Chapter 71
Chapter 71
Feng Bu Jue opened his eyes to the dim, soft glow inside the Gaming Pod. His carefully cultivated circadian rhythm—sleeping from 4 a.m. to noon—had been thrown into chaos after a day and a half of erratic napping.
At 2:30 a.m., he disconnected his neural link and stepped out of the pod, suddenly struck by the urge to write.
The moment he opened the pod’s hatch and took a step forward, his socked foot landed on something sticky and squishy.
The room was pitch-black, and he hadn’t bothered with slippers. In an instant, he reached a logical conclusion: “This isn’t cat poop… right?” He glanced down. “What else could it possibly be!”
Twenty minutes later, he’d mopped the floor, washed his socks, and sat down at his office chair to face off with Assass, who was sprawled on the desk pretending nothing had happened.
Modern apartments had excellent soundproofing—otherwise, Feng Bu Jue’s midnight outbursts, laundry cycles, and floor scrubbing would’ve drawn complaints long ago.
Assass’s eyes gleamed an eerie green in the dark, unsettling enough to make Feng Bu Jue glare and mutter, “I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”
He shooed the cat off the desk and booted up his computer. The second draft of The Second-Rate Detective and the Cat was still missing, but inspiration had struck.
The concept of derivative beings lingered in his mind: If a life’s existence is inherently a mistake, what purpose does it serve in this world? When answers eluded him, he channeled the question into his writing—not to seek solutions, but to provoke thought.
Put simply, Feng Bu Jue transformed his personal dilemmas into collective ones, spreading his existential angst like a contagion. A self-serving act, perhaps, but at a sophisticated level.
Of course, he couldn’t copy the game’s events verbatim. He reimagined the derivative being’s story, weaving it into a subplot for his detective novel.
Time flew as he wrote. When daylight finally filtered in, he’d completed the story’s framework—a mentally taxing task. Filling in details, revising, and polishing would follow. His drafts rarely needed editing; Feng Bu Jue prided himself on meticulousness.
It was Sunday, the weather decent. Feng Bu Jue knew Wang Tan Zhi volunteered at a kindergarten every weekend, a fact he’d once quipped as “playing with your peers for half the day.”
Feng himself had little interest in charity. Compared to Wang’s wholesome image, his own participation would range from “mildly jarring” to “traumatizing for children.”
Locals at the police station knew him well—Feng Bu Jue was a legend. Missing corpses, dogs birthing kittens, kids developing telekinesis, crop circles, meteorite fragments… If someone reported such absurdities earnestly, Feng was the go-to guy. Either he’d caused it, or he was involved. If not, he’d still consult for fun.
He didn’t mind the reputation. A self-reliant person like him found joy in being needed. Helping others wasn’t altruism—it was the thrill of being indispensable.
This Sunday promised to be quiet. After only two and a half hours of sleep (in-game “dreaming,” no less) and a writing marathon until dawn, exhaustion dragged him back to bed.
He awoke at noon, immediately checking the floor beside his bed for Assass’s traps. Safe—for now. But in the living room, another “landmine” awaited.
A veteran cat owner, Feng had a system: drag Assass to the mess, torment its face between his hands, scoop the evidence into the litter box, then position the cat beside it to “educate” it.
As a kid, he’d tried training pets to use a toilet—disastrously. Cats slipped, fell in, and chaos ensued.
After cleanup, he boiled noodles. Yesterday’s breakfast purchase had left him penniless, but he’d scored free meals from Judge Bao and Wang Tan Zhi. For the next nine days, until his manuscript payment came through, he’d ration himself to broth-soaked noodles unless he found another handout.
“Meow…” Assass watched him cook, hopeful for a share.
Feng glanced down. “Your cat food tastes better than this.”
Assass, as if understanding, sauntered off to nap on the couch.
Ten minutes later, Feng sat with his homemade spring noodles, logging into the Terrifying Paradise forum. He’d developed a habit: eating while reading or chatting online. Otherwise, the meal felt like wasted time.
As he slurped his first bite, his eyes caught the forum’s top banner—and nearly spat out his noodles.
“Server Closed: Full Beta Player Threshold Reached”
The server has closed as max-level players exceed 10% of closed beta participants. A full upgrade will commence, with the open beta launching in 48 hours. Stay tuned.
(End of Chapter)
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