Chapter 13

Chapter 13: When Will Players Start Acting Better?

[Jing Bao Tian V: Hello everyone. I’m Jing Bao Tian. If you play games, you’ve probably heard my name.]

[Jing Bao Tian V: Because this game currently can’t be screenshotted or recorded, I can’t post proof. But it doesn’t matter. This is only the first non-wipe beta. More slots will come sooner or later.]

The post hit the gaming world like a lit match tossed into dry grass.

Not because of the words alone, but because Jing Bao Tian’s name carried weight. Millions of Weibo followers, with tens of thousands active. His reviews were always detailed, always grounded.

But he’d never posted anything this outrageous.

The comments detonated.

[Are you insane?]

[Did you get hacked? I refuse to believe a professional reviewer wrote this. The cringe is so strong my toes are digging out a three-bedroom apartment.]

[Full-dive simulation? Do you even understand what that means? If you said screen-casting, maybe. But calling it full-dive?]

[Jing Bao Tian played too many games and broke his brain. Someone call his family and get him to the hospital.]

[Hahahahaha your gaming world has this many idiots too? Full-dive simulation, seriously?]

Mockery. Spectacle. Disbelief.

Exactly what Jing Bao Tian expected.

He stayed calm. If he hadn’t experienced it himself, he wouldn’t have believed it either. Technology like that didn’t feel like it belonged to this era.

While he still had time, he called a friend with connections. “Help me investigate the company behind Longevity Sect. Who’s really behind it?”

Something this far ahead—this close to impossible—wasn’t something a normal studio could pull off.

Was the world already that advanced? Was someone really willing to deploy that technology in a game first?

Even Jing Bao Tian couldn’t make sense of it.

At the same time, Chen Miao Miao pinched the bridge of her nose and stared at her desk, restless.

How was she supposed to explain this to her advisor?

She had witnessed a true second world.

And she hadn’t lied about her identity. In real life, she really was Chen Miao Miao—an outstanding student in agricultural science.

She normally played games as a break—competitive mobile stuff. Getting into this broken sect game had been an accident. Her sister had dragged her in.

A while ago, her sister had gifted her a VR set. Chen Miao Miao tried it once and shelved it. It all felt too fake.

Tonight, her sister was bored and insisted they check out this so-called full-dive cultivation game.

Chen Miao Miao still remembered her sister’s tone before logging in: “It’s probably just marketing, but cultivation games in VR are rare. Let’s see what they’re selling.”

Then they entered.

And both sisters fell silent.

Chen Miao Miao wasn’t an engineer, but she knew enough: this shouldn’t be possible with current tech.

Yet it existed.

Jing Bao Tian’s words weren’t exaggeration. It was a game from another era—one that could shake the entire world.

The physics. The textures. The way matter behaved exactly like reality. Every tiny detail lodged itself into her memory like a splinter she couldn’t pull out.

So how did she convince her advisor to give her time off—real time—to sink into a “game”?

Because if Han Tian was right, early income streams were limited. Spirit medicine was Longevity Sect’s only path. If she could improve cultivation methods and upgrade spirit herbs, then right now, she was someone the others could rely on.

The game needed her.

And the Sect Master needed her.

Most of all, her three-hour talent time left her unwilling to sleep. Even if it meant staying up all night, she wanted to log back in.

People said games could ruin you.

She understood why.

Meanwhile, players like Wu Da Hu didn’t have to worry about public opinion.

An hour and a half had passed.

He could log back in.

This damn game counted the wait by Blue Star time. He’d waited a real hour and a half.

He’d never had a game make him this frantic. It was already midnight, but who cared?

Staying up late was a player’s natural state. Even though Wu Da Hu had work tomorrow, he wasn’t going to sleep until he got back in and confirmed what his body had become.

The world flashed into view.

Wu Da Hu’s eyes widened.

The change was immediate. Compared to earlier, his vision was sharper—cleaner, deeper, like someone had wiped fog off glass. When he breathed, he could sense something moving inside him, a faint current of energy sliding along invisible channels. And the strangest part was how natural it felt—like his body had always known what to do.

Yun Zhou Continent was night-dark now. Longevity Sect had lamps hung up.

Not spirit-stone lamps, though. Song Jiu Lai was too broke for that.

Still, the moonlight alone was enough. It poured down like pale silver. Stars glittered like scattered ash across the sky. Even the distant clouds wore a thin veil of glow.

Wu Da Hu couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a night sky like this.

He focused—and realized he could make out tiny insects circling in the moonlight. He could even catch the curve of a wingbeat, faint but real.

“Beautiful…” he breathed, not even trying to sound cool. For a moment, the world felt quiet enough to soothe the mind.

And then, like a punchline to the universe—

“Fuck! I opened my spiritual roots! I can cultivate! Hahahahaha!”

Wu Da Hu’s face went blank.

When would players ever improve their manners?