Chapter 41: Why Can’t You See a Doctor? Aren’t You Human?

On a weekday afternoon, her phone suddenly buzzed with a new message. Her father, whom she hadn’t contacted in three years except for New Year greetings, sent an emoji—a very outdated “Happy Every Day.” She felt both delighted and uneasy—her father never reached out to her. Did he need something? Was he missing her? With the New Year approaching, did he want her to come home?

It was strange yet intriguing. Her father rarely called unless necessary. Sending a message so close to the New Year made Jiang Huan suspicious—was this some kind of telepathic connection between father and daughter?

She quietly savored the moment for a long time.

The discussions around Hot Continent were growing rapidly. A manga expo and a promotional video had sparked debates, heated conversations, and even trending topics online. People were speculating about the snowy mountain storyline and the character design of Duanmu Xuan. Elements from the teaser were dissected, and video analyses stretched up to 20 minutes, even discussing the subtle facial lines on his eyes and their connection to ancient symbols… Jiang Huan was utterly astonished. “Xuan Xuan only posted a photo, and it’s already this popular? They’re spending five whole minutes on his facial lines?”

“Hurry up and revise the plot—it’s not far from the boss’s deadline.”

Xuan Xuan, after Yan Zhengyi, was another nickname the production team gave to Duanmu Xuan. He was the moody boy Jiang Huan imagined during sleepless nights—awkward inside but outwardly straightforward, acting on impulse, passionate and focused like a martial arts enthusiast. Yet, he struggled to express emotions, finding it harder than scaling the heavens to say “I like you.” He could express affection in countless ways, just not through confession. Bold yet cautious, high-attack yet guarded, refreshing like sparkling water, Duanmu Xuan was Jiang Huan’s most satisfying male protagonist—but she didn’t want to date him herself. She was already enough of a hypocrite; she didn’t need to play mind games with another young man.

But modern players liked him.

The funniest—and most absurd—thing was when someone posted a photo of Bai Jingchuan and asked, “Which character is this cosplayer portraying? I’ll splurge on the game as soon as he appears!”

An intern showed the post to Bai Jingchuan, expecting to see him react with pride or shyness. Instead, Bai Jingchuan pushed his glasses up, his tone indifferent. “No need to explain. I don’t care much about my appearance. I shouldn’t be seen as a stand-in for any male lead. Explaining my identity won’t benefit Hot Continent, so let’s leave it at that.”

The intern’s eyes sparkled. “But the entire internet is looking for you! The campus recruitment exposed you as the producer. There will definitely be a wave of people downloading the game just because of you…”

“The players like the in-game character, not me. When ordinary people are idolized like celebrities, one day they might slander the game because of their moral failings. I shouldn’t become part of it. Put simply, the production team should remain invisible. Enough of this topic—don’t use me for marketing.”

The intern turned around and posted on social media: A producer with perfect clarity of mind. How can I possibly date the producer? If only he were the male lead in a romance game—at least I could download the app and spend money to have him.

Jiang Huan laughed out loud when she saw it. Bai Jingchuan as the male lead? That was insane! But the interns in the group chat kept going: “He’s seriously perfect! Handsome, humble, smart—he’s even changed his old temperamental ways. Look at his character arc—he’s more perfect than the actual male lead!”

Jiang Huan burst into laughter at her desk. What kind of character arc was this? And where was he perfect? He constantly messed up in front of her.

[+100 Affection Points from Jiang Huan.]

Two interns chatted in the comments section. One said, “I hope Teacher Bai is the male lead because then I can monopolize him in the game. In real life, how could I ever have such a perfect lover? I know it’s impossible—it’s just a daydream…”

The open-world adventure with Yan Zhengyi wasn’t fully completed yet. Individual storylines had been handed over to other team members, but the main plot had indeed reached the snowy mountains. Jiang Huan leaned back in her chair, staring at her screen. On the left was a document—a handsome wolf-tailed youth. His dynamic poses showcased a fiery waistline, and even his blushing cheeks were endearing.

A voice came from behind her: “‘Duanmu Xuan stood behind me, as if his lips brushed against my ear. In the shadows, he enveloped me. His hot breath carried the scent of youth, curiosity, aggression, and ambition rushing into my nostrils…’”

Jiang Huan jerked her neck back. “Why are you reading this aloud?”

