Chapter 3
Chapter 3: Nothing Left to Say but “Holy Shit”
Whoosh.
Zhou Xiao’s vision blurred, then snapped into focus.
Clouds drifted around her like pale silk. Beneath the cloud sea, something immense and shadowed suggested an entire world.
A floating interface box appeared.
“Please enter your ID. IDs must be a normal name.”
Zhou Xiao frowned. What did that mean? She couldn’t even pick a fun character name?
Her usual ID was Little Titan Girl. If there was a limit, she’d use Mountain Lifter. Something with punch.
Still, the scenery was so real it made her skin prickle. She could feel wind on her face, damp and cool, like she’d stepped into morning mist.
VR headsets always left pressure around the eyes. Here, she barely felt anything at all.
Could this game actually have some skill?
She tapped the box. A pinyin input panel appeared.
Using the controller, she typed: “Mountainlifter.”
“ID does not meet Yun Zhou Continent regulations.”
Of course.
She couldn’t use her real name, so she tried a compromise: “Zhou Nu Zi.”
The System hesitated, as if judging her, then approved it.
A face-sculpting screen popped up.
Puppet dolls could be customized. Song Jiu Lai had ordered a uniform template face, but when the System loaded the player consciousness into each body, it could spend a little energy to let them shape their features. Otherwise everyone would look identical, and even Song Jiu Lai wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.
Zhou Xiao actually enjoyed face-sculpting.
Then the puppet doll model appeared, and she blurted, “Holy shit.”
Goosebumps ran over her arms.
It wasn’t just a pretty model. It was a body. Too real. The only inhuman thing was that she couldn’t choose her gender. She was locked into a female form.
Back when she filled out the recruitment form, the game demanded ID binding and facial verification. Who knew what kind of ridiculous detection system a trashy scam game would even be pretending to have?
But the body in front of her looked like a living person in every detail except the blank, unremarkable face.
Zhou Xiao’s heart thumped once, hard.
Something felt wrong.
The port only stayed open for one hour. She remembered someone in the group saying they were going out to eat tonight. For a game nobody had ever heard of, people wouldn’t take it seriously. Not everyone would log in immediately.
Maybe it was a trick. Maybe face-sculpting was the only thing they did well, and the moment she entered the actual game, it would fall apart.
Zhou Xiao forced herself to keep going.
Ten minutes passed.
In the Longevity Sect, Song Jiu Lai paced her room like a caged animal, staring out at the yard where the puppet dolls lay still and silent.
“Why is nobody coming out yet?” she hissed.
The System sounded bored. “They’re face-sculpting.”
Song Jiu Lai stopped. “…Right.”
Outside, only A Wu waited.
He was twelve. In Zhou Xiao’s world, that would’ve been child labor. Here, it just meant life didn’t care.
He’d been an orphan nobody wanted. The previous Sect Master had taken him in, and he’d grown up as a herb-collecting attendant.
A Wu’s talent was low, the common kind. Without resources, and with the Longevity Sect as poor as it was, he’d cultivated for years and still only reached early Qi Refining Stage. Mid-stage was something he could only call “possible” if he was feeling optimistic.
Cultivation realms on Yun Zhou Continent went: Qi Refining Stage, Foundation Establishment Stage, Golden Core, Nascent Soul Stage, Divine Transformation, Mahayana, Ascension.
Each realm split into early, mid, and late stages. Breaking through was brutally difficult, but each leap also multiplied your lifespan.
A Wu didn’t know it, but early Qi Refining Stage was already the highest combat power the Longevity Sect had.
Song Jiu Lai herself had only just stepped into Qi Refining Stage, and even now she barely understood the manuals.
A Wu was tense. Sect Master had told him a batch of newcomers would arrive. He had to guide them, teach them the sect’s rules, show them what to do.
From now on, he was their Senior Brother.
He didn’t understand why anyone would join their broken, poor sect, but a prophecy had descended a month ago. Sect Master was the fated maiden. She would bring the sect a destined chance. That had to mean something.
Sect Master also told him she couldn’t appear directly. She had to maintain a certain “persona,” so he needed to handle the junior brothers and junior sisters.
“And if anyone doesn’t listen,” she’d said, “hit them.”
A Wu had nodded at the time.
Now, waiting alone, he started to wonder if that was too violent.
He’d never been a Senior Brother before. He had no idea what he was doing.
Bang.
Sound erupted from the yard.
A Wu flinched, but before he saw anyone, a voice shouted in rapid fire: “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”
A Wu blinked.
What was “holy shit”? Was it some kind of herb?
Then the voice escalated. “Oh my god! Fuck… is this not a hallucination? Holy shit!”
A Wu exhaled through his nose.
All right. He understood that part. Swearing. No manners at all.
He made a decision: he would educate this junior brother properly.
Before he could step forward, the voice cut off.
Inside the room, Song Jiu Lai finally saw someone appear… only for the man to curse three times and then vanish again.
Song Jiu Lai’s eyes widened. “Did he disconnect?”
The System replied, “He logged off by himself.”
Once the player logged off, the System couldn’t observe him anymore.
That player reappeared on Blue Star and immediately exploded into the group chat.
Back-Then Tigerquake: “Holy shit! Anyone who signed up for start with a broken sect, log in now or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!!”
Back-Then Tigerquake: “@Pro Game Reviewer, did you go out to eat? Even if you’re eating abalone and rare delicacies, crawl back and log in! The login port closes soon, and you’ll be puking blood!”
Old Daoist Ascended: “…What happened? You found a masterpiece and it hit you this hard?”
Born Emperor: “Huh? Brother Wu Song, you’re this hyped… don’t tell me you took a paid promo?”
Philanthropist: “What game? How come I never heard of it? Brother Wu Song, what are you playing?”
After that, no matter how much they @-ed him, Tigerquake didn’t answer.
The countdown in the corner of the game told him the channel would close in an hour. He’d already done his moment of peak human kindness.
Now he wanted back in.
He logged in again almost immediately. He was the fastest because he was terrible at face-sculpting. Ten minutes of clumsy adjustments, a face that was barely acceptable, and he rushed forward.
The moment he re-entered, the yard hit him like a wave.
Full-dive. Virtual.
Those were the only words left in his brain.
He stared so hard he nearly forgot to breathe.
At that same moment, another puppet doll beside him jolted awake.
The newcomer turned, his face shaped into something faintly handsome, eyes wide with shock and confusion. “Bro… which group are you from? I’m Jing Bao Tian. My in-game name is Han Tian.”
Tigerquake’s whole body jolted. He lunged forward like a fan meeting a celebrity. “Holy shit, big shot! I’m Tigerquake. In-game name Wu Da Hu.”
Since his surname was Wu and his group ID was Tigerquake, people joked and called him Wu Song. When he had to choose an ID, he panicked and picked something on the spot. Same problem Zhou Xiao had.
Then a young boy’s voice called from outside the yard, clear and earnest.
“So the junior brothers and junior sisters are here?”