novelraw Chapter 1: Sea of Darkness - (1)
Chapter 1: Sea of Darkness - (1)
Author’s Note:
The protagonist’s name is Kui (kuí) Xin. “Kui” sounds like “kui” as in sunflower (“kui hua”).
***
Kui Xin was jolted awake by notifications from her class group chat.
Her vision was still blurry upon waking up. She fumbled beneath her pillow for her phone and squinted to decipher the messages on the screen.
“We have announced the list of Crimson Earth’s first batch of closed beta players!”
“Is this real?”
“The official website posted it just three minutes ago [image].”
“Dang! Who’s that lucky?”
“Only ten thousand spots for the initial closed beta? Considering it’s a worldwide selection, isn’t the number released by the officials too low?!”It took Kui Xin a moment to react, waiting until the drowsiness dissipated before recalling that she had also applied for the game’s beta testing under her classmates’ encouragement. Ten months ago, she casually filled out a questionnaire on the official website and submitted it.
At that time, “Crimson Earth” had just released its trailer, with the promotional tagline being “A groundbreaking holographic game: your second world made reality.”
The trailer instantly captivated gamers worldwide. The game’s selling points included open-world exploration and multi-path career choices.
Moreover, it combined cyberpunk elements with extraordinary abilities. Players could either follow the technological path, becoming cyborgs with full-body mechanical prosthetics or pursue the extraordinary route, awakening various mystical powers.
The game was grounded in reality yet transcended it, blending fantasy with an unparalleled sense of authenticity as if mirroring the real world.
What truly captivated Kui Xin were the last two sentences in the game’s description.
“Light invariably breeds darkness; beneath the prosperous facade of cities, there always lurks a side of decay and corruption.”
“In comparison to wealth and power, survival and death are the eternal themes of that world.”
Given this description… perhaps “Crimson Earth,” beyond its cyberpunk aesthetics and superhuman abilities, also incorporated a darker underlying theme?
Kui Xin clicked on the screenshot shared in her class group chat. The game’s official team would send closed beta invitation emails directly to players’ inboxes. Indeed, only ten thousand participants were selected for the initial closed beta phase, with the formal testing date set for tomorrow.
It’s worth noting that when “Crimson Earth” first opened pre-registrations just one day earlier, over ten million people worldwide signed up instantly. After several months, the number of pre-registered users had already surpassed 100 million. Selecting just ten thousand lucky individuals from this massive pool dramatically reduced the chances of being picked for the closed beta.
Despite not harboring much hope, Kui Xin still opened her email inbox to check.
“You have one unread message.”
The notification popping up from her inbox startled Kui Xin, causing her heart rate to accelerate as she instantly bounced off the bed.
“Congratulations on obtaining access to the closed beta of the game ‘Crimson Earth’.”
The email subject was prominently displayed in red. Kui Xin’s expression turned dazed; she repeatedly checked the sender and compared it with the officially announced email account, confirming again and again in disbelief.
Once she finally verified that this email indeed came from an official source, the first thought that surged through her mind was—I’ve struck gold! I’ve struck gold!!
Selling this closed beta access would undoubtedly fetch a substantial amount of money!
A poor ghost’s delight!
Kui Xin had always been plagued by misfortune. Her father lost his investments and fled with the funds, while her mother, after remarrying, provided only a fixed monthly allowance of eight hundred yuan for living expenses. It barely covered food, leaving little room for purchasing study materials or clothes. The second-hand smartphone she used was even bought with earnings from working part-time at a bubble tea shop.
Living alone in the old house left by her grandparents, Kui Xin diligently studied day and night, resilient like tenacious wild grass, enduring until now.
At the end of this summer vacation, Kui Xin will be starting university. Her academic performance was strong, allowing her to get accepted into a reputable institution, but the tuition fees and living expenses were a cause for concern.
If she could sell her closed beta access for Crimson Earth, she wouldn’t have to worry about her living expenses for quite some time.
However, the following sentence in the email dashed Kui Xin’s hopes:
“Closed beta access for Crimson Earth is non-transferable and cannot be gifted; the invitation codes are permanently linked to the player’s registration information. This closed beta will not involve monetization, nor will accounts be wiped after its conclusion.”
Kui Xin’s face fell, clouded with disappointment, as her potential income source was ruthlessly cut off.
In fact, she didn’t really care about games because she lacked even basic equipment, such as a holographic headset, which made it impossible for her to play them. When filling out the game survey initially, it was merely on a whim, hoping to join the hype. Most importantly, she had thought, “What if closed beta access becomes tradable? I could make a fortune.”
