Prodigy’s Playground

Chapter 182 The Girl

After turning it over in his mind again and again,

Jiang Ran came to only one possible conclusion about the identity of Resident No. 001 in the virtual world—[Cheng Mengxue].

The moment his childhood sweetheart’s name surfaced in his thoughts, his heart couldn’t help but race.

Because in this matter, the logic was painfully clear.

By now, it was basically certain that Mister Puppe was none other than Puppet, one of the members of Prodigy’s Playground.

And from Li Yini’s diary, they had already learned that as early as 2023, Puppet had extracted Cheng Mengxue’s memories through the consciousness-upload surgery.

Yan Chonghan had also told them before that the consciousness-upload procedure was fatal. Once the surgery was completed and memory and consciousness were digitized, the original body would die immediately.

In other words, it was either digital life or physical survival. Those two states were mutually exclusive. Only one could exist; they could never coexist at the same time.

Since Puppe had still undeniably been alive in 2028, personally overseeing humanity’s mass digitization—

and had even led by example, undergoing the consciousness-upload surgery under the scrutiny of the entire world—then it stood to reason that the only person who could possibly rank ahead of his No. 002 designation was Cheng Mengxue.

“Resident No. 001 of the virtual world, Cheng Mengxue.”

Jiang Ran spoke the name aloud.

If his reasoning was correct—

then didn’t that mean—

“Cheng Mengxue’s digitized lifeform, made from her memories and consciousness, is also alive in this virtual world!”

Just like the crowds of pedestrians passing through the streets, was Cheng Mengxue also somewhere in this world, living a life that belonged to her?

“Is… that really possible?”

Jiang Ran blinked. “Can I still… meet Xiaoxue here?”

It felt utterly unbelievable.

How many Cheng Mengxues even existed in this world?

The real one, the fake one, and now there was even a digital version here too!

Fine.

No matter what—

if a digital-life Cheng Mengxue truly existed, then at the very least she would be a genuine her, a real her, one perfectly identical to the girl in his throat-tightening memories.

But—

almost instantly, the surging heat in Jiang Ran’s chest cooled.

Even if Cheng Mengxue really was somewhere in this virtual world, how was he supposed to find her?

This world could only exist for 39 minutes and 11 seconds.

The moment that time passed, everything would stutter and reboot like a frozen computer, resetting back to 10:00 a.m.

In a mere 39 minutes, he couldn’t even leave the bounds of Donghai City, much less find someone whose address he didn’t know.

“Sigh.”

Jiang Ran let out a breath.

Puppe had clearly said before that according to his plan, this virtual world should have been able to run normally for 30,000 years.

So how had the program already become unstable after less than twenty years?

Something was definitely wrong here.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

The maid-outfit waitress tilted her head, confusion filling her eyes. “You look really troubled. Would you like to try our new orange juice? It’s great for lifting your mood.”

Jiang Ran looked up.

Seeing that the pretty girl was still patiently standing before him, he chuckled lightly. “Alright then. Sorry to trouble you.”

“No trouble at all, no trouble at all~”

The girl happily filled a huge cup with orange juice and handed it to him. “Enjoy it! If you like it, just come find me for a refill anytime!”

Jiang Ran had no idea how many times by now he had accepted this same cup of orange juice again and thanked the girl.

“Cough, wait a second.”

He stopped her and smiled politely. “Would it be alright if I took up a little of your time and asked you a few questions?”

Back in the library, Jiang Ran had already wanted to learn how these digital-life residents viewed the virtual world—and what they thought of Puppet Puppe.

The girl in front of him seemed to have a good personality, gentle and patient, so he decided to chat with her.

“Of course!”

The girl turned around with a sweet smile, eyes shining with anticipation. “Is it about the juice? You can ask anything! I know everything!”

Huh?

Jiang Ran froze.

He had absolutely not expected this kind of response.

What was there to ask about juice?

What exactly was this girl hoping for?

“Ah, no, no.”

Jiang Ran waved his hand. “I wanted to ask—do all of you clearly know that this is a virtual world? Not a real one, but the kind simulated by computers?”

The girl blinked. “Of course we know. Isn’t that just common sense?”

