Chapter 174
Chapter 174
After exchanging a few words with Long Ge, Feng Bu Jue logged off. Since he couldn’t join any groups for now, he decided to take advantage of this time to step outside the Gaming Pod for some fresh air and prepare dinner.
After playing a 2v2 kill game mode and a team survival mode that wasn’t technically completed, it was already dinner time. But calling it dinner was generous—it was just instant noodles again.
He heard from the editor that the TV show recording compensation would hit his card in "a few days." However, this vague "a few days" could mean anything. So every time Feng Bu Jue sat down to eat, he instinctively checked his computer first to see if his bank balance had increased. If money appeared, he’d immediately order takeout online. Naturally, this time was no different—no money.
It should be noted that Feng Bu Jue didn’t even have a credit card. In his era, credit card applications had become a hassle. In the early 21st century, credit card fraud accounted for over 80% of economic fraud cases. Among these, multi-card scams using Pos machine cash-out functions made up over 90%. Even in the third-generation optical brain era with full citizen ID network regulation, these figures hadn’t significantly declined.
With Pos machine mechanisms resistant to change, the government imposed stricter credit card application regulations. While complete fraud prevention was impossible, stricter management yielded results. Citizens like Feng Bu Jue, politely called freelance writers or bluntly termed unemployed drifters, could only apply for ultra-low-credit cards—no more than three per person. Given Feng Bu Jue’s personality, he saw no point in dealing with such trivialities. In emergencies, he’d just borrow a few thousand from others.
Writers often lived frugally, with only a handful achieving wealth. Most struggled worse than Feng Bu Jue. At least he could lazily support himself. Meanwhile, countless hopeful young writers faced daily survival struggles—enduring family and friends’ disdain, nurturing resentment over perceived wasted talent, their storytelling passion gradually morphing into word-count obligations. Admiration for fellow authors soured into jealousy and hatred. As years passed in this restless state, they’d eventually realize they’d chosen the wrong path.
The social environment forced writers to compromise with commercial rules. Success required relentless effort in any field, though even modest achievements often meant mere subsistence. Tremendous success belonged to only a few. Those who failed despite efforts, or never tried, faced shameful starvation—no one pitied losers anymore.
Writing novels required balancing reality. Money had become society’s top male value criterion. Whether a nouveau riche, heir, or corrupt official—even if their wealth was ill-gotten, or they were mentally unstable degenerates—if they weren’t imprisoned, people would still fawn over them.
As the saying goes, "The poor are ignored in bustling cities; the rich have distant relatives in remote mountains." This truth remained unchanged across eras.
Like most middle-class youths today, Feng Bu Jue often lamented being born in the wrong era. Earlier, the Republic of China era might’ve suited him better. Later, when humans replaced all organs except brains with machinery, surviving six months on two liters of synthetic oil would allow true equality and harmony. Unfortunately, he lived in the 21st century—a "cusp generation." As one movie line put it: "Nothing’s easy in adults’ world." These days, even kids struggled.
Feng Bu Jue stayed relatively easygoing. He’d cook noodles, eat noodles, and wait for that mysterious shadow in his brain to "blow up" and end everything—or maybe it’d transform him into a mutant, finally achieving success. Either scenario was possible. In short, dissatisfaction with life made any potential change worth anticipating.
"Air quality in S City has slightly improved, with heavy pollution likely easing to moderate levels..."
"The Metro Line 9 parking lot expansion plan has been suspended due to engineering accidents..."
"A 15-year-old girl sold her virginity online by self-publishing photos for a new smartphone..."
While boiling noodles, Feng Bu Jue turned on the TV, numbly listening as absurd news filled the air. After ten busy minutes, his "dinner" was ready. He switched off the TV, grabbed a peanut butter jar from the fridge, and returned to his computer, yawning: "Good news’s been scarce in news lately. Maybe media credibility keeps dropping because they think positive reports backfire?"
He rarely watched TV shows now. These days, stations focused on programs where people aired dirty laundry and fought publicly—dinner time channels were full of such nonsense. No educational shows. As for dramas—kill the Japanese, then Kmt troops, then Japanese again. Feng Bu Jue wanted to write screenwriters urging them to write scripts against Filipinos or aliens. A fresh angle might make them famous.
Eating noodles, he opened Dream Corporation’s official site, intending to browse Terrifying Paradise’s subpage. But a corner headline caught his eye:
"Company’s second online game in development—beta test sample to release in May." Feng Bu Jue read aloud. "Tentative title: [Crazy Mind]? Genre—card battle."