Kui Xin pondered back and forth, feeling sadly that although she had become one of the ten thousand lucky participants worldwide, she remained just as impoverished and unlucky as before. Drawing the closed beta access yet being unable to experience the game felt akin to having mountains of gold and silver but being unable to spend them, causing immense frustration.
She sighed and continued scrolling through the screen.
The email was very short, with little substantive content. However, as Kui Xin reached the end, she was pleasantly surprised to find the phrase, “If the player agrees to join the game, the gaming company will provide them with customized gaming equipment.”
Kui Xin exclaimed internally, ‘Yes!’
Her concerns were alleviated; now she could finally play the game! Kui Xin’s mood oscillated like a rollercoaster.
At the end of the email, there was a link to a player survey questionnaire.
Curious, Kui Xin clicked on the link.
Question 1: If given the opportunity for rebirth, would you accept it?
Is that even a question? Without hesitation, Kui Xin selected the option representing her affirmative response.
Rebirth meant starting anew, and her current life was already dreadful enough—how much worse could it get?
Question 2: Do you believe there are deities in this world?
Kui Xin chose “No.” She was a firm atheist.
Question 3: Would you desire superpowers?
“Yes!”
Her wish for superpowers did not conflict with her being an atheist!
“You have completed the survey.”
“The game-related documents and important notes have been sent to your email. Please check accordingly.”
“The Closed Beta Player Anonymous Forum is now open to you. Please save the URL and register promptly.”
Kui Xin carefully reviewed the new message and, following the text prompt, first saved the URL of the anonymous player forum.
The content of some game-closed betas is considered confidential trade secrets and is not to be disclosed externally. The purpose of beta players is to assist developers in identifying bugs and fixing game vulnerabilities. The creators of “Crimson Earth” provided a dedicated forum for beta players, possibly allowing them a space to interact and share information.
Currently, only ten thousand individuals have obtained access to the closed beta, so the forum’s content should be quite limited; she would be among the initial wave of pioneers on this forum.
Kui Xin didn’t immediately register on the closed beta forum. Instead, she opened her inbox to check the newly sent game files. Typically, these documents require players’ signatures as confirmation, serving as contracts with legal implications for breach of terms.
She clicked open the new email and was taken aback just after reading the first few lines:
“Six Piece Of Advice For ‘Crimson Earth’ Players:
You can choose to follow or disregard these, but any consequences arising from disregarding them will solely be your responsibility.”“First, treat the game world as if it were real.”
“Second, do not reveal your status as a player to anyone.”
“Third, do not disclose game content to anyone.”
“Fourth, you have only one life; death is irreversible.”
“Fifth, once you choose to start the game, there are two paths available: ‘game completion’ or ‘character’s death.'”
“Sixth, everything comes at a price.”
This… just these few lines? Isn’t it too hasty for the game disclaimer to contain only these statements?
Kui Xin was utterly perplexed.
Playing a game should be straightforward; it diminishes the fun when the game developers intentionally create ambiguity with atmospheric phrases in their warnings. The term “real world” is merely a marketing gimmick—everyone knows that game worlds are fictional.
Kui Xin clicked open the game agreement file, which required her signature.
She meticulously read through it from beginning to end, but even after going over it twice, she couldn’t find any confidentiality clauses within the document. However, the clear instructions labeled “Six Pieces Of Advice For ‘Crimson Earth’ Players” explicitly stated not to reveal game content.
It seemed too peculiar and contradictory. If they didn’t want players to disclose information, why not include a confidentiality agreement in the legally binding document? Those advisory points had no enforceable constraints.
At the end of the document, there was an electronic signature field, and Kui Xin entered her name.
Just as she finished signing, a small pop-up window appeared with bold red text: “Do you confirm joining the game? You have only one chance to exit.”
Is there only one chance to exit?
Kui Xin, unconcerned, clicked “confirm” without hesitation.
The page changed, revealing new prompts.
“Contract completed.”
“Welcome to your rebirth, Kui Xin.”
…Why does this game sound so mystical? Kui Xin looked puzzled at the computer screen.
After some contemplation, she opened the closed beta anonymous forum and clicked on registration.
The registration process was unbelievably simple; all that was required was to enter the Closed Beta invitation code.
In the nickname field, Kui Xin casually typed “233.” All her gaming usernames were simply “233,” as she lacked creativity for naming characters, and any carefully chosen names often turned out to be too common. Thus, Kui Xin stuck with “233” indefinitely.
