Chapter 62: Even If You Must Shed Tears for Me, They Should Hold a Different Meaning

Upon re-entering Mowu City, Bai Jingchuan was no longer pursued. Without an identity or the superiority brought by a 4.90 rating, the map gradually revealed itself in four directions. Adjacent to the snow-capped mountains, new mining terrains emerged—azure, boiling lakes lapping at the shore with frothy white edges; barren trees stood amidst thick smoke. Mowu City had its own Silent Hill. Several game projects would not go online, and the characters and territories available in Ten Thousand Realms continued to expand.

Bai Jingchuan teleported to the slums to gather clues. Despite its dilapidation, the slums boasted a clear sky. Women danced in the square, while children chased cats and dogs along narrow paths—a place brimming with emotion. As an executor, Li Bode had understood that many here exchanged ratings for survival essentials, often facing data erasure—essentially death. This was territory he’d avoided in the past, despite his undefeated arena record, as hostility toward rule-makers ran high in the slums. Now a commoner, a nobody in distress within Mowu City, it took little effort to locate someone of leadership status.

In the bustling slum district, he purchased a record and entered the central square bar, playing it on the phonograph. Unsurprisingly, the burly owner soon appeared, pushing over a glass of strong liquor after sizing him up: “Speak quickly.”

“Have you heard of the Time Observers?”

The burly man squinted.

“There’s someone I deeply care about who repeatedly faces danger. It seems her fate is intertwined with death. The Time Observer gave me information, directing me here for answers.”

“We don’t have what you seek. In Mowu City, those with high ratings are relatively safe. For people like us, repeated danger doesn’t exist—we simply die quickly.”

Bai Jingchuan stared directly at the burly man, exuding silent pressure. After prolonged silence, the man spoke: “The magnetic storm will arrive soon. What I’ve learned is that, at the peak of its energy, all electronic lives in Mowu City will migrate to a new planet. Perhaps this relates to your question.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those of us with low ratings know we’re electronic beings, flawed by design, incapable of achieving high scores. Your lack of identity is impossible in Mowu City. Perhaps you hail from a higher dimension; otherwise, why inquire about altering another’s expiration? The ‘alteration’ you seek might occur during the magnetic storm’s peak, when life trajectories can shift.”

“How exactly?”

“We’re created electronic lives, so those connected to you must relate to your origin.” The burly man emphasized the word origin as he tapped the table.

“Hmm.” Bai Jingchuan hadn’t expected such wisdom in the slums.

“To change her trajectory, perhaps something about you has shifted, influencing her decisions and altering her life arc. My explanation may seem abstract, but the magnetic storm will cause dimensional chaos. At the energy’s zenith, planetary orbits shift, biological patterns change, and destinies may deviate. You’re interconnected; otherwise, you wouldn’t have the opportunity to ascend to higher dimensions.”

The wind blew open the bar door, revealing a dusty clearing in front of the square and distant storm clouds. Neither spoke. Bai Jingchuan hadn’t anticipated an answer, yet felt enlightened—it seemed the burly man already knew who he was.

Despite harsh living conditions, residents remained optimistic. Though clad in tattered clothes, they sang and danced. Bai Jingchuan asked if they knew their fates.

“Yes. But we live for the moment. Do you know the Wish Hotel? We once tried exchanging there, but ratings are immutable. In the slums, we control some rules, doing our best to help our kin survive. If the magnetic storm occurs, we hope to reach the new planet—just surviving is enough. We possess more vitality than those with high ratings.”

“I admire you.”

“Thank you. You’re more humane than expected. Perhaps the higher-dimensional world changed you. It seems the person you care about taught you the meaning of emotions.”

At that moment, Bai Jingchuan felt compassion. He knew where the button was—in a concealed room of the gray building, beside Jiang Huan’s photo and a light-avoiding monitor. He’d glimpsed the device before but ignored it. Perhaps this was an opportunity.

He infiltrated the gray structure again, entering the hidden room. The screen displayed applications from low-rated individuals seeking score changes, lists of abandoned games, and newcomers arriving in Mowu City. Some entries were codenames—he recognized familiar names and photos. The red clothing and bold demeanor were unmistakable.

The button lay before him. Amidst current magnetic field disruptions, he thought of those around 4.0, unable to rise, sacrificed earliest in disasters. Yet, they were more vibrant and resilient than privileged data, barred from the Wish Hotel and future migration plans.

