Pretend to be crazy

Towering skyscrapers reached into the clouds, with hover cars speeding past in all directions. Beneath the red and blue neon lights, the city pulsed with chaotic prosperity. Rain draped the entire city in a misty shroud.

Seventh District, Eden No. 9, inside a grand estate.

After taking a shower, Blaze let his pale golden hair fall loosely around him. Droplets of water that hadn’t been properly dried soaked into his deep green bathrobe.

But that was the least of his concerns at the moment.

The room remained unlit, save for the glow of several monitors arranged across an entire wall.

Only three of them were on.

He pulled one screen closer to himself, the chat window reflecting in his emerald-green eyes.

This was his site. He had the highest level of access. Not only could he easily obtain the other party’s IP address, but he also knew what it meant when their status showed “typing…”

Plum Blossom Six was always brief and professional in his reports.
Diamond Five liked to ramble, often complaining about company policies in the chat before deleting everything.
Tiger disliked typing altogether, preferring to use voice input before editing his messages meticulously.

And now, across the network, a complete outsider—someone who had no ties to this site and had no clue about Blaze’s true identity or status—was audaciously saying:

[User0982]: While you’re at it, throw in two villas in Central District of Zone One, deposit ten grand into my account, and get me a kitten.

Blaze found it ridiculous.

Was this guy serious?

If not, why was he joking around with him?

His bold attitude made Blaze wonder if they had crossed paths before.

No—on the contrary, it was precisely because they had never met that this guy dared to be so brazen.

After a brief daze, another thought occurred to him—had he forgotten to turn on the site’s security filters? Was that how this so-called “computer illiterate” managed to waltz in?

He checked the backend. The sixteen-digit password hadn’t been cracked.

The other party was in the slums of the Thirteenth District, the poorest of the poor, using a government-subsidized Double Eagle X776, a device phased out over fifty years ago—one so slow it could barely run games.

There was no way someone with such outdated equipment could have hacked his system unnoticed.

[Blaze]: How did you do it?

Shen Yan paused the stripper video, replying while continuing to skim his book.

[User0982]: My boss taught me. He sent me to find you.

[Blaze]: Who?

[Little fire juice]: Never mind that. Look at my new username—what do you think?

Silence from the other side.

[Little Fire Juice]: ExtremeShadow phones are hard to get lately. No Lightning Purple left, but Midnight Black will do. Of course, if you’re feeling generous, you can send me a laptop instead. I’m not picky—anything works.

[Blaze]: Greedy.

[Little fire juice]: sobs QAQQQ

[Little fire juice]: I’m studying right now. It’s so hard. Can I ask you questions if I get stuck?

[Blaze]: No.

[love Blaze]: What about now?

[Blaze]: What makes you think that just changing your username will make me help you?

[very love Blaze]: It’s really difficult. If you don’t teach me, I might stay clueless forever.

[Blaze]: …

[Blaze]: You don’t need me.

Shen Yan chuckled.

He was naturally quick-witted and learned fast, but honestly, for someone with barely any prior computer experience, absorbing all this information in a short time was nearly impossible.

Especially in this cyberpunk world, where everything had to be learned from scratch.

He was only skimming the book so quickly to create an illusion—so that the currently still-“honest” Blaze would mistake him for a genius hacker.

It would be useful to befriend him now, making it easier to maintain his disguise later.

[Epic love Blaze]: You can monitor my screen, right?

[Epic love Blaze]: Watch this.

Shen Yan pulled up the editor and ran a script he had prepared in advance. A flurry of letters, symbols, and numbers scrolled rapidly. The ancient computer’s CPU temperature skyrocketed.

After a series of calculations, a green error message popped up.

The device was riddled with viruses. The warning flickered twice before vanishing, and the stalled program jerked back to life in a laggy crawl.

A tiny pixelated Blaze suddenly appeared in the bottom-right corner of the screen.

Amidst the digital storm, the Blaze grew, unfolding into a chat box.

[A pile of worthless junk programs and ancient viruses—this is what you wanted me to see?]

The computer’s lag began to ease. Under the control of the unseen hacker, the invading viruses were being wiped out, one by one.

More messages flooded in.

[I don’t know whose pawn you are, and I don’t care what your objective is, but I strongly advise you to stay away from me.]

[Your tricks are so pathetic it’s almost funny.]

Shen Yan touched his computer.

Hiss—

It was scorching.

He waved his hand, the scent of burning circuits filling the air, before casually typing back:

[My computer]

[Is about to explode]

[You]

A response came instantly: [What?]

Boom!

Shen Yan had no intention of answering.

Not that he could, anyway.

With a loud bang, the computer caught fire, and black smoke slowly rose.

Having already prepared a damp blanket nearby, he immediately covered it.

The fire was extinguished before it could spread.

He stretched lazily, got up, and opened the window to ventilate.

The cold night wind sent a shiver down his spine.

It seemed like there was nothing else to do.

Wait.

He turned to look at the computer.

This room wasn’t very soundproof—such a loud noise had just occurred, yet Ruan Zhixian hadn’t come?

Had he gone out?

Standing by the window, Shen Yan pondered and looked outside. A few drunken thugs were fighting downstairs, while a drunkard not far away picked up a rock and hurled it at them.

Damn, he had forgotten about this.

He quickly removed the blanket, picked up the computer, and headed toward the nearest electronics recycling station.

Then, pretending to be lost, he “accidentally” stumbled into the “game scene” Ruan Zhixian had meticulously prepared in advance.