He swallowed peanut butter noodles: "First game just started lightning open beta, and they’re already announcing a new game? Dream Corporation’s decisions truly baffle. Other companies wouldn’t develop a new title until Terrifying Paradise rakes in profits. Isn’t this competing with themselves?"
This single-line news had no screenshots or details—classic clickbait. Yet it worked. When Feng Bu Jue entered Terrifying Paradise’s forum, numerous Crazy Mind discussions had already emerged.
Naturally, official news had "no images, no truth", and player discussions were pure speculation. Some "uncle" posters even uploaded random images, claiming insider leaks. Moderators seemed unconcerned—they wouldn’t ruin players’ excitement on day one. More fake news meant more interest.
"Jianghu Studio top player [Kuangzong Jianying] suspected of cheating." A hot thread caught Feng Bu Jue’s eye.
This sticky post had over 100,000 views and nearly 100 reply pages.
The poster clearly used a throwaway account—random letters in the username. Though forum experience was high, past posts were mostly spam. Clearly Shidao Studio’s mouthpiece.
Feng Bu Jue read the content, realizing it addressed the scenario he’d played earlier:
"My teammate and I never even saw the opponent from scenario start until losing the kill game mode. The opponent disappeared from a closed map environment. This map has continuous vitality value consumption, but the story clearly states outer maps have worse consumption! I stayed extremely long, using multiple vitality value supplements. [Kuangzong Jianying], if you’re not cheating, how did you survive longer? Don’t tell me your backpack’s full of vitality value supplements or you’re a medical proficiency player—you wouldn’t believe that yourself!"
This post intentionally omitted key details. Typical smear tactics—highlighting favorable points, ignoring unfavorable ones. Fortunately, it only mentioned Kuangzong Jianying’s name, not Mad Bu Jue. The poster also concealed their and their teammate’s Ids, avoiding Shidao affiliation. Their excuse? "Jianghu Studio’s powerful—I fear retaliation."
Feng Bu Jue found it amusing. Even an outsider’s perspective revealed shaky logic. Besides, if Kuangzong Jianying truly cheated, why not report via customer service instead of forum drama?
Now Feng Bu Jue understood why Kuangzong Jianying disliked Shidao players. These underhanded tactics weren’t clever but effective at annoying others.
Scrolling down, the thread got increasingly ridiculous, explaining its massive replies. Many Shidao forum trolls stirred trouble:
"Yeah, Kuangzong Jianying, dare you confront us? Big studios can bully common players now? Know you’re guilty and hiding?"
What logic! Feng Bu Jue logged off seeing Kuangzong Jianying still playing. Who’d know their loss triggered instant forum drama? Even if Jianghu Studio players notified Kuangzong Jianying, that guy wouldn’t waste time responding. Dogs bite people, but people don’t bite dogs. Big characters shouldn’t waste lives explaining every forum flame war.
Other players, incited by rumors, joined angrily. Before reading, they didn’t know Kuangzong Jianying or Jianghu Studio but now acted like lifelong enemies—typical herd mentality.
Some held opposing views:
"Poster, show your real ID. Fear of retaliation counts as reason?"
"One-sided claims aren’t trustworthy."
"Did you confirm the scenario map has no other mechanisms?"
Shidao members ignored these, replying with sophistry or insults—"You’re Jianghu Studio’s sock puppet!" Standard troll behavior.
By page thirty, replies grew stale: "Waiting for truth", "Just passing through", "Bought snacks, ready to watch." Only 10% kept refreshing—some genuinely curious, others monitoring replies.
Feng Bu Jue ate with his left hand—a conscious skill despite not being left-handed. Left-hand chopsticks, right-hand mouse. He finished noodles and finished reading the thread.
"Hmph... Bu Jue shouldn’t have read that." Feng Bu Jue disliked arguments—the most pointless thing. Truth existed, but people refused to admit faults or losses, preferring chaos and schemes.
"Shouldn’t have read it—spoiled my mood." He carried the bowl, wiped the computer desk, then headed to the kitchen.
He didn’t immediately return to the Gaming Pod. After dinner, he wanted exercise—like giving his pet a bath.
His gaze fell on Assass. The latter had sprawled on the sofa napping but suddenly sat up, sensing Feng Bu Jue’s killer intent.
(End of Chapter)
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