Sea of Darkness (Part 1)

Preface: Dear readers, please read the synopsis and the guide in the first chapter before diving in.

Kui Xin was jolted awake by the notification sounds from her class group chat.

Her vision was still blurry from just waking up. She reached under her pillow to grab her phone, squinting as she tried to make out the words on the screen.

“The list of first-round beta testers for [Crimson Earth] has been released!”

The text is already correct and requires no changes.

The announcement was posted on the official website three minutes ago.

“Damn! Who’s that lucky?”

“Only ten thousand players in the first beta test? And it’s a global selection? The number of slots the developers have released is way too small!”

Kui Xin processed the information slowly, her grogginess making it hard to think. Once her drowsiness faded, she finally remembered that she’d applied for beta testing qualifications for the game months ago, at the urging of her classmates. She had filled out a survey on the official website and submitted it casually. That was ages ago.

At the time, [Crimson Earth] had just released its trailer, boasting the tagline: “A groundbreaking holographic game—a second world that truly exists.”

The trailer instantly captured the attention of gamers worldwide. The game’s selling points were its open-world exploration and multiple career paths.

It combined cyberpunk elements with supernatural abilities, allowing players to either pursue technological paths to become cyborgs with mechanical prosthetics or explore supernatural routes to awaken various extraordinary powers.

It was grounded in reality yet transcended it, blending fantasy with an unparalleled sense of authenticity, as if seamlessly connected to the real world.

What truly drew Kui Xin in, however, were the last two sentences of the game’s description.
“Light always gives birth to shadow; beneath the bustling facade of the city lies a decaying, rotten core.”

"Compared to wealth and power, survival and death are the eternal themes of this world."

If the description was anything to go by… then perhaps [Crimson Earth] wasn’t just about cyberpunk aesthetics and supernatural abilities, but it also carried a darker core?

Kui Xin clicked on the screenshot shared in the class group chat. The game’s official website stated that beta test invitations would be sent via email, confirming that the first batch of testers indeed consisted of only ten thousand players. The official beta test date was set for tomorrow.

It was important to note that when [Crimson Earth] first opened its reservations, it took only a day for the global reservation count to exceed ten million. Now, after several months of anticipation, the number of reservations had surpassed one billion. Selecting just ten thousand lucky players from billions was like finding a needle in a haystack.

Even though she didn’t hold out much hope, Kui Xin still opened her email to check.

“You have one unread email.”

The notification stunned her. Her heart raced, and she shot up from the bed.

“Congratulations! You have been selected for the beta testing of the game [Crimson Earth].”

The email subject line was highlighted in bold red. Kui Xin stared at it in a daze, repeatedly checking the sender’s address and cross-referencing it with the official email address listed on the website. She confirmed it over and over again, unable to believe her eyes.

When she finally accepted that the email was indeed official, her first thought was—Jackpot!
I’ve struck gold!

If she sold the beta testing qualification, she could definitely make a good amount of money!

A broke girl’s ecstatic joy!

Kui Xin had always been down on her luck. Her dad had failed in his investments and fled with the money, while her mom remarried and sent her a measly eight hundred yuan a month for living expenses. It was barely enough for food, let alone study materials or clothes. The second-hand smartphone she was holding was something she had bought with her own money from working part-time at a bubble tea shop.

She lived alone in the old house her grandparents had left behind, waking up early and staying up late, studying hard like a resilient weed that had managed to survive until now.

This summer vacation was her last before heading off to university. She had done well on her exams and gotten into a good school, but the tuition fees and living expenses were a constant source of worry.

If she could sell the beta testing qualification for [Crimson Earth], she wouldn’t have to worry about living expenses for a long time.

However, the next sentence in the email crushed Kui Xin’s hopes.

“Beta testing qualifications for [Crimson Earth] cannot be traded or gifted. The beta test invitation code is bound to the player’s registration information and cannot be altered. This beta test will be free of charge and will not have any data wipes.”

Kui Xin’s face fell, her dreams of making money ruthlessly shattered.

She didn’t actually care about the game itself. Her gear was terrible; she didn’t even own a holographic headset, meaning she couldn’t play it anyway. When she had filled out the survey back then, it had been on a whim, mostly with the mindset of “if the beta testing qualification can be sold, then I’ll hit the jackpot.”