“What’s there to be afraid of? You’re going to show it to me anyway once it’s finished.”

“It’s not finalized yet!” Jiang Huan curled up like a caught lover hiding a secret.

“It doesn’t stop me from being curious. I’ve actually paid attention to Duanmu Xuan for a while. Compared to Yan Zhengyi, it seems you’ve poured more effort into him.”

“He’s a 183cm wolf-tailed youth with a fiery body and a handsome face. He finds you interesting but looks down on flirting—a young male lead who makes your heart race.” Jiang Huan nodded proudly. “He’s the result of countless sleepless nights. Adolescent recklessness—most young girls love this type.”

“Do you like him too?”

“…”

“You’ve been staring at his illustration for so long. Admit it—the 3D version of Duanmu Xuan is handsomer than you. Real-life people can’t compare to perfect game characters. This is what us girls fantasize about—jealousy is the sincerest form of acknowledgment.”

“What about Li Junzhu?” Bai Jingchuan said. “Sounds like you really like him.”

Jiang Huan jumped up and covered Bai Jingchuan’s mouth. “You can’t let anyone else know.”

“Of course.” Bai Jingchuan held the hand covering his mouth, pretending to kiss the back of it but stopping just short, instead leaning in to smile at her. “I’m genuinely curious about this Li Junzhu. Tell me about him sometime?”

Originally planning to ask Jiang Huan out, she sent a message after work: “Wen Li was hospitalized for a gastric hemorrhage. I’m going to check on him.”

An hour passed, and Bai Jingchuan teleported to the hospital, pretending to have driven over. Shan Di Meng was already outside the emergency room, talking to Jiang Huan, who stood with her arms crossed. Bai Jingchuan immediately knew—this was the result of binge drinking and overworking. The doctor inside the emergency room sighed deeply.

Shan Di Meng smiled politely upon seeing Bai Jingchuan, unsurprised. Bai Jingchuan asked skeptically, “Why are you here?”

“She listed me as her emergency contact. It gives me a headache too. But from what I understand, she has a hysterical mother. Before, an antique piano was forcibly taken by her mother. Avoiding her has its reasons.”

“Knowing all this—you truly are the god of Renwu Road.” Bai Jingchuan’s words carried hidden meaning—Wen Li used to be a struggling office worker but became wealthy thanks to opportunities provided by Wan Shen Zhi Jing. If Shan Di Meng was part of the system, everything would fall under her control.

“Don’t mock me.” Shan Di Meng checked the time. “I have other matters to attend to. Could you stay here and keep watch?”

“The usual routine—I understand.”

Shan Di Meng disappeared into the unlit corridor, like stepping into another dark dimension. Jiang Huan sat down on a bench. “Only a limited number of people are allowed to accompany patients. It’s easier for women. You should go home.”

“It’s fine.” Bai Jingchuan sat beside her. “I’ll leave when the nurse kicks me out.”

This was Bai Jingchuan’s first time entering a human hospital. Previously, his body alarms took him to Shan Di Meng’s soul chamber. Her hurried departure likely meant another bionic person needed repairs.

The doctor came out. “Take these belongings of the patient.”

Bai Jingchuan reached out to take them, accidentally brushing against the doctor’s wrist. Just as he bent down, the doctor grabbed his hand. “Your heartbeat seems abnormal.”

With that, the doctor placed a stethoscope on Bai Jingchuan’s chest.

[Warning: You are not truly human. Your heartbeat and pulse differ from others. Please conceal your identity.]

Bai Jingchuan pulled away. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”

“Your heartbeat is very unusual. Your heart must have serious issues. Though I’m not specialized in this department, this heartbeat is alarming. You should register at the emergency downstairs and lie down in the ICU. At this rate, surgery might be necessary…”

“Do I look like someone who needs surgery sitting here?”

“No arguing. These procedures are voluntary, but as the on-duty doctor, I have a responsibility to ensure the patient’s safety.”

Things were getting complicated. Jiang Huan chimed in to help. “Doctor, how about this—I’m his family member. I’ll bring him for a full check-up in a few days. For now, could you focus on your other tasks?”

The doctor assumed Bai Jingchuan was terminally ill and shook his head before leaving. The two of them sat on the lit benches, neither speaking. Their hands rested on their laps—one remained still, the other “played the piano,” inching closer as if testing the waters. Jiang Huan finally spoke. “Bai Jingchuan, are you even human?”