Originally discarded data, strictly controlled by rules for entering the real world, he now faced news of a loved one’s impending death. To obtain emotional energy, let the most emotionally rich lives participate.

He pressed the quota-opening button. Like a camera’s rapid shutter, holding it for ten seconds triggered hundreds of clicks. Names flashed before him, including familiar faces.

During this brief opening, only those with a strong desire to reach the real world could cross dimensional boundaries—not truly random. With time before the magnetic storm, he wished them well in the real world.

After returning to reality, Bai Jingchuan visited the company, checking which game project featured the unique terrain. That project was indeed undergoing testing recently, confirming it wouldn’t go online. The special magnetic storm arrived, initiating Ten Thousand Realms’ migration plan. Awaiting a larger magnetic storm, they’d undergo significant data migration.

As a mature human body, even illness didn’t require hospital treatment. With complete emotions, electronic data could undertake large migrations and live as humans. For a moment, he even considered—if Mowu City were sufficiently developed, Jiang Huan living on the new planet wouldn’t be bad.

But Mowu City lacked humanity. Experiencing real life revealed that emotions fundamentally distinguish humans from artificial intelligence.

A new mission appeared on the interface:

Main Quest 3-5: Make her shed tears for you involuntarily! Time limit: 48 hours. Reward: additional self-selectable bonus.

Bai Jingchuan frowned—shedding tears for him? Unnecessary; such quests were overly sentimental.

Jiang Huan texted: “Had a nightmare, can’t sleep.”

“Do you want me to appear at your place?”

“I almost forgot you have that ability.”

Teleporting consumed energy, but seeing Jiang Huan would lift his spirits. Wearing cartoon-patterned pajamas, she walked into the living room and nestled into his arms: “Though I’m glad you’re here, don’t think about sleeping in my bed.”

“How heartless. Weren’t you—”

Eyes wide, Jiang Huan covered his mouth: “Don’t say another word!”

At that moment, Bai Jingchuan noticed eyes beneath the carpet near the table—a small nightlight with two low-power bulbs. The carpet seemed to liquefy slightly, eyes watching them timidly yet tenderly. Bai Jingchuan spun Jiang Huan around a few times: “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight; I’m not tired. Can you lend me two books?”

“You won’t sleep with me?”

“Sorry.”

Jiang Huan didn’t insist. Beside the table were Foucault and Borges—essential reads for Li Junzhu. Imagining him reading while staring at the carpet until dawn, she peeked out from the bedroom, cheeks flushed: “I have pajamas. Want to wear them?”

“Hmm?”

She handed him a clean set of navy-blue pajamas, sized for 184 cm, perfectly fitting even shoulder width. Still teasing, she remarked: “Not bought for you—I hung them on the balcony to pretend I had a boyfriend. Very useful. There are also underwear and socks, washed and hung. I’ll switch them out later…”

“A few days ago, the clothes in my blanket were teleported from my house. Do you think I believe that?”

Blushing, Jiang Huan retreated into the bedroom, poking her head out: “Careful, or I’ll sneak a peek at you showering.”

He’d already seen everything.

After bathing, Bai Jingchuan found Jiang Huan absent. A lamp remained lit in the living room, the bedroom dark with no light seeping through the door—she’d already fallen asleep. Quietly sitting on the couch, he barely flipped a few pages before Jiang Huan emerged, clutching a blanket, lying directly on the risky carpet: “I had a nightmare, can’t sleep anymore.”

The carpet’s edge melted like liquid again, eyes watching him once more. Bai Jingchuan guessed this unformed entity might be a soul following from Mowu City—timid yet sensing Jiang Huan’s nightmare. Unaware, Jiang Huan clutched the blanket tighter: “After a nightmare, you shouldn’t fall back asleep immediately, or you’ll dream again.”

“Does dreaming of Mom count as a nightmare?”

Jiang Huan didn’t respond, burying herself in the blanket, leaving only her eyes visible. The eyes beside the carpet hesitated, ready to act. Bai Jingchuan turned her to face him—the dim light suited confessions.

[Jiang Huan’s affection for you +100.]