As Kui Xin mulled over her situation, she sadly realized that while she might now be one of the ten thousand globally exclusive lucky players, she was still the same old broke and unlucky girl. Winning a beta testing qualification she couldn’t use was like owning a mountain of gold she couldn’t spend—just frustrating.

She sighed, scrolling down to read more.

The email was brief and didn’t contain much useful information. Kui Xin skimmed to the end and was pleasantly surprised to find one particular sentence: “If a player agrees to join the game, the game company will provide them with customized gaming equipment.”

Kui Xin: Awesome!

Her worries were resolved—she could play the game after all! Kui Xin’s emotions swung like a roller coaster.

The email concluded with a link to a player survey.

Curious, Kui Xin clicked the link.

Question 1: If given the chance to embrace a new beginning, would you accept it?

Was this even a question? Kui Xin chose the answer that represented “Yes” without hesitation.
A new beginning meant starting over, and her current life was already bad enough. How much worse could it get?

Question 2: Do you believe in the existence of gods?

Kui Xin selected “No.” She was a staunch atheist.

Question 3: Do you want to acquire supernatural abilities?
“Yes”! Wanting superpowers didn’t conflict with being an atheist!

“You have completed the survey.”

“Game-related documents and instructions have been sent to your email. Please check your inbox.”
“The anonymous forum for beta testers is now open to you. Please save the URL and register promptly.”

Kui Xin carefully read through the new notifications and saved the URL for the beta tester forum as instructed.

Some games have beta test content that is considered trade secrets and cannot be disclosed. Beta testers are recruited to help developers identify bugs and fix issues. The developers of [Crimson Earth] had provided a forum for beta testers, likely as a space for them to exchange information.

With only ten thousand people granted beta testing qualifications, the forum’s content would probably be quite limited. She would be among its first pioneers.

Instead of immediately registering on the forum, Kui Xin opened her email to check the newly sent game files. Documents like these usually required players to sign a confirmation, essentially acting as a contract, with legal consequences for breaches.

She clicked on the new email and froze after reading the first few lines.

"Six pieces of advice for players of 'Crimson Earth.' You can choose to follow them or ignore them, but the consequences of ignoring them must be borne by you alone."

"First, treat the game world as a real world."

"Second, do not reveal your identity as a player to anyone."

"Third, do not disclose the contents of the game to anyone."

"Fourth, life is only once; death cannot be undone."

"Fifth, if you choose to start the game, you have only two paths: 'clearing the game' or 'character death.'"

"Sixth, everything comes with a price." ...That's it? Just these few sentences? Isn't this game declaration a bit too perfunctory?

Kui Xin was utterly baffled. It's just a game, after all. Game companies always write these kinds of cryptic, atmospheric statements in their notices, but it's all just marketing gimmicks.

Everyone knows that world is fake. Kui Xin opened the game file, which required a signature. She carefully read through it from start to finish, twice, yet she couldn't find any confidentiality clause in the document.

However, the "six pieces of advice for players" at the beginning clearly stated not to disclose the game's contents.

How strange. Isn't this contradictory? If they don't want players to leak information, why not include a confidentiality agreement in a legally binding document?

Those few pieces of advice are completely unenforceable. At the end of the document was an electronic signature box. Kui Xin entered her name into the box.

As soon as she finished typing her name, a small window popped up with bold red text: "Do you confirm joining the game? You have one and only one chance to exit."

One and only one chance to exit?

Kui Xin didn't think much of it and clicked "Confirm" without hesitation.

The page shifted, and a new prompt appeared.

"Contract completed."

"Welcome to your new life, Kui Xin." ...What's with this mystical vibe? Kui Xin stared at the screen, puzzled.

After pondering for a moment, she opened the anonymous beta testing forum and clicked "Register."

The registration process was absurdly simple—just entering the beta invitation code was enough.

In the nickname field, Kui Xin casually typed "233." All her game nicknames had been "233" because she lacked creativity in naming. Whenever she did come up with something, it was often already taken. So, she decided to stick with "233" forever.

"Once confirmed, the nickname cannot be changed."

