Chapter 141: Earth's Wasteland Chapter (7)
Chapter 141: Earth’s Wasteland Chapter (7)
“I think we need to reconsider their strategy…”
“Hmm… What exactly did they do…”
When Doom Strike and Final Strike saw the disheveled, headless corpse on the ground and the shattered remains of a tentacle creature scattered nearby, they both froze in confusion.
Doom Strike said, “If the severed head was meant to create psychological pressure, what does this count as?”
Final Strike replied, “What if it’s like this…” His rigid expression shifted into a cryptic frown. “They decapitated him, then split up temporarily. Kuangzong Jianying took the head and retreated, while the other guy…” He glanced at the game menu, “The one named Mad Feng Jue, stayed here alone and did something to the corpse…”
“Is that guy a pervert?” Doom Strike muttered. “Terrifying Paradise strictly prohibits desecration like this, right? What could he even do?”
“How should I know…” Final Strike snapped. “This is just a guess. Maybe we’re misunderstanding? Perhaps they were just searching the body thoroughly?”
“Let’s hope so…” Doom Strike swallowed hard.
At this moment, the two from Shidaostudio finally felt an inexplicable psychological pressure far greater than the shock of seeing a gruesome severed head.
This all traced back to their use of “that drug”…
As Kuangzong Jianying had said, members of Shidaostudio had a knack for cheating. They weren’t exactly industry poison, but they operated by their own rules.
Take filmmaking as an example: An unknown screenwriter might spend years—or even decades—writing a script, seeking sponsors, and exhausting themselves to produce a low-budget film that earns fivefold its investment. Meanwhile, another screenwriter with connections could churn out a half-baked, pulverized script in months, cast a few controversial celebrities, and use vulgar hype to lure audiences into theaters, earning the same profit through outright fraud.
Both parties gained the same financial reward, but the first earned reputation as an intangible asset, while the second was drowned in criticism. Yet in the end, people forget. When the first screenwriter spent years quietly preparing their next script, the second churned out similar trash films annually, repeating the same tactics for the same gains…
This example applies to countless industries. In this world, there’s never just one path to success. Abandon morality or principles, and infinite methods open up.
Shidaostudio had made notable contributions in the gray areas of online gaming. When it came to exploiting loopholes and hunting bugs, they even outpaced studios like The Gods. Of course, despite this being Shidao’s forte, they still lagged behind Order—the industry’s titan. Order’s strength and heritage were undeniable, while Shidao’s underhanded methods could never earn them a seat among the “top-tier” studios.
But their current status was more than sufficient. At the end of the day, everyone’s core goal was profit. Reputation didn’t matter—if you had enough money, people would fawn over you and whitewash your sins.
Even their contracts weren’t signed directly with Shidao. Using third-party agreements had perks—sue them? Dissolve a shell company and register a new one. Just switch the signboard.
In real life, exploiting loopholes came naturally. In games, they were even more brazen. Shidaostudio had a dedicated team developing cheat plugins. Even today, players in games they’d infiltrated still used Shidao’s paid cheats.
In games like Consumable, suspended accounts barely mattered. These so-called “free-to-play” games charged players through backdoors, and operators only cared about profiting before shutdown. Account registration was ten points open—no need to link them to real Ids. One person could create N accounts. Suspended? Just make a new one and keep cheating. Players couldn’t be blamed—they wanted to win, to play freely, competing financially with others. Paying the game company was like tossing money into a bottomless pit. Cheats were cheaper, easier, and more efficient. Stop paying when you quit.
But in the Fourth-Generation Light Brain era, avoiding detection while cheating was nearly impossible. Even illegal hardware inserted into Gaming Pods could be flagged. If the operator and game weren’t trash themselves, cheaters would be caught eventually.
Thus, Shidao devised other methods. They developed “gray-area” plugins—technically not outright cheats, but pushing boundaries. While negligible in expert duels, these tools granted massive advantages in lower-tier matches.
Shidao also embraced their worsening reputation, engaging in vicious competition against rivals. They avoided provoking giants like Order and The Gods, but for studios of equal standing, they spread malicious rumors, attacked servers, and caused damage—enough to destroy some competitors.
In short, they were professionals, mastering their shady craft and carving a broad path to success.
As the saying goes: What goes around comes around. Shidao eventually hit a wall—or rather, a bloodied nose. That game was Terrifying Paradise.
Its system was flawless—data-layer cheating was futile.
So they secretly launched a cyberattack on Dream corporation’s servers, testing their defenses.
The result? Big trouble. Shidao failed to breach Dream’s firewall and suffered a counterattack. A mysterious virus bypassed fake Ips and puppet machines, infecting Shidao’s own systems.
That day, every computer screen in their headquarters displayed a round cartoon face—glasses, a lecherous grin, cackling “Hehehe…” All their data was wiped. The loss was unimaginable, beyond catastrophic. It was self-inflicted amputation.
The worst part? That day, the chairman’s laptop on his desk exploded. He’d only seen such scenes in movies—state-level hackers overheating batteries to cause blasts. Now he’d lived it.
Due to the incident’s severity, Shidao swallowed their rage silently. They abandoned any thoughts of cyberattacks against Dream corporation.
Later, their hardware department faced setbacks. All illegal external devices failed on Dream’s Gaming Pods. Technical flaws remained elusive, even after disassembling the Pods.
Unprecedented. With so many experts, how could they not cheat? Was Dream corporation secretly the Ministry of Defense?
Undeterred, Shidao’s members united, brainstorming solutions. Finally, they found an answer: cheat through players themselves.
“PU63” was a drug’s code name. The specifics of PU01-PU62 were unknown, but PU63 became Shidao’s sole strategy for conquering Terrifying Paradise.
Their collaboration with a shady pharmaceutical factory is a story for another time.
Suffice to say, after taking PU63, players entered a state of "conscious sedation", a contradictory phrase implying a forced calm. All test data indicated that the Terror Value peaks of PU62 users never surpassed 50%. Their cognitive abilities remained intact, pain tolerance increased, and reactions during emergencies, such as intense battles, became quicker.
In short, it was a unique stimulant for players.
Gaming Pods monitored Heartbeat, Pulse, Blood Pressure, etc., but lacked drug-testing functions. Thus, PU63 could be used freely.
Currently, only Shidao’s internal players used PU63, but plans to sell it on third-party sites were underway. In two months, it’d flood the market—though that’s a tale for later…
Back to the story… Thus, Shidao’s confidence wasn’t baseless. With drugs to ease fear, even if they still felt terror, physiologically, it was dulled.
Combined with their in-game advantages, their belief in victory was natural.
“Wait… What’s that?” Final Strike crouched again, squinting at the corpse. He noticed faint marks beneath its half-lifted shirt.
Doom Strike knelt beside him.
Final Strike pulled up the shirt, revealing the stomach area. Deeply carved into the flesh was a line of text:
“Why So Serious?” Doom Strike read aloud, staring at his teammate. “What does this mean?”
“This…” Final Strike frowned, then noticed a metal wire protruding from the skin at the question mark’s end. He pinched the wire’s tip between his fingers, pulling…
……
Boom!
At the same time, in another lab corner, Feng Bu Jue heard the explosion, glanced at the game menu, and muttered, “Tch… Only one explosion?!”
(End of Chapter)
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