Chapter 80: The Most Expensive Equipment in the Game is the Friend Who Experienced It with You

The file Shan Di Meng sent over left Jiang Huan thoroughly unprepared, despite her best efforts. She still hadn’t fully accepted that Bai Jingchuan was a synthetic being—until she saw the footage recorded in his pupils. Out of fewer than a hundred videos, most featured her.

It was impossible not to feel afraid—she never expected Shan Di Meng to be so selfless, nor did she anticipate the sheer scale of the artificial intelligence organization behind his collective consciousness. Though humans feared AI, it was difficult to predict just how much potential lay hidden behind those two letters—”AI.”

Jiang Huan wasn’t in the habit of taking photos, so seeing herself from a first-person camera perspective didn’t make her particularly awkward. Instead, it felt like watching a color-graded documentary—different from the usual online videos, this footage authentically captured moments worthy of a cinematic experience. Bai Jingchuan was a competent director; the scenes and angles he chose were unexpected and different from Jiang Huan’s original perception. From an overhead view, she always appeared small and well-behaved, but there was no sense of being stared at—more like being observed or even admired. He had noticed her following him long ago at the planetarium, deliberately lingering in various exhibition halls while maintaining distance, yet somehow gazing at her across the galaxy. Pretending to be injured by a stray cat, he would turn back repeatedly with a “tsk tsk” sound as if to remedy the situation. During work, he held his ground in debates, his eyes betraying sarcasm when detecting manipulation or suppression. His clean and efficient movements while whipping cream, stirring it into the oven, sprinkling sugar, and expertly caramelizing the surface were mesmerizing. In one clip, light from a glowing music box fell on her face, illuminating her freckles and brown eye lines. Aware of being watched, she radiated curiosity… These weren’t typical idol-drama love scenes but rather small stories that made her shine uniquely—a portrayal she never would’ve used for herself.

The most unforgettable moment was on the carousel. From a first-person perspective, his face rested gently against her hand while her other hand recorded the scene. Her eyes overflowed with genuine happiness, her face glowing softly with joy. She pulled out her phone to compare her own recording—sure enough, Bai Jingchuan’s smile was equally captivating, his slightly upturned lips irresistibly charming, completely unlike the unresponsive man from days before. As she watched until the end, tears unknowingly rolled down her cheeks.

The flipped lens captured her nervousness as she kissed Bai Jingchuan and his surprised reaction. Fireworks lit up the sky, their pink-purple glow illuminating both their faces.

It turned out that mutual pursuit began at that very moment.

If this were a movie about unrequited love, every frame would be a perfect confession. The director’s name should be framed, making these fragments all the more poignant—a farewell masterpiece. Jiang Huan didn’t cry, but waves of sadness washed over her heart. Leaning against the couch, she replayed all the stories repeatedly until dawn broke without snapping out of it.

He also recorded clips unrelated to Jiang Huan—few, but carefully selected, as if fearful of occupying storage space. Akira looked entirely different when focused compared to when slacking off; the planner liked biting straws into mush. There was also a colleague giving him gifts at a restaurant, a solitary business trip uphill through a city resembling mountains, roadside stalls selling stir-fried goods amidst smoke, friends gathered around using chopsticks to pry open beer bottles, speaking quickly in dialects, a little boy mimicking a man’s speech while picking mud off a plastic stool, and a woman in formal attire cradling a bowl of cold jelly, putting down her phone, and zoning out…

On the night of the aurora, he and Elder Fu stood outside chatting, occasionally switching perspectives as they waited for the aurora to appear. Elder Fu was thin, dressed lightly in the snow. Amidst the vast expanse of thick snow and pitch-black sky, his white hair became part of the monumental landscape. Without the aurora or the anticipated joy, loneliness and desolation were frozen in time. Midway through the recording, there was silence, leaving only philosophical dialogue between Bai Jingchuan and Elder Fu.

“To excel in your position, you must stand out. But wanting to merge Love Continent into my future community carries a sense of abandonment—it’s regrettable.”

“I need to take responsibility for my subordinates.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m fine with anything. After finishing this, I’ll temporarily have no goals.”

“Do you have any wishes?”

Bai Jingchuan paused, seemingly deep in thought.

“I hope I can form a real connection with a place. She loves snow, so I yearn for snowy places. I imagine leaning by the window as an infant, watching frost patterns form, snow falling on the windowsill, and rooftops gradually blanketed in white. I want such a connection—I might grasp meanings hard to understand, like what Zen means, why people believe in religion, and why even brief stays on Earth cause such emotional shifts.”

“Do you envy real humans?”

“Yes. Even if I may possess greater abilities, I crave solidly entering life and truly connecting with people. Unfortunately, as long as we aren’t truly human, we’ll always face ethical and emotional harm. For beings required to empathize, that’s a kind of injury.”