Kui Xin didn't care and clicked "Confirm" anyway.

A new message popped up.

"You are the 233rd player to register on the forum."

Kui Xin: "...Huh?"

What a coincidence. Could 233 be her lucky number?

After a brief loading screen, Kui Xin saw the forum page.

The forum's background had a cold metallic sheen, and the layout was unusually minimalist. The functions were straightforward: posting, replying, and private messaging.

However, in the upper-right corner of the forum was a striking blood-red Arabic numeral: "10000."

Next to "10000" was a small line of text: "Number of survivors."

For some reason, Kui Xin felt a sudden jolt in her chest when she saw the words "number of survivors," followed by a strange sense of unease.

The forum contained dozens of posts marked "new." It had just opened, and players were still registering, so all the posts were freshly made. Kui Xin refreshed the page, and another dozen posts appeared. The titles were in English, Japanese, Russian, and Chinese, as players from all over the world converged on this small forum.

Kui Xin could roughly translate the English titles, but she was completely lost when it came to other languages.

She skimmed through the existing Chinese posts and found that most of the titles were things like "Let's start exploring," "Any players from Shanghai? Let's meet up," and "I must have my name in the top hundred posts"—all rather meaningless chatter.

After hesitating for a moment, Kui Xin clicked Post and typed a title: "Does anyone else find the 'six pieces of advice for players' a bit strange?"

After finishing the title, Kui Xin's mouse hovered over the Post button for a long time, unmoving.

She recalled the phrase "treat the game world as a real world," and the later warning that "life is only once; death cannot be undone." Then she looked at the blood-red number "10000" at the top of the forum. It felt as though something deep in her mind had been struck.

She suddenly felt a chill run down her spine but couldn't pinpoint the source of her unease. The sensation was abrupt and almost absurd.

Kui Xin rubbed her forehead.

The idea of "entering a full-dive game and actually traveling to a real world," a trope from fantasy novels, couldn't possibly happen in reality, could it?

Despite her attempts to reassure herself, Kui Xin found herself deleting the post content on impulse. She decided to remain silent and observe the situation for a while.

She kept refreshing the forum, reading through each Chinese post one by one.

A few minutes later, a new post caught her attention.

"The game company hasn't mentioned how they'll deliver the game equipment. Has anyone received a VR headset or installation package yet?"

The moment she saw this post, someone knocked on Kui Xin's door.

She instinctively stood up and walked to the door to look through the peephole, but no one was there.

She waited for a few minutes, then slowly opened the door, noticing a small black box lying quietly on the ground. The box had the words "Crimson Earth" written on it.

Kui Xin opened the box and found a silver metal card inside. The card's design was intricate yet elegant, with interwoven lines forming a mechanical hand.

"This is... a game commemorative card?" Kui Xin examined the card, then shivered.

She suddenly remembered that she had never filled out her address information on the game's official website. So how had this card been delivered? Kui Xin's heart sank.

She slipped on her slippers and headed downstairs. She lived in an old neighborhood with outdated facilities, but there were surveillance cameras installed nearby.

At the entrance to the building, a few elderly neighbors were playing mahjong. Everyone knew each other in the community, so Kui Xin asked, "Aunt Zhang! Did the delivery guy come by just now?"

"Nope. Xiao Li usually comes around 2 p.m., doesn't he?" Aunt Zhang pushed forward a row of mahjong tiles and smiled brightly. "Ooh, I win!"

"Did anyone go upstairs just now?" Kui Xin pressed further.

"No one," Aunt Zhang replied without even looking up, busy shuffling her tiles.

Hearing this, Kui Xin felt a chill down her back, despite the sweltering heat of July. If no one went upstairs, who knocked on her door? And if she hadn't provided any address information, how had the 'Crimson Earth' game card been delivered directly to her doorstep?

She had just signed the game agreement, and the card was delivered within five minutes... Kui Xin looked down at the silver metal card in her hand and flipped it over.

On the back of the card, a few words were engraved: "Depriver · Kui Xin. ID: 233."

233 was the nickname she had just entered and her registration number on the forum.

In that instant, Kui Xin felt her scalp tingle.

The way things were unfolding seemed to be spiraling into something eerily bizarre.