“When I was sick or had nightmares, I used to message Mom. Now, I can’t recall what she’d say. Dreaming of Mom isn’t a nightmare, but I dreamed of the house I was born in—the old third-floor home. The last flight of stairs was gone, and I couldn’t climb up. When I finally pulled myself up with a rope, the house was messy, long uninhabited, yet I could still smell Mom. Diapers were in the cabinet. She was ill for a long time, but Dad prided himself on hiding it from me to avoid burdening me, delaying treatment until her death. It was just intestinal obstruction—surgery in a big city years earlier would’ve prevented deterioration. Afterward, I often wondered: how could I complain about being sick when I didn’t know what she endured? When she vomited bile in the hospital, what did she think? She lied about accompanying Grandma during calls, concealing her suffering.”

Jiang Huan smiled: “If she were alive, she’d push me to marry, believing marrying Dad made her happy. But that naive happiness led to her death. Perhaps I wouldn’t be as free as I am now. Happiness gives wings, but they aren’t used for flying.”

“Dad… Doesn’t sound like a bad person.”

“Just cowardly, consoling himself with superstition. I can’t understand his version of love. If he truly loved Mom, why did he alleviate pain by distancing himself and finding another partner?”

Bai Jingchuan remained silent, trying to comprehend the emotions. Jiang Huan pulled out her phone from the book pages: “This is Mom’s phone. Dad left it with me, saying it hurt too much. But I think his new girlfriend disliked having Mom’s things around.”

“There must be many conversations between you and Mom inside.”

“Yes, initially just texts. She collected many of my emojis, later sending voice messages to joke around.” Jiang Huan opened one—her mother’s voice nearly identical to hers, aged slightly: “I bought the underwear and socks you wanted, shipping them together. My taste is great—I picked carefully at a small shop; you’ll love them.”

Jiang Huan laughed: “There wasn’t much she could help with. Underwear and socks weren’t expensive, but I always found ways to involve her in my life.”

“She must’ve been happy.”

“Yes, every time I returned, she’d buy me candied haws, wanting to see me squeal—they were too hard to bite at minus 20 degrees Celsius…”

Jiang Huan fell asleep, wrapped in the blanket, cheek resting against its corner. Her steady breathing soon followed, a tear sliding down her eye, disappearing quickly. Bai Jingchuan flipped the book; the shifting eyes on the carpet greeted him—touching, as if waiting for discovery… Friendly.

He recalled the intentionally harmful girl judged in a side quest, who sought her “Mom” even as fragments. Was Jiang Huan’s mom searching for her daughter in another way?

Carrying her to the couch, Bai Jingchuan sat on the floor with a book, tracing her cheeks with his gaze. Once someone experiences profound sorrow, their temperament halts at that age, aging afterward.

To the “eyes” beside the carpet, he asked: Aren’t you afraid I’ll judge you?

“I have the right to experience Mowu City, though not yet formed, not yet human, only eyes. But I see dreams. She misses her mom, so I came.”

“You’re also a mother.”

“Yes.”

“Would you help me? In exchange, I can apply for you to become human faster.”

In the darkness, Bai Jingchuan extended his pinky, making a deal with the nightlight.

The next day at the company, Jiang Huan envied Wen Li’s latest collaboration brand announcement on social media, gritting her teeth. A woman seemingly on the verge of collapse, drinking herself into oblivion, possessed the strongest execution. More young designers collaborated under her, becoming a benchmark for designer PR packaging. This fueled Jiang Huan’s ambition, typing furiously—nothing spurred determination like peers’ success!

The third male lead’s voice actor entered the studio. Contrary to expectations of a youthful, gentle voice, it was crisp, bold, exuding mature masculinity. Initially nostalgic for the mute male lead, hearing the voice excited the production team. Dou Dou slammed the office table: “This contrast—who understands? Manly yet straightforward, not frail, but after success, gentleness belongs solely to you. Isn’t that irresistibly tempting?”

Indeed. Bai Jingchuan and the director remained in the recording booth. Remembering discussions about voices, he waited tenderly for her to mention it—gentleness exclusively for her post-conquest.

“Did you know? Teacher Bai is so romantic. Before selecting the voice actor, he said emotional voices are cosmic waves from cherished people—even silent, eyes convey everything first. So romantic! Jiang Huan, reconsider using Teacher Bai as the male prototype for the next map?”

“Small-minded straight men won’t succeed.”

Jiang Huan knew his tenderness and strength, remembering every mischievous action. Just thinking about it made her blush. But these were secrets known only to her—writing them down was impossible.

Approaching the end of work hours, Bai Jingchuan messaged: “When free, come to the recording studio to hear the male lead’s voice.”