“Then what do you think about it?”

Jiang Ran pressed on. “Can you really accept a transformation like this so calmly? After all, you used to live in the real outside world with real physical bodies—but now all that remains is a set of data trapped inside servers. Can you really make peace with a change like that?”

“Umm————”

The girl scratched her head. “Sorry, but I really can’t answer that question.”

She gave an embarrassed smile.

“[Because I was born in the digital world, so I don’t really understand the kind of life in the real outside world that you’re talking about.]”

“As far as I’m concerned, I was born here and grew up here, so this place feels real. When you talk to me about the outside world instead, it actually feels kind of alien.”

“What?”

Jiang Ran’s eyes widened in disbelief.

This girl said—

she had been born here?

But this was a virtual digital world!

Could new life really be born here?

Turning his head numbly, Jiang Ran looked at the little boy from before who had run past holding a lollipop—

he had noticed that child long ago. Even when he had been soaring over the city on Tianqing, he had seen many very young children.

At the time, though, he hadn’t thought anything of it.

Because in his subconscious, he had always assumed that all digital lifeforms in the virtual world were immortal and eternally unchanging.

Like player-created characters in an online game—did they grow old? Did they truly die in any meaningful sense?

Obviously not.

Data was data. How could it possibly age?

So he had naturally assumed that everyone’s age here was permanently frozen at the moment they underwent consciousness upload in 2028.

Whatever they looked like when their consciousness and memories were first extracted—that was what they would remain now, and forever after. They would never age, and never die.

Which meant the little boy running with the lollipop must simply have already been that age in 2028.

But from what this girl was saying, the digital lifeforms in this virtual world could not only grow up, age, and die naturally—

they could even somehow give birth to entirely new life.

He simply could not understand it.

Even from a biological standpoint, he had no way of distinguishing whether these brand-new digital lifeforms born inside the virtual world truly possessed independent consciousness.

Could they still even be considered human in the traditional sense?

“If I may ask, how old are you this year?”

“Me? I’m sixteen.”

“Then… doesn’t that make this child labor?”

Jiang Ran couldn’t help laughing bitterly. It seemed that in this virtual world, the relevant laws had changed too.

Pfft—

The girl burst out laughing, covering her mouth as her shoulders shook. “Hahaha, child labor! I haven’t heard that phrase in forever! I’m already sixteen—how could that count as child labor?”

“By law, once you graduate university at twelve, you’re allowed to start working, so my job is perfectly legal.”

Graduating university at twelve—

what an utterly unfamiliar concept.

Jiang Ran felt like a country bumpkin wandering into the city for the first time. “Do people graduate university at twelve because learning things is really fast in this virtual world?”

“Exactly.”

The girl gave him a strange look, but still patiently explained, “Haven’t you ever gone to school? That shouldn’t be possible—education is compulsory across every country in the world.”

“And school is really fun. Whatever knowledge you want, you just load it directly into your brain. It doesn’t take any effort.”

She brushed back her hair and gazed toward the skyscrapers piercing the clouds in the distance.

“My parents always tell me that when they lived on Earth before, studying was painful, life was exhausting, and the pressure was enormous—”

“I can’t understand that at all, because in the digital world, everything is so simple~”

“See those buildings? My dad said he used to be a construction worker, and that humans could never have built skyscrapers that tall no matter what. But in the digital world, as long as the plans pass approval, buildings that tall can be finished in just a few days.”

“After all, we have [process acceleration technology] here. As long as something can get approved, it can be accelerated.”

“Like the question you asked earlier—my dad used to miss the outside world a lot too, but in the past few years he’s stopped saying things like that completely, because he genuinely feels life here is wonderful and incredibly happy.”

“He also told me that back when he worked on construction sites, he had to climb up and down scaffolding under blazing sun, his skin peeling from the heat, and half the time his wages were delayed.”

“But ever since coming to the digital world, every day has been easy and joyful for him, without the slightest pressure. When this topic came up a while ago, he even told me that even if he had to choose again ten thousand times, he would still choose to live in the digital world.”

“My mom’s the same. She told me that before coming here, she had severe cancer and was basically just waiting to die in the hospital—but after arriving in the digital world, the cancer was cured instantly, and now her body is perfectly healthy.”