Jiang Huan was somewhat surprised—Elder Fu knew Bai Jingchuan’s true identity… So how much did he know about their team’s relocation to 2028?

She felt both astonished and suspicious, silently admiring Bai Jingchuan’s meticulous preparations. As the camera angle shifted, her figure appeared at the edge of the snowy village, walking forward with determination, showing no sign of fatigue. Aurora-like curtains unfolded in the sky above the village, reminding her that finding someone to protect was a mission. The loneliness endured along the way might all be for witnessing romance unseen by most.

Lonely Elder Fu didn’t appear in the aurora footage. Perhaps he never witnessed the miracle, or maybe he saw it but wasn’t part of their story.

Watching the film to this point, Jiang Huan’s throat tightened, but she didn’t sob uncontrollably, remaining calm throughout. The oppressive feeling in her chest lingered, and she stood at the window, watching the slowly flowing night. She felt like she was on a lonely new planet. This strange sensation had never been so intense, causing her to drift off into reverie. She imagined herself as a woman transmitted by her scientist lover via data, reborn on a new planet identical to her original city. Tens of thousands of others came with her, starting new lives, except for the research institute and her beloved lover who stayed behind on Earth to stabilize operations. With Earth nearly destroyed, voice messages transmitted were fragmented, requiring decoding at the communications bureau. Though life in the new city should’ve proceeded routinely, she struggled to adjust to life without her lover. Everyone moved forward—some became more outgoing, while others developed PTSD after data migration, needing psychological support. Most families remained intact, reunited safely, but she carried the void left by her special lover. In a city similar to the old one, she searched for traces of the past—the shops where her lover lingered, the rooftop terraces he overlooked, familiar vinyl records picked up in record stores, snowballs thrown into his collar during snowy days… Walking alone through streets they once traversed together felt like completing a bittersweet treasure hunt. Collecting ten items granted ten doses of sorrow; hidden treasures revealed deeper love. If all tasks were completed, congratulations—you realized that since your lover had departed, what remained was limited, leaving only faded memories to chew on repeatedly until forgotten…

The dull pain was slow, but she found solace in nurturing this idea. In the silence, she quietly jotted down notes on her computer, instinctively documenting her thoughts. Though she hadn’t yet thought of a suitable title, it was enough raw material for her to refine into an independent work in the future.

Waking to sunlight, Jiang Huan’s head throbbed, unsure whether reality or virtual dreams blurred together. Yet, she understood that people from different dimensions arriving in her life inevitably faced separation someday. Using other ways to preserve these memories became her mission after brushing shoulders with a lover from another dimension.

In the new job within the 2028 project group, phones could use AR cameras to take pictures with lovers, even switching to first-person views for selfies. The 2028 project allowed creating unique characters, scanning photos of deceased loved ones for companionship, and continuously training AI models to converse with players. Each feature was tempting, and though not yet launched, the top 100 UID holders tested the app in daily life. In her free time, Jiang Huan took her phone shopping, browsing second-hand anime goods, bringing dolls for afternoon tea, visiting parks to see irises blooming, and capturing Bai Jingchuan alongside beautiful scenery with the AR camera, storing them in a dedicated album.

Jiang Huan grew accustomed to the healthy wheat-colored skin of joggers along the riverside, starkly contrasting her pale complexion from endless nights in the office. On the boardwalk, people walked dogs, laid picnic cloths as sunsets transitioned to evening, donned coats waiting for children to finish playing, and returned home. A street performer arrived with a saxophone case, leaning against the bridge railing to play Utada Hikaru’s First Love.

Everyone built new lives. Scrolling to the bottom of her phone contacts, she found no one to talk to. Family members were the least communicative, and colleagues weren’t confidants—everyone was overwhelmed. The “Fight Bai Mao Till the End” group consisted of four members: Akira, two lead planners, and the spirited Elder Fu, whose gray hair belied his relentless drive. Fighting for his late daughter, his will crushed any opposition harming the project.

The river breeze blew as Jiang Huan watched two young girls flipping through card albums nearby, perhaps chasing idols or collecting offline game guides—just like her once-obsessed self. They excitedly squealed: “I bundled a ton of unrelated items just to get this card, even adding an air fryer! Can you believe it? But the packaging was beautiful, and seeing the card fulfilled me. Now I just need the unreleased ones—I wish I had more money…”

They looked so happy, their faces brighter than the sunset, seemingly out of place in this scene. For a moment, Jiang Huan considered shattering their dream—idol groups disband upon contract expiration, games cease operation at their end, and life offers nothing reliable. Once hearts seek attachment, time eventually reclaims them—leaving emptiness after the noise fades.