[Please conceal your identity.]

“I’m just not very healthy. But isn’t survival possible in many forms?” Bai Jingchuan paused, adding, “You can rest assured.”

The hospital night was exceptionally quiet. In the distance, electric wind turbines on the mountain reminded those present that time was passing, and so was life. He asked Jiang Huan, “Have you always spent New Year’s with Shan Di Meng?”

“Yes, I used to go home and be Mommy’s baby without worry. But after she passed away, my dad struggled with his grief. A year later, he moved, and there were pink slippers and a hairdryer in the house. I stopped going back. He still suffers, unwilling to make calls.”

Bai Jingchuan understood the implications of that unanswered call. “So you’ve always spent New Year’s with Shan Di Meng?”

“Not entirely. Meeting him is his own ritual. I write character settings, draw comics, and design characters. Time flies by.”

“So, does that mean Li Junzhu is the one who spends New Year’s with you?”

“He doesn’t count. He’s not very sentimental.”

“What?” Bai Jingchuan raised an eyebrow.

“He’s the antagonist, obsessed only with being the lone victor. But he’s quite interesting. Do you want to hear about him?”

“Of course. The night is still young.”

“He’s an absolutely rational villain, reserving all his love for the person he likes. He’s perhaps the male lead with the most dramatic change, but he remains largely disinterested in others. For example, he used to lack life energy, hated eating and sleeping, and was only interested in desserts. But during later dates, even if he stayed up all night, he’d still bring me breakfast. We’d play rock-paper-scissors on long staircases—the loser had to stay put. If someone lost ten times, they had to carry the other. He’d never let a girl lose. We often dressed him in white, forcing him to play the role of a kind man.”

…Fascinating. Bai Jingchuan loved hearing Jiang Huan interpret him, gesturing as she described her understanding, wishing she’d say more. “When did his coldness turn into warmth?”

“After meeting someone he liked, he changed quickly. He’s stubborn with words, but essentially a love scammer—fishing, all tricks.”

Bai Jingchuan looked at her in surprise. Jiang Huan stretched lazily, tucking half her face into her clothes. “Maybe I abuse my imagination too much. But if I don’t think about these things, I often feel lonely.”

Her phone screen was still lit. Her fingers caressed it, sliding the icon to reveal the complete face. She switched the screen away and back again, as if it were the most natural habit.

“I have a few videos of my mom celebrating my birthday and recordings of her phone calls, transferred from a tape recorder. The sound is a bit fuzzy. Occasionally, I listen to them or meet her in dreams, but I always cry afterward. She wouldn’t provoke me to see my childish side anymore, scold me for disobedience, cook dishes I disliked, secretly check if I was asleep at night, or spy on whether I bought albums. Now, she’s only gentle, considerate, and the perfect mom who comes home once in a while. Once a loved one leaves, the memories left behind are all good ones, becoming increasingly unreal.” She smiled. “This isn’t my first experience with loss—it’s just that… learning to be alone means saying goodbye to the part of myself that once experienced love. Each time, it takes me a long while to accept that it’s okay to be unloved.”

“You still have me.” Bai Jingchuan blurted out.

But Jiang Huan didn’t seem to fully believe him, softly saying, “I’m a little sleepy. If Wen Li needs me, wake me up, okay?”

“Sleep. I’ll stay by your side.”

“I always seem to fall asleep in front of you. If you were my superior, wouldn’t that be inappropriate?”

“It’s a sign of trust. I’m honored.” Bai Jingchuan ventured, “Think of me as someone close to you.”

“Will you leave me?”

“Absolutely not. And I hope you know that we all genuinely need you as friends. Because we’ve spent more time together, we may even love you more than family. You’re not abandoned or unwanted.”

“And you? Are you the same?”

“Maybe you don’t believe it yet, but—you’re very important to me.”

“Though I used to dislike you, I hope… someone like you, willing to stay by my side, is real.”

Without finishing her sentence, Jiang Huan fell asleep leaning on his shoulder. Bai Jingchuan felt like he was sitting on a dim train. Though Jiang Huan couldn’t fully trust him, she stayed by his side through the alternating day and night. As they journeyed toward the destination, he could gain a little more of her trust with each changing landscape.