“So she loves it here too. She says the digital world gave her a brand-new life, let her meet my dad, and gave her the chance to have me and the happy family we have now.”

Listening to the girl’s uninterrupted stream of descriptions, Jiang Ran truly began to understand that for ordinary people, for the poor and burdened masses, the virtual world really was an incomparably blissful paradise.

There was no pressure to survive here. Resources were infinite, so there were no conflicts over allocation.

There was no illness and no disaster, because everything was data. Even a malignant tumor was nothing more than a click of selection and delete.

There was no 996 grind, no endless food deliveries, no crushing mortgages that could never be repaid—so many things people in the real world didn’t even dare dream of escaping.

There was no question about it.

For most people, the virtual world truly was a flawless utopia.

In Jiang Ran’s real world, countless works of literature loved to criticize utopias, using all kinds of imagination to expose the emptiness beneath their glittering surfaces.

But—

if a paradise this beautiful were truly placed before one’s eyes, how many people could honestly reject it?

His mind suddenly drifted to a famous company in Henan called Pangdonglai.

Its cleanliness standards were famously extreme. Not only was every corner of the floor spotless, even the wheels of delivery trucks were polished until they gleamed.

Back then, many people online had criticized it, saying cleanliness taken to such absurd levels was unnecessary, that it was exploitation of the cleaning staff, and they felt sorry for the janitors’ workload.

But someone quickly replied—

save your meaningless concern.

In a fourth-tier city like that, if the janitors could take home a salary of 9,000 after insurance and housing deductions, then the thing they worried about most every day was how to make everything even cleaner, cleaner, cleaner still so they could justify that incredible paycheck.

This virtual world before his eyes probably worked the same way.

Leaving aside whether there were social problems hidden in places he couldn’t see, at least everywhere visible, every single person looked happy and relaxed, their smiles brimming with a sincere love for life.

He looked at the waitress in front of him and felt that same positivity and optimism radiating from her.

“Then by that logic, you’ve already been out of university for four years, right?”

“Yep.” The girl nodded.

“Then why are you still working in a place like this?”

Jiang Ran gestured toward the juice shop behind her. “Sorry, I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just curious—you’re a university graduate, and your mind is packed with knowledge. Shouldn’t you be working for a better company, or maybe a research institute?”

“Hehe~ Because I [like] it!”

The girl’s eyes suddenly sparkled.

“I really, really love drinking juice. I’ve loved it ever since I was little! And I also absolutely love studying juice!”

“So right after graduating, I came straight to work at this juice shop. I get to learn extraction and blending techniques from the owner while serving my creations to customers.”

“It’s honestly such an amazing feeling of accomplishment! Especially when customers praise the juice I made—I get super, super happy!”

The moment she started talking about juice, it was as if stars were bursting from her entire body, that joy and excitement spilling out like honey.

“So! Come on, hurry! Try this orange juice! This one is my own creation!”

She kept urging Jiang Ran to take a sip, her face overflowing with expectation.

“Oh, oh————”

Jiang Ran lifted the oversized paper cup yet again and gulped down several mouthfuls.

It was still as delicious as nectar from heaven.

No matter how many times he drank it, he couldn’t help sinking into it.

“It’s good.”

Wiping the corner of his mouth, he said honestly, “This is definitely the best juice I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Hahaha really? You’re way too good at cheering people on!”

The girl’s eyes curved into crescent moons.

Apparently, if someone truly loved what they did, even the smallest compliment from a customer was enough to make them this happy.

Suddenly, a streak of pink flashed through Jiang Ran’s mind—

Nan Xiuxiu.

She too was the kind of girl who always put [what she liked] above every rule and every framework.

Whatever she liked, she loved.

Whatever she loved, she chased.

Whatever she chased, she did.

She followed her heart, ignoring all prejudice and worldly judgment.

Jiang Ran had once called her willful.

And that hadn’t exactly been wrong.

Because in the real world, it was a kind of willfulness.

It was only because Nan Xiuxiu happened to possess the means to indulge that willfulness that, in the eyes of society, she became that singularly unconventional, impossible-to-fit-in presence.