In Lianhua City, District 13, where housing prices soared, many unfinished buildings had been abandoned due to developers running off with the money.

Cold winds howled through the broken structures, making eerie, mournful sounds.

Thirteen people, lured here by an anonymous message, stood tensely, listening to a distorted mechanical voice from a tape recorder.

It was announcing the game rules.

Each person held a slip of paper with a number, and not far away, thirteen boxes corresponded to these numbers.

Only one box was safe. The other twelve contained small spider bombs—once opened, the bomb would lock onto the person’s head and explode.

Once someone found the safe box containing the “safety bullet,” all other bombs would instantly detonate.

A third additional rule made things even more interesting—it seemed to offer another chance of survival.

Among the thirteen boxes, aside from the safety bullet, one contained a special explosive called the “Lucky Star.”

Opening this box would trigger the bomb, but all other bombs would be deactivated.

The final rule was called “Absolute Pardon”: If only one person remained, they wouldn’t have to open a box—they would be automatically declared the winner.

In short, this was a game where people would inevitably die.

The rules were simple and took less than a minute to explain. After listening, the group fell into an eerie silence.

Among them were a teacher, a businessman, a rich second-generation heir, and even a woman who had brought a child.

They came from different backgrounds and had no prior connections, except for one thing—they were all in desperate need of money.

Before today, each of them had received 5,000 star coins in their accounts, along with an anonymous, untraceable message.

If they participated and survived, they would receive 10 million star coins.

An obvious scam.

Initially dismissing it, they hesitated when their accounts received increasing amounts—50,000, then 100,000 star coins.

In the end, unable to resist the temptation of repaying their debts, they decided to come to the designated location.

“Who’s going first?”

A lanky young man in a yellow jacket spoke up. His whole body was thin as a bamboo pole, and his eyes twitched unnaturally. “Why isn’t anyone talking?”

“You’re an idiot.”

Bamboo Pole immediately bristled. “What the hell did you just say?”

A man in a suit adjusted his glasses. “I said you’re an idiot. I’m curious—did you actually understand the rules?”

Bamboo Pole didn’t really get it, but he still insisted, “It’s just a game of luck, isn’t it? Pretty simple.”

The suited man sneered, crossing his arms and raising his chin slightly.

Everyone’s gaze turned toward a long table not far away.

Thirteen sharp knives were placed on it.

They had seen them upon arrival, but not knowing their purpose, no one had touched them.

But after hearing the rules, their meaning became clear.

A hunched middle-aged man spoke slowly, “No rush, no rush. There are so many of us. Why don’t we introduce ourselves and try to understand the situation? Maybe we can find a loophole in the rules and all survive.”

Bamboo Pole scoffed, “Impossible. One person gets ten million—that’s 130 million total. Not even Bourlet could afford that!”

Bourlet was the son of the wealthiest businessman in the Federation, famous for his extravagant spending.

The middle-aged man chuckled kindly. “But what if? Besides, if you think the game master is dishonest, even if someone wins, the money might not be transferred.”

Bamboo Pole sneered, “Old man, I’d advise you to shut up, or I’ll stab you first and use your corpse to open a box.”

The middle-aged man fell silent.

Observing quietly from the shadows, Ruan Zhixian moved toward the weapon table without a word.

He picked up a dagger and pulled it from its sheath. The sharp blade gleamed coldly under the moonlight.

The already tense crowd grew even more agitated.

The suited man frowned. “What are you doing?”

Ruan Zhixian twirled the knife skillfully and shrugged. “Relax.”

He slid the knife back into its sheath.

Suddenly, a boy around 14 or 15, standing beside a woman, lost control and ran toward the boxes, reaching out to open one.

A man with multiple earrings stopped him.

With two loud slaps, the earringed man threw the boy back at the seemingly weak woman. “Control him. Don’t cause trouble.”

“Damn it,” the suited man spat.

He had figured it out—this wasn’t about luck. It was about killing.

If the first person opened the safe box, everyone else would die—so they would try to stop them.

If they opened the “Lucky Star,” they would die—clearly not in their best interest.

A dilemma.

The numbers were tied to each person, and they could be exchanged. There were thirteen people and thirteen boxes. Unless a fourteenth person appeared, the boxes couldn’t be opened without consequence.

The boxes were uncontrollable—but killing was.

If someone killed the others first, they could use their corpses for experiments.

Believing they had figured out the game, people started secretly plotting murder. They nodded along with the ongoing discussions while inching toward the weapon table.

The first to grab a knife was Bamboo Pole. The second was the woman standing closest to the table. The third was the boy beside her—who suddenly turned and stabbed at her.

She dodged nimbly and countered, slashing his arm.

The boy screamed—but his voice was oddly deep and aged.

That was the turning point.

The situation spiraled into chaos.

The ones who had hoped to find a logical loophole panicked and fled while trying to persuade the now-murderous players.

Ruan Zhixian dodged the dwarf disguised as a child and was about to enter the unfinished building when he noticed something.

A shadow lurking nearby.

Shen Yan?

“Stop! Everyone stop! I know what to do!”

The suited man also spotted the shadow and immediately yelled, rushing toward it.

A moment later, he dragged over a trembling Shen Yan.

Shen Yan swallowed hard, keeping his gaze downcast, his delicate appearance starkly contrasting his cowardly demeanor.

“I… I didn’t see anything,” he stammered, his voice shaking, nearly sobbing. “Please… let me go.”

A pair of sneakers stopped in front of him.

Then, a voice devoid of emotion.

“Why are you here?”