Chapter 22
Chapter 22: The Misery of a Corporate Drone
It was a big undertaking.
Jing Bao Tian rubbed his eyes. After he got the site assembled, he posted the basics on Weibo.
“Anyone interested is welcome to check out this game. I can responsibly say it’s a full-dive simulation. I’ve already drawn the maps we’ve visited so far. Honestly, the world is bigger than I can even imagine. You could treat it as a second life.
“The current version is still early. Our Longevity Sect doesn’t have a clear development route yet. Besides spirit herbs, I’d love suggestions from the big shots.”
He posted it and didn’t do anything else.
Even if people didn’t believe him, there would always be curious onlookers.
Longevity Sect lacked a central goal. Maybe someone would throw him a direction.
Yes—he was absolutely trying to freeload.
After posting, he felt tired, but it wasn’t the usual misery of staying up all night. His mind was still clear. Reason told him to eat breakfast and rest.
No matter how fun a game was, you still needed a healthy body to keep playing.
He didn’t check Weibo after that.
But the post was already spreading through his followers. People clicked his link, skimmed the background lore, scrolled through the map, and grudgingly admitted it looked like effort—even if the AI images screamed “fake” at a glance.
The comments were sharp.
“Are you insane? You’re treating a trash game like it’s real?”
“You’ve played until you hallucinated. Even if you’re advertising, this is pathetic.”
“No screenshots and you’re still talking?”
Jing Bao Tian saw one of them while he was out eating. He swallowed a bite of beef pie and typed back.
“Not an ad. I’ve observed it. Mortals don’t interact much with cultivators because we’re on the fringe—spiritual qi is thin here, so this is largely mortal territory. The closer you get to major sect lands, the fewer mortals you see.
“I don’t know other regions yet, but our area is under Flying Sparrow Sect, an artifact-refining sect. It seems strict. I walked around and didn’t see cultivators bullying mortals, and we buy supplies from mortals normally.”
Qi Refining Stage meant you’d stepped into the immortal gate—but it didn’t mean you’d instantly become someone different from the mortal world.
Only disciples born in the heartlands of major sects thought that way. Out here on the frontier, someone with spirit roots might still go home.
If you never broke into Foundation Establishment Stage, at best you lived a few decades longer with a healthier body. Compared to mortals, what was the difference?
Only those with exceptional spirit roots—poached by major sects—would accept that they’d never return to the dust of the mortal world.
As for “cultivating the heart” and lofty ideals?
Please. You were only at Qi Refining Stage. Who had the luxury of thinking that far?
Major sects monopolized resources. Cultivators without backing struggled to advance. Jing Bao Tian and the others had even asked A Wu today why Qi Refining Stage cultivators didn’t try to travel toward better sect territory.
A Wu’s answer was simple: borders were dangerous. Demon beasts roamed the gaps. Rogue cultivators lurked too, ready to harm people. How could a Qi Refining Stage cultivator guarantee they’d survive crossing into a major sect’s land?
It was an invisible test.
The system felt familiar—like class monopoly dressed up in spiritual robes.
No talent, no ability, no rise.
The weak sank. The strong climbed.
Han Tian couldn’t shake the feeling that Yun Zhou Continent wasn’t as simple as it looked.
After replying, Jing Bao Tian kept eating.
Maybe it wasn’t his imagination. The beef pie in real life, freshly made, still felt looser, thinner—less satisfying than the one in the game.
Strange.
“Wan Qiu, are you going to today’s gathering or not?” A fashionable coworker leaned over Dong Fang Wan Qiu’s desk.
Dong Fang Wan Qiu pushed her thick glasses up and shook her head. “No. I’m not going.”
The coworker blinked. “Why not? I heard a supervisor’s coming down today. Shouldn’t you show your face?”
“What’s there to show?” Dong Fang Wan Qiu’s focus wasn’t on any of this. One glance at the pile of materials on her screen made her head throb. “I need to finish these and leave early this afternoon.”
The coworker looked even more curious. “Leave early for what? You’re not married, you don’t have kids—do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.” Dong Fang Wan Qiu didn’t hesitate. “I’m going home to play a game.”
“…Huh?”
Of course she was in a hurry.
The in-game time ratio was two to one. She hadn’t logged in since last night. Who knew how much time she’d wasted—how much cultivation she’d missed—how her talent had turned out.
Last night’s accidental discovery had been unbelievable. Full-dive. Real. She’d never played anything like it.
The only tragedy was the character creation. She’d messed up her face, and Eldest Senior Brother had judged her on looks and excluded her. It still stung.
She was single. Outside of work, games were her main escape.
And last night she’d planned to grind—until her boss lost his mind and forced her to rush a report. That was the worker’s life: deadlines first, breathing second. No time for the game, and she still had to sleep.
Now the department was pushing a gathering too. She didn’t want any of it.
Supervisor or not, if they weren’t giving her a raise, who cared?
The coworker still didn’t believe her. “You’re really not going? Aren’t you afraid that bald bastard will mess with you later?”
“Whatever.” Dong Fang Wan Qiu smiled coldly. “If that bald bastard thinks this pay can still hire a workhorse like me, he can fire me too.”
The coworker sighed. “Fair. He probably won’t dare. Fine—I won’t put your name down.”
“Thanks.”
When the coworker left, Dong Fang Wan Qiu opened the game group chat she’d joined last night.
To her surprise, Zhou Nu Zi had privately asked why she hadn’t logged in.
Dong Fang Wan Qiu had been buried in work and only saw it now. She typed a quick reply.
“Sis, I’m a miserable wage slave. I can only log in after work.”
Zhou Nu Zi replied almost immediately.
“Sympathy. Log in this afternoon. Big Shot Jing Bao Tian posted a strategy site on Weibo. If you’re curious, go look—maps, NPC markers, the places we’ve been.”
Mu Qiu replied: “OK.”
No one could stay in-game all day. Everyone had their own rhythm.
With hours still left before clock-out, Dong Fang Wan Qiu opened Jing Bao Tian’s site and started reading while pretending to work.
At the same time, in Yun Zhou Continent, Song Jiu Lai was facing her own headache.