Chapter One: Rebirth

On September 14, 2206, Alpha Corporation of the Federation made a sudden public announcement: they had developed a large-scale online game featuring complete neural integration and fully intelligent NPCs, naming it “Titan.” The company declared that gaming pods would go on sale at the end of September, with a full-scale open beta scheduled for the end of October. The news sent shockwaves through the entire Federation’s entertainment industry, reaching even some smaller nations yet to join the Federation. Every media outlet scrambled to report the story.

Many internet conglomerates quickly issued their own statements, most expressing skepticism. Yi Tianxing, CEO of Alpha’s longtime rival, Tengye Group, publicly refuted Alpha’s claims, calling them an absurd farce and insisting that, with current technology, such a feat was impossible.

Yi Tianxing’s view received widespread support. From a rational perspective, the most advanced AI in the Federation could barely play a game of Go, and holographic visuals were still in development stages—let alone something as fantastic as neural integration, which until now existed only in novels and films. According to current technological trends, some experts predicted it would take at least sixty years to achieve the kind of neural-linked gaming Alpha was claiming.

Despite the overwhelming skepticism online, Alpha’s status as the largest network conglomerate in the Federation lent it enormous influence. Gaming pods sold out in a frenzy. Whether motivated by dreams of neural-linked gameplay or simply trust in Alpha, the majority of people still chose to spend the money.

On the day of the open beta at the end of October, long lines formed early outside experience centers in City B of the East Central Asia Zone. The starting price for a gaming pod was exorbitant—thirty thousand Federation credits for even the most basic model—making them unaffordable for most students or wage-earners living paycheck to paycheck. Yet the allure of immersive, holographic gaming was irresistible. Unable to buy a pod, many flocked to the experience centers for a taste. Because of the high cost, most center owners had been cautious with their orders, resulting in a severe shortage of available pods. The open beta was set to begin at 10 a.m., but by 5 a.m., students were already lining up.

“Hey, man, are you playing or not? If not, let me have your spot,” someone called out. The center had only fifty pods. A frail-looking young man stood at the end of the line, the last to secure a spot. But as the others filed inside, he stood there, dazed, prompting the person behind him to speak up.

The pale, delicate-featured young man wore an expression of confusion and astonishment as he stared at his questioner. The familiarity of the scene made him doubt its reality. He reached out, trying to discern whether this was all a dream.

Smack! His outstretched hand was slapped away, the sting proving the reality of the moment. The other youth recoiled, looking at him with a shudder. “What’s wrong with you? I’m a straight guy, you know. Even if you try to tempt me with a spot, I’m not bending!”

“Uh…” Embarrassed by the stares around him, the young man realized what he’d just done. His lips twitched in discomfort, and he hurried into the center.

Inside, the space was large but sparsely populated with gaming pods, leaving plenty of room between each one. The other forty-nine customers waited excitedly beside their assigned pods, faces alight with anticipation and nerves.

“Hey, you’re from the Teachers’ College, right?” The young man at pod forty-nine greeted him as he entered. “I’m Wang Lin. What’s your name?”

“Guo Lang.” Guo Lang, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu as if a scene from a movie were replaying, responded with the same question he’d once asked, “How did you know I was from Teachers’?”

“Everyone who comes to this center is from the nearby schools. This spot’s closest to your college and our Oukemei Academy. You dress so shabby, you can’t be from our school.”

“Same as before—such an annoying answer,” Guo Lang muttered, rolling his eyes and turning away.

“Hey, hey, just kidding! Don’t take it seriously. So, Guo Lang, what do you think this game will be like?”

At that, Guo Lang stiffened slightly, then turned and looked at Wang Lin with a strange intensity. “What do you think the game will be like?”

“Well…” Wang Lin, unsettled by Guo Lang’s gaze, scratched his head and hesitated. “It should be decent, right? Alpha is a well-known brand—every game they’ve made is a classic. Even if it’s not as realistic as those novels make it out to be, it can’t be too bad.”

Realistic? Guo Lang sneered inwardly. He was more afraid the game would be too realistic for anyone to handle.

Of course, Guo Lang knew exactly what the game really was. In his previous life, he had already experienced it once. Calling it a game wasn’t entirely wrong; for those lofty beings above, it truly was just a game, while people like him were nothing more than their NPCs.

“Hey? Buddy?” Wang Lin waved his hand in front of Guo Lang, who had drifted off.

“It’s nothing…” Guo Lang sighed. Looking at this sunny young man, so full of excitement and anticipation, he wondered what expression would cross his face when he learned the truth. Would he be among the lucky few who survived?

