Chapter 413
Chapter 413
A week swiftly passed since the Mall incident.
Today was April 30th. When midnight struck, the preliminary round of the Peak Conquest Tournament would officially commence.
Over the past week, the four members of Hell Front had naturally gained levels. Feng Bu Jue was now the highest, reaching level 30-4 with over half the experience needed for the next stage. Meanwhile, Si Yu, Bei Ling, and Xiao Tan were all level 33.
Truthfully, if Feng Bu Jue had poured his all into grinding, his ability to gain 40% experience from clearing a single scenario gave him a strong chance to seize the leaderboard’s top spot.
Yet he had no intention of doing so.
First, he didn’t want to create an excessively large level gap with his guildmates. That would only make team scenarios more difficult and hinder his own proficiency growth.
Second, after most top-tier players in the game had surpassed level 30, the level rankings stabilized. Suddenly surging up the charts would draw too much attention. Remaining anonymous wouldn’t help—one only needed to join a team instance to encounter others, and the moment they saw his level, his identity would be exposed. In the entire Terrifying Paradise, those who reached level 30-6 could be counted on one’s fingers. Players at level 35 or so were mostly elite Classplayers affiliated with studios. If Feng Bu Jue didn’t control his level, fame would soon follow.
Of course, another reason Feng Bu Jue repeatedly declined experience rewards was his obsession with rolling for fine-grade equipment.
The Zero Magic Crusher was an abyss of despair. Besides the three items he’d fed it on the morning of the 24th, it had devoured ten more fine-grade items over the past week. Eight came from extra rewards, and two were cheap relics he’d bought from the auction house—useless trinkets he’d nicknamed “Chicken Rib.”
During his second crafting attempt, Feng Bu Jue had added three items, but it failed. The success rate then climbed to 6.01%.
For the third attempt, the overly optimistic man told himself, “Third time’s the charm,” and tossed in four items. Still a failure. The success rate rose to 10.01%.
By the fourth attempt, Feng Bu Jue’s mindset mirrored that of a gambler at a slot machine who’d already lost hundreds of thousands yet kept playing.
Another three items. Another failure.
The success rate reached 13.01%, but Feng Bu Jue’s patience had nearly vanished. Still, he remained calm.
Interestingly, compared to past attempts, his recent luck with fine-grade rolls had improved significantly. Though he occasionally still pulled items like stone or a Toy Baseball Bat, most of the time, he now consistently got at least common-grade equipment. This was likely tied to his level—after all, he was over 30 now. The game’s reward system, which randomly generated equipment matching a player’s level, couldn’t possibly give him a pile of crap labeled “Holy Shit” in the description.
Alas, while the quality of his rolls had improved, he still hadn’t pulled a single valuable item. They were all useless relics—selling them on the auction house would only cost him listing fees. Most would end up sold to Npcs anyway. That’s why he kept feeding them into the machine.
This showed Feng Bu Jue wasn’t a reckless gambler. At least, he hadn’t lost his mind and started stripping his good gear to throw into the machine.
Compared to Feng Bu Jue, other players’ behavior over the past ten days could truly be called “reckless.”
As the Peak Conquest Tournament approached, ripple effects surged like waves.
Let’s start with the forums.
During this time, the forum’s post count reached its second peak since the open beta. Threads with titles like “How to Reach Level 30 in XX Days” (XX ranging from ten days to a bold five days) flooded the boards.
The replies were equally amusing. One user spammed all such threads, rushing to claim the second reply and pasting: “To everyone below—by spending time reading this guide instead of grinding, you’ve already regretted it.”
Threads like “My Analysis of the Tournament System” or “When in May to Queue Without Encountering Classplayers” also drew massive clicks. Honestly, reading these was a waste of time—if simply studying the system could guarantee advancement, China’s national football team would’ve long been World Cup regulars.
Then there were actual guides, like “Shooting Class: Weapon Selection and Skill Combos” or “The Power of Summoning Proficiency’s Annoying Playstyle.” Their quality varied wildly, depending on the author’s skill and writing ability. Some skilled players couldn’t write well, while others spun grand tales that weren’t necessarily accurate.
The critical issue was this: In a game like Terrifying Paradise, where player individuality and anomalies were prominent, learning from others’ growth patterns could just as easily mislead as help.
In-game, players across all tiers were grinding with unprecedented zeal. Those below 30 rushed to qualify, while those at 30 aimed to build a level advantage and accumulate capability.
Kill Game Mode queues saw a sharp increase in recent days. Even players who usually avoided combat, like Xiao Tan, joined the fray before the tournament, gradually adapting to the rhythm of Pvp.
The auction house was equally chaotic. Over the past 26 days since launch, Terrifying Paradise’s popularity, social influence, and player count had steadily risen. Now, on the eve of the tournament, they surged. More players, more online hours, and more scenarios generated meant more artifacts surfacing—all boosting auction house transactions.
The Summit Confrontation, the game’s first major event, had become a magnet for players. Once they became veteran players, they’d boast to newcomers: “Back then, during the first Summit Confrontation, I did X.” It would be something to be extremely proud of.
Conversely, if you were already in Terrifying Paradise during the event but hadn’t reached level 30, or if you entered the preliminary round yet got eliminated before finishing fifty matches, you’d have nothing to brag about. It’d feel like being in the jianghu but leaving no legendary mark. If someone dug deeper, they’d only uncover your shame.
Of course, exceptions like Si Yu and Bei Ling existed. As casual, whale-tier players, they weren’t obsessed with winning or seeking fame. If they weren’t interested in competing, skipping the event was no big deal.
Finally, let’s address the game companies.
As the tournament neared, Dream Corporation maintained its usual stance—unwavering, exuding the overbearing aura of a monopoly. Their loyal fans, torn between frustration and excitement, obediently knelt.
Normally, a game company would exploit such a period with aggressive monetization strategies.
For example, bundle special items as a “Summit Confrontation Preparation Pack,” price it at 998, and let clueless newbies feel superior after purchasing.
Or raise prices or offer bundles for the recently popular Double Experience Cards.
Or introduce new artifacts like a Fivefold Experience Card or a Scenario Difficulty Reduction Card. Though these risked unbalancing the game, labeling them “limited-time offers” would justify high prices. Even bundling with real-world products—buy a Gaming Pod, get a free in-game artifact—could work.
These tactics had been tried countless times by unscrupulous companies over the years. With Terrifying Paradise’s current popularity, replicating them would guarantee profits.
Yet Dream Corporation stood apart—calm and unshaken.
At this critical moment, they made no moves.
Even the exchange rate between Rmb and in-game currency remained stable, fluctuating only from 1:2000 to 1:1900—a change within normal weekly variance. Clearly, Dream Corporation had no intention of inflating currency prices. This stance, paradoxically, bolstered market confidence instead. Players who had never spent real money on in-game purchases before now rushed to open their wallets.
However, Dream Corporation had another trait—when they finally acted, it was explosive.
True to form, on April 30th, they announced shocking news on their official site.
At 5 PM that afternoon, the specific rules for the preliminary round, semifinals, and finals were released, named the “Insect War,” “Cocoon War,” and “Butterfly War.” These three stages would successively determine the top 3,000, top 100, and top 10.
Only the fifty players who survived these stages would qualify for the true Summit Confrontation.
Alongside these rule announcements came another revelation: “By midnight on May 1st, the system would select ten ‘Invited Players’ from all registered participants to directly enter the Butterfly War.”
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
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