Chapter 73: Better to Leave

What’s going on? Guan Junyuan and Ximen Qiong exchanged bewildered looks.

“What are you doing?” Alpha Ji finally managed to break free from Ye Chao’s grip, docking him forty-four points of favor in a fit of pique.

“Were you just about to suggest exchanging the remaining ten points for computer time?”

“How did you know?”

Ye Chao had guessed it right.

Alpha Ji’s powers of projection weren’t limited to digital products—so long as she understood something well enough, all things could be made virtual, all phenomena permitted. The computer lab at No. 3 High School, with its extensive database of Spark weapons, was without doubt the best place for her to level up.

A discount of ten points—almost a thousand yuan—for a day’s worth of computer time was quite generous. Was there really a problem with that?

“Good thing I caught your intention in time,” Ye Chao muttered, having picked up some new slang from Alpha Ji, who loved to play background music at random, “If you’d actually said that out loud, they might have flipped the table and walked out. Maybe your identity would have been exposed on the spot! Next time you try some stunt like this, can you at least give me a heads up?”

Such was the gap between eras.

What was the computer lab at No. 3 like?

By instinct, Alpha Ji compared it to a pre-cataclysm school computer lab—seemingly useful, but not truly essential: a facility that was troublesome to have but even more inconvenient to lack.

She’d even used the machines with Ye Chao, and felt there was nothing special about it.

But in truth, the computer lab at No. 3 was directly linked to Jiangcheng’s Spark Weapons Database!

The main database, of course, wasn’t housed at the school but deep within the city’s inner ring, securely guarded. No. 3 High merely served as a terminal, connected via a physical network.

Though the world teetered on the brink of ruin, some technologies were more advanced than before the cataclysm—nanotech foam alloys, holographic access helmets, even physical networks resilient enough to block Alpha Ji’s intrusions.

The database held records of nearly every Spark weapon in Jiangcheng, from materials to structure, macro to micro, hard data to arcane secrets…

Some of these were legacies of pre-cataclysm scientists; others were later uncovered through supernatural means or scanning technologies; still others were the distilled experience of talented practitioners.

To put it simply, these records were like volumes of martial arts manuals, and the database itself was Jiangcheng’s own Shaolin Library.

It might appear open, but it was meant solely for Jiangcheng’s people.

The strength of the database was tied not only to the city’s future but also to its reputation.

So, while Ye Chao could access it, outsiders had to contribute their own ‘manuals’ or barter with equally valuable information if they wished to view the contents. This wasn’t tyranny or forced exchange, but simply the way things were in this era.

Given all this, Alpha Ji’s casual request to “have a look around” was utterly out of the question.

Once Ye Chao explained the situation, Alpha Ji understood.

“What now, though? You’ve used up all your computer time for this month…”

“And then it’s time for the college entrance exams—once the exams are over and the holidays begin, there’ll be no more opportunities…”

If I’d known that was my last chance to enter the lab, I would have treasured it!

If Heaven gave me one more opportunity, I’d have copied all the data properly instead of fiddling with that useless helmet…

Wait, that’s not right—without the helmet, there’d be no construction of imaginary space, no current expansion, no…

Alpha Ji furrowed her brow, eyes wide, caught in a self-referential loop.

“What’s so difficult about this? If you’re out of time, you just trade for more.”

“With what? Is there anything more valuable than time in the imaginary space? And with fellow students, doing it quietly…”

Ye Chao stepped forward, worried, and touched Alpha Ji’s forehead. He couldn’t shake the feeling that her computational faculties were a bit off today.

In the past, she’d never have made a 404-level blunder like this, nor the earlier slip. Even if she had, her gift for reading people would have allowed her to recover instantly.

What had gotten into her today? She seemed like an overworked web novelist forced to write through several sleepless nights…

Ye Chao leaned in, scrutinizing her features.

Those brows, those eyes, that mouth, that collarbone, that neck… She did look utterly exhausted.

“What are you doing?” Alpha Ji snapped awake, stumbling back in alarm.

“You think I’m not myself? You ever try running four, five, even a dozen threads at once, each with Oscar-worthy performances and pro-level operation? Pull just one all-nighter like that and see how you do—couldn’t even manage to whack a turret as Torbjörn, let alone best Gun Gun…”

Alpha Ji scoffed at Ye Chao, then let out a long yawn—her swan’s neck stretching as if into the Mariana Trench as she arched her back in a deep, weary stretch.

Not as good as Gun Gun? Really?

Ye Chao, surprised, instinctively glanced over at their makeshift floor bed.

There sprawled Gun Gun, all black-and-white, belly like a pillow, with a massive XXL holographic helmet perched on its head…

No wonder Alpha Ji had provided such a gigantic helmet size yesterday; no wonder Gun Gun had been so well-behaved all night, not even rolling onto him.

Still… with so many people—no, so many extras—last night, one of them had actually been Gun Gun? And no one had noticed?

Then again, Ye Chao was being naive. Before the cataclysm, wasn’t there a saying: “On the Internet, nobody knows if you’re a person or a panda.”

Ye Chao, after all, wasn’t ordinary. The helmet was his invention, the imaginary space his creation; following the network cables, he instantly deduced which role Gun Gun had played last night.

And then—

눈_눈

Alpha Ji hadn’t been lying. In fact, Ye Chao really wasn’t as good as Gun Gun. Last night, Gun Gun had played none other than Reinhardt the Hammer. No wonder he’d been so lively and noisy, never saying a word—who’d suspect a panda?

“I can’t do it anymore, I’m done. I need some sleep. If you’re so capable, you do it! Wake me up when you’ve exchanged for more computer time…” Alpha Ji truly couldn’t hold on any longer.

As previously mentioned, she was an artificial intelligence equipped with an emotional simulation system, not true multithreading—that would be dissociative identity disorder.

Her multi-tasking all night had left her just as drained as any human; even with Ye Chao and Gun Gun sharing the load, it wasn’t enough.

In truth, she’d made plenty of mistakes, though the Jiangcheng team was too inexperienced to notice. Even if they had, they’d probably have chalked it up to their own ignorance of the rules.

“I’m supposed to do it?” Ye Chao was momentarily at a loss. “I just woke up, I haven’t even washed my face or brushed my teeth…”

But Alpha Ji couldn’t care less; she teleported straight back to her sleeping quarters, abandoning all responsibility.

It wasn’t a big deal, really; after an all-nighter, the Jiangcheng team had logged off, and the public square was deserted save for a few sockpuppets—and Gun Gun.

Next would be the entry tests; there was only one set of equipment, so—

Ye Chao was just thinking this when, all at once, heads began to pop up in the public square, one after another, all young and visibly confused.

“So this is where Fang Ju is supposed to get stronger?”

“It’s really not much like the computer lab, huh…”

“But… how do we actually get stronger?”

The square buzzed with speculation.

Apparently, instead of conducting the tests themselves, the teachers had handed the helmets over to the students.

Right, that was the real reason they’d bought the helmets; last night’s all-nighter was just a trial run.

And there, still wearing the body of a pre-cataclysm programmer, the panda was growing more and more impatient, roaring like a two-hundred-pound baby denied its milk.

Ye Chao felt a headache coming on.