Chapter 51
Chapter 51: Fatten It Up and Slaughter It for New Year
Wei Jun didn’t play games. When he received Liang Xue Yao’s message, his first reaction was half disbelief, half amusement.
But Liang Xue Yao hadn’t explained further.
In the end, Wei Jun told Little Qing—one of the most active people in the department—to watch in his place.
His department already carried weight. When they moved, things shifted.
Little Qing scrolled through the online chatter, still struggling to accept it. “And it claims full-dive simulation…”
She looked up at Wei Jun, eyes sharp with unease. “Director, with today’s global information technology, there’s no way to project a world this real through the brain and let someone experience touch, smell, taste—everything—through consciousness alone. And on top of that, it can livestream visuals…”
If the player was lying, that still meant he possessed hidden information technology beyond what even their country had.
If he wasn’t lying—
That possibility was worse.
Either way, it meant something beyond their control was happening.
Wei Jun might not understand games, but he understood signals. He understood risk. He understood what it meant when something stopped obeying the rules.
He decided immediately. “Investigate the player who’s streaming. Track the game’s movements. I’ll report this upstream.”
As he turned to arrange it, Liang Xue Yao’s name surfaced again.
It seemed necessary—overdue, even—to meet that young comrade in person.
—
“This game is incredibly free,” Han Tian explained as he streamed. “At least so far, aside from giving us a main storyline, the Sect Master doesn’t restrict us much at all. We don’t need to accept quests, we don’t have to grind NPC favor. Nothing like that.”
He laughed softly. “Other than cultivating, it’s basically a sandbox.”
The farther they traveled, the more frightening the map became—too vast, too seamless, like the world refused to end.
“I’ve never played a game this real,” Han Tian said, honest exhaustion edging into his voice. “If I didn’t need to log off, sometimes I’d forget I’m even in a game.”
“Come on. You hired a film crew and now you’re acting like it’s real.”
“This is honestly creepy. I’ve watched forever and the scenery hasn’t repeated once. I can’t find a matching location in real life either. Whether it’s footage or effects, the workload is beyond normal.”
“If this is actually a game… our tech advanced way too fast. Full-dive simulation? I still can’t believe it.”
“Han Tian won’t even show his face and you guys are buying this?”
“Not gonna lie, it’s a great dinner video. Plot’s kind of boring, but the visuals are insane. Demon beasts look more real than foreign blockbusters. It’s a rush—perfect with food.”
Han Tian didn’t stream every second. As they walked, he recorded data about the surroundings.
From Wangan County to First Mountain was mostly dense forest. Endless trees. Endless shade. The scenery got monotonous fast.
And because demon beasts could spring out of nowhere, Han Tian rarely narrated now. The road demanded attention.
Game time flowed faster than real time. Two hours passed in the real world; four hours passed in the game. They were still on the road.
Night fell.
Chen Miao Miao said she had something urgent and had to log off.
The group stopped and sat down to meditate and rest.
When Chen Miao Miao logged off, her body remained—cross-legged, unmoving, silent. Like a doll left behind.
“I’m streaming,” Han Tian said. “I’m going to check around nearby.”
No one objected.
Zhou Xiao called out, “Be careful. Don’t let a demon beast jump you.”
“Relax,” Han Tian said. “I won’t.”
He moved the camera and walked into the darkening woods. He was mainly hoping to find wild spirit herbs, maybe harvest a little on the side.
But this wasn’t a spiritually rich area. Demon beasts were scarce. Wild materials were scarce too.
He kept chatting with the viewers, half to fill the silence, half to keep himself steady. Every so often, he crouched to grab a handful of soil.
“If you don’t think this is a game,” he said, holding it close to the lens, “look at the dirt.”
He used Water Control Technique. The dry soil thickened into mud in his palm, the change so immediate it felt like a slap to the senses.
Then Han Tian frowned.
A smell.
Blood.
Now that he was a cultivator in the game, his senses were sharpened to a ridiculous degree. He could catch scents from far away.
Demon beast blood usually carried a rancid stink.
This scent didn’t.
It smelled human.
“I smell blood,” Han Tian muttered.
Of course, the netizens couldn’t smell anything through a screen.
“Oh? Plot time?”
“By TV drama rules, there’s definitely a wounded beauty in the woods for the streamer to pick up.”
“Yes! Beauty! Guy or girl, I don’t care—let me see how pretty!”
Han Tian followed the scent, careful. He didn’t sense spiritual qi, but he still kept his legs ready to run. If anything felt wrong, he’d bolt.
Then he saw it.
Blood pooled darkly on the forest floor. The wounded thing lay there, making weak, grunting noises.
A wild boar.
And not even a full-sized one—a black piglet, small enough to roast as a suckling pig.
The barrage instantly filled with question marks.
“Huh?”
“Where’s my beauty?”
“Where’s my beauty?”
“What kind of plot is this? Who runs into a wild boar in the woods?”
“…Honestly, running into a wild boar out here makes sense.”
The boar’s leg was injured. Because its hide was so black, the blood was the only thing visible at a glance.
When it saw Han Tian, it let out a shriek like it was being slaughtered.
It tried to run, but its leg buckled. It couldn’t go far. It could only scream at him in pure panic.
Han Tian stared. “The System, what is this?”
That line was censored—viewers didn’t hear it.
The System replied, calm as ever: “As you can see, a pure wild boar.”
It wasn’t even a demon beast. Just a normal animal.
Yun Zhou Continent had animals, of course. But with demon beasts roaming, the environment was harsh. Most animals stayed near human settlements.
“Even for a wild boar,” Han Tian muttered, circling closer, “this is way too black.”
There wasn’t a fleck of anything else on it. Even its eyes looked like dark beads.
He walked over. The boar struggled to stand, its leg slipping, and fresh blood gushed out. The squeals turned high and desperate.
“Alright, stop screaming,” Han Tian said. “You’re lucky. In games, I eat vegetarian.”
Then, after a brief pause, he did something wasteful. He took out a Blood-Replenishing Pill and tossed it over.
Blood-Replenishing Pills were lifesavers for ordinary people on Yun Zhou Continent. Apparently, they worked on piglets too.
The boar hesitated, then swallowed it whole.
In the space of a breath, the wound began to knit together, visible even under the dim forest light.
The boar blinked, felt the surge of life in its body, and decided Han Tian was safe. It trotted forward and rubbed its head against Han Tian’s leg like a pet.
Han Tian scooped it up. This time it didn’t resist.
It was so black it felt like a rare thing. Close its eyes at night and you’d lose it entirely.
Han Tian carried it back.
Too small to eat now.
He’d raise it first.
Fatten it up and slaughter it for New Year.