But—

this utopian world, even if it was virtual, allowed every person to do the work they truly loved, to pursue the things they genuinely wanted, and to enjoy the happiness that came straight from the heart.

Just like this waitress before him.

She had never once felt there was anything wrong with this job, even though she had graduated university at twelve and carried immense knowledge in her mind.

Because the work in big corporations and research institutes was nowhere near as fulfilling as a single cup of juice praised by a customer.

Then by the same logic—

the people doing scientific research in this virtual world must genuinely love research.

The people teaching must truly love educating others.

Even the people cleaning the streets must sincerely want the city to become cleaner and more beautiful.

No wonder this society was so vibrant and thriving.

Everyone here was doing exactly what they loved, so of course it was overflowing with vitality.

“Hehe, let me top you off again!”

Fueled by the praise, the girl enthusiastically refilled Jiang Ran’s giant paper cup once more. “Alright, do you have any other questions? You’re such an interesting person. Talking with you is really fun!”

Jiang Ran nodded.

He did still have a few more questions.

“[Then have none of you ever noticed that something seems to be wrong with this virtual world?]”

“For example, everything suddenly crashing like a frozen computer program—glitches everywhere, the world around you turning into blocks of color, and then rebooting back to a point several dozen minutes earlier.”

The girl shook her head blankly. “Nope.”

She thought for a moment, then shook it again. “I’ve never seen anything like what you’re describing. Everything here has always been normal. Nothing has ever gone wrong.”

“At least in the sixteen years since I was born, every single day has been happy. Nothing unexpected has ever happened.”

I see.

Jiang Ran fell silent.

So it really was just as he had suspected.

The residents here had absolutely no awareness that the virtual world was rebooting every 39 minutes and 11 seconds in an endless loop.

But what the girl said was also true.

If she had lived through a complete sixteen-year life, then it meant that for those first sixteen years, the virtual world had operated flawlessly.

Which meant—

was it really his fault after all?

Was his sudden appearance what had introduced a bug into this world, trapping everyone so they could never see tomorrow’s sun, never even reach 11:00 a.m. today?

If so, then he really was a terrible sinner.

No matter what, that bucket of juice the girl kept serving would never truly be sold out.

It would only keep cycling endlessly between 10:00 and 10:39, filling and emptying, filling and emptying, the liquid level rising and falling over and over—

while she served the same customers countless times.

“One more thing.”

Jiang Ran spread his hands. “Since people here grow older too—do they also truly die in the literal sense?”

“Sorry, I really am pretty ignorant. By my understanding, digital life should theoretically be able to live forever without any real technical difficulty.”

“But that doesn’t seem to be the case. Since there are clearly very elderly people here, does that also mean they’ll eventually face real death?”

“Of course.”

The girl answered decisively.

“Everyone dies. In the digital world people don’t get sick, but they still grow old, and when it’s time to die, they die.”

“Actually, this is kind of an old question. Our teachers already explained it in university. From a programming standpoint, making digital life immortal really wouldn’t be difficult at all—in fact it would probably be simpler.”

“But from the long-term perspective of human civilization, that wouldn’t work.”

“Because even if every resource in the digital world is infinite and population support is never an issue, there is still one finite resource—and it’s the most important one of all—”

“[Storage space].”

After a pause, she continued, “Our teachers said Mister Puppe prepared a massive number of data centers for the virtual world, and the storage capacity inside them is extremely abundant.”

“But no matter how abundant it is, it’s still finite in the end. Considering the virtual world’s development over the next 30,000 years, enough spare capacity has to be reserved.”

“So when Mister Puppe designed the underlying code of the virtual world, he permanently locked the permissions for [lifespan] and [death].”

“Even though no one gets sick or injured, lifespan is still finite. One day, everyone has to face a fair death.”

“Honestly, I don’t think that’s a problem at all, right? As long as you can happily live out a joyful life, what’s there to fear about death?”

“In fact, it’s precisely because everyone dies eventually that life becomes precious enough for us to cherish the value of this one lifetime.”

“Hehe, your questions really are strange. In daily life nobody really worries about things like this.”