How could she ruin this moment? She longed to return to simpler days, rejoicing over tiny pieces of paper, imagining embraces and kisses archived as cherished memories, heartfelt arguments with Xu Junzhu during dates… Because they vanished, she struggled to believe they existed. Once, she mistook the wind for his greeting; now, memories slipped away like sand blown from her palm.

She slowly accepted these sorrows, knowing that forgetting marked true progress. But what left her most helpless was… removing the VR headset to meet Bai Jingchuan’s gaze, the sudden surge of emotions overwhelming her. Despite despising Producer Bai Jingchuan, scheming ways to transfer to another production team, every immersive moment in the game when enveloped in his familiar embrace made her sink involuntarily.

Secretly searching for the names mentioned by the two girls, she confirmed their handsomeness—youthful figures spilling off screens, worthy spiritual guides even. Data-driven love disappeared with its carrier, leaving fewer traces proving existence. Real-life interactions, mere physical contact, were remembered faster due to tangible sensations. Thus signings, offline meetings, concerts, and shining moments in private life were all worthwhile.

Without a lover, life steadily approached aging. Heartbeats rarely quickened, muscles trained by routine salaries, unnoticed solitude, and bland urban living flattened her, carrying the scent of compromise. She hadn’t noticed these feelings until young girls reminded her achingly.

The saxophone continued, switching to the classic Going Home. She recalled the girl playing saxophone alone atop a mall roof during a birthday celebration with Bai Jingchuan. That character hadn’t released new content in a while—perhaps these melodies carried her memories, now becoming Jiang Huan’s.

Should she create something from these inspirations? Could she do it…

Suddenly, someone plopped down beside her, leaning heavily—Wen Li. Jiang Huan was surprised: “How did you know I was here?”

“You sent me your location an hour ago. I guessed you hadn’t left yet.”

Wen Li smelled of perfume, still job-hunting, requiring full makeup and distinctive outfits. Her worn-out shoes caught Jiang Huan’s eye as Wen Li rubbed them forcefully, though scratches couldn’t be erased. Breaking the saxophone’s ambiance, she said: “Must’ve been careless running stairs today. Competition gets outsourced, but I can still fight. Those youngsters lack experience and laziness—they won’t beat me.”

“You should move out of the parking garage. The damp smell isn’t good.”

“Don’t expose me.” Wen Li sniffed her sleeve: “I can’t tell. Old neighborhoods are all the same—no sunlight makes neighbors dirtier, eczema inevitable. But I’ve learned treatments. Spring outbreaks require iodine, then ointment from Huashan Hospital, band-aids applied, healing within two weeks.”

“Struggling financially for housing? I can lend you some money.”

“No need. I’ve decided it’s unnecessary.” Wen Li sighed deeply: “You can look down on me—I’m used to hardship. Pampering myself isn’t necessary. My lazy mom likes mahjong; I save for her. Not seeing her often is a blessing.”

“Mm.”

“I never expected us to become friends.”

“Neither did I.” Jiang Huan teased: “You successfully reported Love Continent, which disappeared.”

“I apologize!” Wen Li surrendered with raised hands, purple-blue mist blending with the night behind her: “But it vanished without a trace, as if it never existed.”

The saxophone solo continued uninterrupted, oblivious to listeners lingering in the corner past sunset. Wen Li squeezed Jiang Huan’s palm: “We’re probably both dreamers, constantly depriving ourselves to keep dreaming. Even if I have nothing, nearing thirty still job-hunting, managing a fan account with triple-digit followers without giving up—WL Press succeeded once, disappeared, but will surely return. I can do it; I have backup.”

Jiang Huan smiled: “Then Duanmu Xuan definitely didn’t come in vain.”

“Of course!” Wen Li wiped her eyes: “You don’t know what I’ve been through. He was incredible—I’ve seen the best form of love, no exaggeration.”

“Mm, I wrote it—I wouldn’t settle for less.”

“Let’s try one last time, Jiang Huan. At least dream one final dream. Don’t give up. Set a goal—to be better next year than now. How’s that sound?”

Jiang Huan suddenly remembered what Shan Di Meng once said: The most expensive equipment in the game is the friend who experienced it with you. Though not teammates holding controllers together, complaining side by side, she seemed to understand its new meaning in this moment.

As night fell, she knocked on the Soul Chamber door. Shan Di Meng didn’t expect her visit: “You’re looking for me?”

“Teach me how to create scenes—I want to make an indie game.”

“…Alright.” Shan Di Meng put on his sunglasses, turning away casually before glancing back at Jiang Huan: “What genre? Let me think about how to teach you.”

“Shan Di Meng, it’s dark already, and the lights are barely ten watts. Why wear sunglasses?”

“It’s a secret.”

“I’m serious this time—not joking.”

“Of course.” Shan Di Meng smiled behind his sunglasses, raising his head: “Anytime, I’d gladly be your advisor.”

Jiang Huan didn’t expect this advisor role to last three years.