If they stayed close enough, they’d eventually see the same scenery. She rested her head on his shoulder, nestling into his embrace. Perhaps at the next station of this long journey, they’d arrive.

He closed his eyes as another mission began.

[Mission 3-1: Enter the trial process again to sanction characters in Wan Shen Zhi Jing who committed crimes.]

The first to enter was a burly man who had committed violence against humans. Bai Jingchuan didn’t ask questions and revoked his game privileges, watching him disappear.

Next came a couple who, upon entering the real world, attempted to deceive others into suicide using a scheme called the “Bluebeard Plan,” spreading it across generations and causing two adult suicides. Bai Jingchuan felt repulsed by their actions, but the shadow of the wife wiped tears endlessly, her expression unseen. Thinking empathetically, he hesitated to pass judgment hastily.

“Why create such an organization?”

“They were pressured too much. Life offered no hope. We merely acted as righteous messengers.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“But she begged us, saying she had no other requests, hoping we’d save him. At least let him feel loved before dying, rather than trading report cards for rewards.”

“Do you have the right to decide this?”

“She was in so much pain. I tried to persuade her. During severe depression, even breathing feels like wanting to die. We’re just tools of goodwill. I’m also a perfectly kind character—I wouldn’t act without empathy…”

Deceptive reasoning. Bai Jingchuan remained unmoved, sentencing them to data destruction and sending them away.

The last figure was a frail-looking girl who stole and attacked others—a serious malicious act.

Remembering Jiang Huan’s interpretation, he tried to appear less harsh. “Why attack others?”

“For my mom. She played Virtual Life because she lost her daughter. She logs in every day to raise me and leaves me messages. When I entered the real world, I saw her being deceived and cheated on by her husband. I couldn’t help but punish him. Punish me if you must, as long as Mom stays happy. I grow fast. If you reincarnate me in a better game, I’ll do my best to find her again.”

“When you enter a new game, will you still recognize her?”

“I asked Mom. She said in the underworld, you drink Meng Po’s soup, but we don’t—we’re just data. Data doesn’t completely forget the past. As long as I remain ‘me,’ I’ll surely find memories one day and return to Mom’s side.”

He chose to let her continue existing as a virtual shadow, upgrading until she got another chance to become human. While humans were judged strictly for harming others, conscious data attacking others was indiscriminately sentenced to deletion, discarded like trash. In Mowu City, he despised rule-breakers, and in Wan Shen Zhi Jing, he continued acting as an arbiter, executing judgments en masse. But he wanted to leave the girl a sliver of hope—not entirely malicious data deserved at least one chance to seek connection.

Emotions should be equal.

After issuing the verdict, the girl looked up, unaware of her fate, smiling. “My mom is a wonderful mom. She’s in this hospital, easy to spot—brown hair, glasses. I’m greedy. Human love is so wonderful—I want to experience it again. Even if you kill me, I’ll find ways to return.”

If coming to the real world was to study emotions, Bai Jingchuan’s first lesson might not have been love but mercy. Recalling his early interception tasks, he once regretted misjudgments but still believed detachment saved trouble. Now, he felt compassion for digital lives tied to humans. If he could give her another chance to connect without harming humans, he’d grant it—emotions consisted of joys and sorrows, and experiencing tears and laughter was a luxury many lives sought.

[Mission 3-1 Complete. +200 Affection Points from Jiang Huan. Level up to Lv56, earning 50,000 coins and obtaining items “God’s Dance” and “Moonlight Emerald.”]

Exiting the mission, Jiang Huan was already asleep beside him. It seemed she was having a bad dream, clutching his arm tightly, wrapping her elbow and wrist around it twice, and finally locking her fingers firmly.

Was she afraid to hold his hand? Bai Jingchuan gently tried to extract his fingers—failed. Then, with his other hand, he lightly stroked her hand, comforting her for a few seconds. Opening his fingers, he attempted to intertwine them with hers. Under the faint hospital light, he noticed how much larger his palm was—her hand fit entirely within his grasp. The protective urge male protagonists felt in the script… it wasn’t fake. Their arms intertwined, hands clasped together like vines, like DNA written into life, like souls eternally inseparable.

He stared for a long time before slowly intertwining their fingers.