Unconcerned, she went as usual. Secret Base’s Bai Jingchuan waved, signaling her to wear headphones. Detecting no oddities, the earpiece transmitted—her mother’s voice.

“Here? I’ve waited so long.”

Jiang Huan’s eyes widened in disbelief—it was unmistakably her childhood mother’s voice. Her mother teased her greediness: “How old are you, still drinking two bottles of banana milk? No wonder your teeth rot.”

Time reversed, crackling like an old phonograph. The voice aged slightly, sensitive Jiang Huan detecting subtle differences, even the prolonged “Hello” akin to a hotline connection.

Yes, it was Mom—protective and impatient. If voices queued, she’d likely rush to dial.

“Mom hasn’t seen you in three years. I’ve been sick for a long time, unable to tell you, not wanting to worry you. I hinted many times about seeing you married, normal dating, hoping you’d find someone dependable. Unable to see you now, I often recall your childhood—perhaps fewer opportunities after eighteen. You’d steal cookies, eating them in bed, fearing I’d find out. But cookies were only for oral ulcers; regular meals were simple, disliking them was normal. Reflecting, not supplementing nutrition yet giving cookies damaged your teeth. In third grade, relatives bought you a white dress, which I exchanged for a pink knee-length skirt. You cried for hours—it wasn’t practical, too formal, and your tan made you look like a mole, not pretty…

“But after leaving, I realized dresses aren’t ugly if they make you black—they’re beautiful because of your smile. Sorry, Mom didn’t understand that while alive. Not being there, breaking our family—I’m sorry. Even as cosmic waves in the universe, I sense your growth. Sorry for missing your later life—I’m not educated, but having you is wonderful; I don’t regret it. Become whoever you wish. Stop dying your hair yellow—be happier, don’t mourn me. I’m fine. My daughter’s so beautiful—let me see a prettier hair color once more, even if I can’t touch it.”

No loud crying, no tears falling. Jiang Huan’s calm nature wouldn’t collapse from a voice, nor sob uncontrollably. After listening entirely, Bai Jingchuan entered; her voice trembled: “You did this specially for me?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know she was like this?”

“I hired help. Emotions I couldn’t grasp, I entrusted to her. Voice sampling wasn’t difficult; I learned from the voice director, then adjusted endlessly—an interesting process.” Bai Jingchuan patted Jiang Huan’s shoulder: “I won’t disturb you two. I’ll leave. I selected infinite looping audio; exit whenever you’ve heard enough.”

“Bai Jingchuan!”

Turning back, tears still on her face, Jiang Huan said: “Thank you.”

[Main Quest 3-5 completed. Level increased to Lv 71. Gold coins earned: 50,000. Additional self-selectable reward issued.]

[Jiang Huan’s affection for you +2000.]

Exiting, Bai Jingchuan left the door ajar, seeing Jiang Huan’s shadow through the crack from the office. Though seemingly infinite looping, the audio didn’t repeat—it comprised memories of Jiang Huan’s mother from numerous dates. Rather than making a girl cry for him, he preferred tears with meaning. He suddenly understood the significance of Project 2028: the pain of departed loved ones unresolved, fading with time is regrettable. If virtual souls provided solace, it was better than sleepless nights forcing oneself to forget.

“Never expected this from you, Bai Jingchuan. Thought you couldn’t handle her, but you put thought into it.”

Was… Eros?

A blue die floated above his head. Overwhelmed, Bai Jingchuan resisted grabbing it. Eros circled: “Miss me?”

Bai Jingchuan didn’t respond. The die impatiently bumped his shoulder: “You didn’t miss me after all this time? I didn’t hide as a prank. Unauthorized permissions got me demoted—I couldn’t return. You’re unfeeling, ignoring people, yet you sought the bar owner in the slums. He helped a bit.”

Arms crossed, Bai Jingchuan chuckled softly: “For the first time, I realize small kindnesses can open doors for your return.”

Despite dangers, the freedom and inclusivity of a fully open-world game like Ten Thousand Realms lay in reciprocity—invest kindness, receive kindness; task triggers related to participants’ intentions. Feeling gratitude, unsure how to express it, he opened the “Treasure Chest” interface for Eros: “Pick something you like.”

“No dismissing me.” The die couldn’t resist, bursting into tears: “Li Bode, I missed you so much!”