“Once confirmed, the nickname cannot be modified.”
Unfazed, Kui Xin clicked “confirm” as usual.
A new message popped up.
“You have become the 233rd registered player on the forum.”
“…Ah?” Kui Xin exclaimed internally.
What a coincidence! Is 233 her lucky number?
After a brief loading period, Kui Xin saw the forum page.
The background of the forum had a cold metallic sheen, and its design was exceptionally simple with minimal features—only allowing for creating posts, replying to threads, and sending private messages.
However, at the top right corner of the forum, there was a striking blood-red numeral, “10,000.”
Next to “10,000” were small words written: “Number of Survivors.”
For some reason, upon seeing “Number of Survivors,” Kui Xin’s heart jolted, causing a momentary palpitation.
On the forum, dozens of threads floated with the label “new.” The forum had just opened, and players had recently registered, resulting in all the fresh postings. Kui Xin refreshed the page, and another ten or so threads appeared. The thread titles included various languages, such as English, Japanese, Russian, and Chinese, reflecting the diverse global community of ten thousand players converging within this small forum.
Kui Xin could stammeringly decipher the general meaning of the English titles, but for other languages, she was completely unable to translate them.
She briefly scanned through the existing Chinese posts and noticed titles such as “Let’s embark on this adventure,” “Any Shanghai players? Let’s meet up IRL,” “My name must be in the top hundred threads”… These were typical filler comments with little substance.
After hesitating for a moment, she clicked to create a new post and typed in the title, “Does anyone find ‘Six Pieces of Advice for Players’ somewhat strange?”
With the title written, Kui Xin’s mouse hovered over the “Post” button without moving for a long time.
Recalling the phrase “Please treat the game world as if it were real” and the subsequent warning “You have only one life; death is irreversible,” she glanced at the bloody number “10000” prominently displayed at the top of the forum. Something seemed to strike deep within her mind.
A sudden chill ran down her spine, yet she couldn’t pinpoint its source. This feeling was abrupt and almost absurd.
Kui Xin rubbed her forehead.
How could something straight out of fantasy fiction, where entering a holographoc game actually transports you to a real-world counterpart, happen in reality?
Despite trying to reassure herself, Kui Xin inexplicably deleted her post content, as if guided by some unseen force. She decided to lurk and observe the situation closely.
She continuously refreshed the forum, reading through each post written in Chinese.
A few minutes later, a new thread caught her attention:
“The game company hasn’t mentioned anything about shipping gaming equipment. Has any player received their holographic headset or installation package?”
At the very moment she saw this post, someone knocked on Kui Xin’s door.
She stood up and approached it instinctively, hoping to peek through the peephole, but she couldn’t see anyone.
She waited for a few minutes before slowly opening the door, noticing a small black box quietly lying on the ground. The box contained the words “Crimson Earth.”
Kui Xin opened the box and found inside a silver metallic card with intricate yet skillful designs. The interwoven lines formed a mechanical hand.
“This is… a game commemorative card?” Kui Xin examined the card, feeling a chill run down her spine immediately after.
She recalled that she had never provided her address information on the game’s official website, so how was this card delivered to her?
Her heart tightened, and she descended downstairs in her slippers.
She lived in an old residential area with outdated facilities, but surveillance cameras were installed nearby.
A few elderly men and women were playing mahjong at the entrance of the building stairwell; they all knew each other as neighbors. Kui Xin asked, “Aunt Zhang! Did a delivery person come by just now?”
“Nope, doesn’t Comrade Little Li usually arrive around 3 PM?” Aunt Zhang pushed forward a row of mahjong tiles with delight, exclaiming, “Aiyo, mahjong!”
“Has anyone gone upstairs recently?” Kui Xin pressed further.
“Nope.” Aunt Zhang was engrossed in her game, not even turning to respond.
Despite it being a scorching July day, Kui Xin felt a chill run down her spine upon hearing this.
No one went upstairs, so who knocked on her door? She had never provided any address information, so why was the Crimson Earth game card accurately delivered right to her doorstep? Just minutes after signing the game agreement—no more than five minutes—the card arrived…
Kui Xin looked down at the silver metallic card in her hand and flipped it over.
On the backside, several words were engraved:
Depriver · Kui Xin. Code: 233.The number 233 was the username she had entered earlier for the game, as well as her registration sequence on the forum.Instantly, Kui Xin’s scalp prickled with unease.
It seemed that events were spiraling rapidly towards something eerie.