Chapter 11

Chapter 11: High Fever

Even with a fever, Ling Mo’s mind was strangely clear.

Since her body refused to cooperate, she used her thoughts to organize supplies inside the pocket space instead.

Things like cheese and milk were stored in the warehouse, where time stood still. Even food that would normally spoil quickly could be kept there.

“If only I had a few more warehouses,” she muttered. “Then I could separate everything properly.”

The current warehouse was huge, but the contents were a chaotic pile. Finding anything took forever.

The instant she finished speaking, the entire pocket space trembled.

Pain lanced through her skull.

In the next moment, new warehouses rose from the ground—along with a dedicated cellar for vegetables.

Ling Mo didn’t even have time to react. The sudden headache hit like a sledgehammer, leaving her feeling like a fish hauled onto dry land, gasping for air.

She rolled off the couch onto the floor, clutching her head with both hands. Sweat soaked her clothes, but she barely noticed. She could only gulp down air, over and over.

The pain was so sharp she nearly passed out.

But she didn’t let herself.

Protagonists in novels always forced themselves to stay conscious, didn’t they? Fine. She could do that too.

Time blurred. Eventually, the pain began to ebb.

Ling Mo opened her eyes and exhaled shakily. She’d made it through.

“Nice try,” she rasped to herself. “A headache thinks it can beat me? Dream on.”

By the time she got up, her clothes had been soaked and dried again and again until she felt sticky all over.

She hurried upstairs, took a shower, and checked her temperature.

39.5°C—higher than at noon.

Yet she felt energized. The weakness from earlier was gone, as if it had never existed.

Remembering the headache, she immediately checked the pocket space. The extra warehouses and the cellar were still there, solid and real.

Was her headache connected to the pocket space changing?

But the last few times it had changed, she’d felt nothing.

She couldn’t make sense of it, so she stopped trying. With all these new storage spaces, she had work to do.

She started sorting.

Rice, flour, and other grains went into one place. She didn’t have much yet, but the crops growing in her pocket space were almost ready—and she’d spent a fortune on machines to process them.

Seasonings, tea, tobacco, and alcohol went together.

Daily necessities and general goods went together.

Medicine got its own warehouse.

Meat and dairy got another.

Excess fruits and vegetables went into the cellar.

As for the strange items she’d hauled back from Liang Chen Ranch—things she couldn’t identify—she put them in a separate warehouse to study later, once she learned interstellar.

After everything was split up, the warehouse that had once been jammed full suddenly felt spacious.

That was fine. One day, she’d fill every last shelf.

That night, Ling Mo lay in bed and scrolled through news alerts.

Just as expected, the whole world knew about the game now. Overnight, players had become the center of attention.

Many players were running fevers, though the severity varied. Some only felt unwell. Others had been sent straight to the hospital.

Governments moved quickly. Players were urged to register at the nearest police station, with promises of benefits and support.

But the response was sparse.

The System had made it clear: only those who successfully awakened a talent would keep their qualification. Who wanted to register, only to fail and become a laughingstock—or worse?

Besides, the heat was brutal, but not yet unlivable. Registering meant benefits, sure, but it also meant oversight.

Ling Mo understood the mindset. Apocalypse. A mysterious game. Talent awakening. It sounded like the start of a hero’s rise. Who didn’t want to be the one in control?

She swiped past that thread and opened another.

Food prices were exploding. Everyone was hoarding. Rice that once cost almost nothing was now several times—dozens of times—more expensive, and still impossible to get.

Ling Mo clicked her tongue. Even at those prices, supplies were still sold out.

She still had some money in her account. She decided she’d better turn it into supplies before it became worthless numbers on a screen.

Before sleep, she checked her temperature again.

It had climbed past 40°C.

Ling Mo stared at the reading, silent.

A few months ago, when she first crossed over, she’d had a fever like this and nearly died.

But now she felt crystal clear, as if the fever belonged to someone else.

She touched her forehead, then eyed the temperature gun.

“This thing isn’t broken, is it?”

She couldn’t read a mercury thermometer, so she tested several temperature guns instead.

The result only made her heart sink.

The first one really had been off—because her temperature was even higher than it had shown.

42°C.

She almost reached for fever medicine.

Then she stopped.

Calling an ambulance didn’t even cross her mind. Aside from the risk of exposing herself, hospitals were already overwhelmed. Even if she went, she’d probably get handed a couple pills and tossed back out.

And other than her temperature, she felt… fine. More than fine. Sharper than usual.

Still, sharp or not, 42°C was 42°C.

Ling Mo thought for a moment, then headed downstairs.

Half the living room was taken up by a massive pool. She slipped a life ring over her neck and put on a life jacket, just in case she fell asleep and drowned, then climbed in without hesitation.

The cool water sent a chill through her. After she adjusted, she yawned—and quickly drifted off.

But her sleep was restless.

She dreamed of strange, surreal scenes. Her senses felt amplified a hundredfold. She could hear everything around her, down to the faint whisper of wind sweeping through grass.