Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Feng Bu Jue disconnected the nerve link, unlocked the gaming pod, and sat up with a deep breath.
It was midday, and the sun blazed brightly outside.
He lived in a rental apartment on the thirteenth floor—the top level—of a high-rise. His parents had learned years ago they’d have no role in this story and promptly exited the plot, leaving him alone to inherit both their worldly possessions and the author’s convenient excuse to avoid inventing two more names.
Checking the time, Feng realized he’d only played for fifteen minutes. In Terrifying Paradise’s Non-Sleep Mode, time perception was twice as slow as reality—so that felt like half an hour in-game. Sleep Mode offered a tenfold ratio, letting players experience eighty hours of gameplay in a single night. Of course, this meant dreaming nonstop for eight hours, which often left headaches in its wake. The manual warned against sessions longer than four hours in Sleep Mode, a rule Feng had clearly read—and just as clearly ignored.
He’d exited the pod not out of fatigue, but because he’d promised a friend they’d play together. Today was the beta launch’s first day, servers opening at 8 a.m., but his friend hadn’t been free until evening. Feng had logged on briefly to reacquaint himself, avoiding progress that might outpace their future teamwork.
Which begged the question: what did Feng do with himself during daylight hours?
Well… nothing much.
Though he was a mystery novelist, he wasn’t one of those rare authors who lived comfortably off royalties alone. He was moderately well-known, his books consistently published and profitable enough to keep him from starvation—but just barely. A monthly column in a weekly magazine supplemented his income, though its serialized detective stories came with strict deadlines: submit all content for the next month by midmonth, revisions due by month’s end.
Still, in S City, these earnings only kept body and soul together. Hence the detective novel series—physical books that earned him real savings.
His creative process? “When inspiration flows, I feast like a king; when blocked, I’m left with noodles in clear broth.” Lately, the broth had been particularly watery.
He took this in stride—forcing words never worked, so he played instead, claiming it was “research.” Meeting deadlines? Myths on par with the Fountain of Youth.
Come midmonth, his editor and landlord would inevitably descend. The former wielded a pen like a sword; the latter, a golden key and halberd. Feng would greet them battle-ready, ready to parry with discarded drafts and clever excuses.
But enough dramatization—his life was peaceful enough.
As for his friend? If “birds of a feather flock together,” what kind of man was he?
Tall. Rich. Handsome.
Wang Tan Zhi—Feng’s childhood “barefoot brothers” since kindergarten. While Feng dreamed of being Sherlock Holmes, Wang had pursued medical school, reasoning a proper Watson needed a doctor’s credentials.
Their bond? Fact: Wang chose medicine because of Feng’s dream. Hypothesis: had Wang been a woman, this story might’ve become a romance. But no—both male, both heterosexual, their friendship remained purely platonic.
Wang’s life epitomized ease: wealthy family, 1.8-meter frame, gentle demeanor. A man without flaws, the kind everyone praised—unlike Feng, who collected labels like “cynical rogue” and “mercurial literary thug.”
Yet such contrasts forged their bond.
Afternoon passed lazily. Feng spent an hour rereading the game’s official guides, many now clearer after completing the newbie tutorial. The rest of his time was spent making noodles—not out of love for the dish, but because he’d calculated exact food costs to afford the gaming pod, paid his bills, and bought flour with every last penny.
A paradoxical budget: splurging on luxury, yet never starving.
By evening, he’d finished his broth-soaked noodles. Wang called—having just finished the tutorial, shaken, sweating.
Feng smirked inwardly: Months since I’ve felt cold sweat…
They exchanged usernames and prepared to log back in.
(End of Chapter)
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