was rather pointless. The so-called “real world” was merely a marketing tool for the game; everyone knew that world was fake.
Kui Xin opened the game file, which needed to be signed.
She earnestly read through it from start to finish, and after two rounds didn’t find any confidentiality clauses, but the earlier “six pieces of advice for players” clearly stated not to leak game content.
How odd; wasn’t this self-contradictory? If they didn’t want players to disclose, why didn’t they put a confidentiality agreement in a legally binding document? Those few pieces of advice lacked any binding force.
At the end of the document was an electronic signature field. Kui Xin wrote her name in the signature field.
As soon as she completed the signature, a small page popped up, displaying in bold red font—“Do you confirm joining the game? You have only this one chance to exit.”
Only this one chance to exit?
Kui Xin paid little attention, clicking confirm without hesitation.
The page transformed, and a new prompt appeared.
“Contract completed.”
“Welcome to your new life, Kui Xin.”
…Why does this game feel so mystical? Kui Xin stared at the computer screen in confusion.
She pondered for a while and opened the anonymous beta forum, clicking register.
The registration process was incredibly straightforward; filling in the beta invitation code was all that was needed.
For the nickname section, Kui Xin casually typed the number “233.” All her game nicknames were “233” because she lacked creativity and any clever name she came up with was likely to be reused by others, so she stuck with “233” indefinitely.
“Nickname cannot be modified once confirmed.”
Kui Xin paid it no mind 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 background color of the forum shimmered with a cold metallic sheen, and the page was exceptionally simple, with only posting, replying, and private messaging functions.
However, a prominent blood-red Arabic numeral “10000” was displayed in the top right corner.
Next to “10000” was a line of small text—“Surviving Players.”
For some reason, upon seeing the words “Surviving Players,” Kui Xin’s heart skipped a beat, a wave of unease washing over her.
There were dozens of posts with “new” tags floating in the forum; it had just opened, and players had just registered, so all the posts were fresh. Kui Xin refreshed, and about ten more posts appeared; the post titles were in English, Japanese, Russian, and Chinese, gathering players from all corners of the globe in this small forum.
Kui Xin could stutteringly translate the general meaning of the English titles, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of the other languages.
Glancing through the existing Chinese posts, she found titles like “Let’s pioneer!” “Are there players from Magic City? Let’s meet up!” “My name must be in the top hundred posts”… and other meaningless chatter.
After hesitating for a moment, she clicked to create a post, typing in the title: “Does anyone find ‘the six pieces of advice for players’ a bit strange?”
After finishing the title, Kui Xin’s mouse hovered over the post button, not clicking it for a long time.
She recalled that sentence, “Please treat the game world as a real world,” along with the subsequent one, “Life only happens once; death cannot be revived,” before glancing at the bloody number “10000” at the top of the forum, feeling as if something had struck her deep within her mind.
A chill swept over her, and she was uncertain where that chilling sensation stemmed from.
This feeling hit her out of nowhere, bordering on absurd.
Kui Xin rubbed her forehead.
How could a trope from fantasy novels, “entering a holographic game means crossing into the real world,” occur in reality?
But despite her self-reassurances, Kui Xin inexplicably deleted the post content, deciding to remain an observer for now.
She kept refreshing the forum, reading through one Chinese post after another.
A few minutes later, a new post caught her attention.
“The game company hasn’t mentioned how to ship the game equipment. Has anyone received a holographic helmet or installation package?”
The moment she read this post, her door was knocked on.
She instinctively stood up and walked to the door, peeking through the peephole, but saw no one there.
After waiting a few minutes, she slowly opened the door and noticed a small black box lying quietly on the ground, with words on it—“Crimson Soil.”
Kui Xin opened the box to find a silver metallic card inside; the intricate design on the card formed a mechanical hand from the interwoven lines.
“This is… a game commemorative card?” Kui Xin flipped over the card, then shivered.
She remembered that she never filled in any address information on the game’s official website, so how had this card arrived?
A sense of urgency gripped her heart; she slipped on her slippers and went downstairs.
Living in an old neighborhood, the facilities were outdated, but surveillance cameras had been installed nearby.
At the entrance of the corridor sat a few elderly folks playing mahjong, as the neighbors knew each other well. Kui Xin asked, “Aunt Zhang! Did the delivery guy come by just now?”
“No, hasn’t Comrade Li usually come around three in the afternoon?” Aunt Zhang pushed a row of mahjong tiles forward, cheerfully saying, “Oh, I won!”
“Was anyone upstairs just now?” Kui Xin pressed on.
“No one,” Aunt Zhang replied, focused on her game without looking back.
Hearing this, despite the scorching July weather, Kui Xin felt a chill run down her spine.
No one had gone upstairs, so who knocked on her door? She hadn’t filled in any address information, so why was the game card delivered accurately to her doorstep?
Just moments after signing the game agreement, the card had been delivered—no more than five minutes apart…
Kui Xin looked down at the silver metallic card in her hand and flipped it over.
The back of the card bore several words.
—“Remover · Kui Xin. ID: 233.”
233 was her recently chosen game nickname, as well as her order of registration on the forum.
In that instant, Kui Xin felt a shiver run down her spine.
The events were careening in a bizarre direction at an alarming pace.