“The experts estimate that residents of the digital world can live to around 150 years on average. If you really make it that far, you’ll have long since made peace with everything.”

“Of course, if someone dies because of an accident, then there’s nothing anyone can do. After all, Mister Puppe permanently locked the [death] permission. No matter what causes it, once death happens, it can’t be reversed—at the moment of death, the life data is erased instantly.”

Jiang Ran listened in silence.

It was true.

Seen this way, Puppe really had put enormous thought into building this virtual world.

With how cautious his planning was, he definitely would have reserved additional storage space for the future of civilization.

And the best way to do that was naturally to limit the residents’ lifespans.

150 years—

from today’s perspective, that really was more than enough.

Only—

now that he knew this information, one thing suddenly became bizarre.

Earlier, in the news report on the giant shopping-mall screen, the host had said that Resident No. 002, Puppe, had sadly passed away three years ago.

And September 17 just so happened to be the anniversary of his death, with the entire population encouraged to observe a moment of silence.

But the photo Jiang Ran had seen of Puppe in the library showed a man clearly only in his fifties or sixties, far from the average lifespan of 150.

So how exactly had he died?

No one here got sick, and even catastrophic injuries could supposedly be perfectly repaired.

He couldn’t make sense of it.

How had the founder of the virtual world, the chief architect of the consciousness-upload project, died such an [untimely death]?

Had something happened to Puppe?

An accident?

An assassination?

Honestly, that seemed possible.

Since patrol robots could be seen in both the streets and the skies, there were clearly still destabilizing elements and criminals inside the virtual world.

For a figure as powerful and important as Puppe, it wouldn’t be strange if some extremist had targeted him.

After all, even in a utopia of infinite abundance, twisted minds would still exist.

Jiang Ran decided to ask the waitress in front of him.

“You definitely know who Mister Puppe is, right?”

“What kind of silly question is that————”

The girl had apparently already accepted Jiang Ran as a lovable idiot and explained on her own initiative:

“Who here doesn’t know Mister Puppe? He’s humanity’s savior and the builder of the digital world. We owe our wonderful lives entirely to him.”

“Right, right. Exactly.”

Jiang Ran nodded. “But—didn’t this great savior pass away three years ago? How did that happen? By all logic, shouldn’t he have lived past a hundred at least?”

“…”

For once, the waitress fell silent.

The excitement that had filled her just moments ago instantly dimmed, and melancholy clouded her eyes.

“Did you… lose your memory or something?”

Her tone carried faint reproach.

“Seriously, please don’t joke about Mister Puppe. He’s humanity’s hero. Everyone respects him deeply, and his passing made everyone truly sad.”

“How… did he die?”

Jiang Ran felt he was finally touching the heart of the mystery. Quickly pressing his palms together, he pleaded, “Please, I’m begging you, tell me. I think I really… can’t remember.”

“Please understand. You can probably tell my head’s kind of messed up. I’m still fuzzy, and I haven’t had time to go see a doctor.”

To get an answer, Jiang Ran had no choice but to pretend he was some kind of mentally impaired patient, tapping his temple.

“But I do clearly remember! Today is Mister Puppe’s memorial day! So I miss him too—especially today, he’s all I can think about, the great Puppe—”

Even Jiang Ran himself found what he was saying unbearably awkward, to the point he nearly burst out laughing.

In the end, though, he held it in, only regretting that he couldn’t squeeze out a few digital tears for effect.

Fortunately, the residents of this utopia were kind enough.

And simple enough.

The waitress didn’t doubt him in the slightest, as if in the worldview she had grown up with, people this deceitful simply did not exist.

“Mister Puppe… he didn’t die a normal death————”

The girl’s voice was full of sorrow and regret.

“Even though people in the digital world don’t get sick, there is still one way to choose death voluntarily.”

Jiang Ran sucked in a sharp breath.

He had already guessed the answer.

“Could it be————”

“That’s right.”

The girl lifted her gaze toward the black-and-white portrait of Mister Puppe hanging high on the distant tower, her expression turning solemn.

“Three years ago, Mister Puppe was found dead in his laboratory. The whole world was shocked. The impact was enormous.”

“Because Mister Puppe’s cause of death was—”

“[suicide].”