From what Guo Lang remembered, there had been fifty million players entering the game at launch in the Federation’s Zone Nine, but fewer than a hundred thousand survived. Statistically, Wang Lin’s odds weren’t good.

“Go ahead and do your thing—I’m going to make a call.”

“No problem! Let’s add each other as friends in the game later,” Wang Lin replied enthusiastically.

“Sure,” Guo Lang said with a smile, but in his heart he added, Only if you make it out alive.

After they parted, Wang Lin moved on to strike up conversation elsewhere, while Guo Lang pulled out his battered smartphone, worth barely a thousand credits. He opened his contacts and dialed a number, his face showing rare signs of nervousness.

“Hey, Bighead Guo!”

The familiar voice warmed Guo Lang’s heart, almost making him lose his composure. He found a sofa, sat down, drew a deep breath, and steadied himself before speaking softly, “Xiaoting?”

It was his nine-year-old sister on the line.

“Hmph! Sneaking out early in the morning to play games—don’t you know today’s Mom’s birthday? Dad’s already got the bamboo stick ready. He said he’ll break your legs when you get back!”

Guo Lang’s face darkened, the warmth of the moment swept away. Then, remembering something, his voice dropped. “Today’s Mom’s birthday…”

“Are you pretending to have amnesia now?” His sister’s voice was full of annoyance. “Well, of course, Mom’s birthday can’t compare to your precious game, right…”

His hand trembled, and he managed a bitter smile. Truthfully, he almost wished he could go home for a beating from his father. How he longed to see his family’s faces again, eat his mother’s cooking, and endure his father’s scowls. In his previous life, after he entered the game, all of that became a distant dream.

Of the fifty million who participated in the open beta, fewer than a hundred thousand survived. Guo Lang was among the lucky few, but he only managed to scrape by, never ascending to the top. He was stranded in that world for five years before he finally got a chance to return, but by then his family had paid a terrible price searching for him—the family was nearly destroyed. The regret ate at him. He didn’t even live to confront his enemies, dying as cannon fodder in a battle while his foe rose to power at the very top.

He had longed, more than anything, to return—just to see his parents one more time. But he couldn’t. He knew how important this game was. No one in the world could escape its reach. After the first day’s wave of player disappearances, the Federation locked down Alpha Corporation. When the first batch of players returned, the very rules of the world changed. Individual strength became paramount. The Federation’s nine zones fractured, each led by their own warlords, who even encouraged people to join the game. The entire world entered a new era.

In that age, the life of an ordinary person was insignificant. Even as a player, someone like Guo Lang was just fodder for the wars of others. Perhaps, with the advantage of foresight, he could avoid disaster for a time, but he knew—without true power, he would never escape being at the mercy of others. That was the lesson he’d learned in two decades of hardship.

Guo Lang hated the game, but it was also his only chance to change his fate. If he could return as one of the first batch of survivors, he might just be able to rewrite his and his family’s destiny.

“I won’t be able to come home for a while…” he said, fighting to keep his composure.

“Bighead, stop being stubborn. You’re an adult now—do you really want Dad to drag you out of the experience center and beat you in public?” his sister threatened. Normally, he would have argued with her, but today, even her threats sounded sweet to him.

“Tell Mom and Dad not to worry. I’ll come back, I promise,” Guo Lang said solemnly.

“Who’s worried about you? Are you crazy?” Xiaoting replied. She was about to retort further, but realized he’d hung up already. She stared at the phone’s dial tone for a long moment before muttering to herself, “I’ll make sure Dad breaks his other leg too!”

“Attention, everyone! The open beta will start in ten minutes. Let me introduce your game guide, sent by Alpha Corporation. If you have any questions, feel free to ask her!” announced the center’s rotund manager. Beside him stood a young, beautiful woman—the so-called game guide.

The crowd surged forward, firing off questions in a flurry of excitement.

“Is the game really as immersive as the novels say? Like being in a dream?”

“How’s the environment? Is it realistic? Is it safe for the brain?”

“The official materials barely mention the game’s setting. Can you give us any hints? Which race is best? Do we get to customize our avatars?”

Despite the barrage, the guide remained poised and composed, patiently answering everyone’s questions. From a distance, Guo Lang noticed a faint green glimmer in her eyes.

A follower of the Lord of Death, from the Undead line? he scoffed inwardly. No wonder, in his previous life, this guide had so eagerly recommended the undead race. To blend in, Guo Lang joined the others and raised his voice: “Miss, what are the differences between the races in the game? Is it just appearance, or are there significant attribute differences? Do you have any recommendations?”