“Hmm?” Pei Liang looked at the investigator in surprise.
The guy seemed slow and harmless enough, and within the game’s structure he was nothing more than an ordinary office worker. She hadn’t expected him to know so much.
The investigator could tell from her expression exactly what she was thinking, and a displeased look appeared on his face.
“Looking down on me, are you?” he said. “Those of us who transferred here after working in other games—we’re partly pushed out by the locals, and partly because we still have ties from before, so naturally we stick together in private.”
“News travels fast in our circles.”
Pei Liang understood. It was basically office cliques.
But the investigator was on the verge of a promotion. In high spirits from the good news, he decided to be magnanimous and not hold it against her.
Without further suspense, he continued, “The Cannon Fodder Struggle Game isn’t exactly small. There are countless players, and to make management easier, the game has been divided into dozens of departments.”
“Depending on the management style of the department heads, the direction in which players are guided and the types of missions emphasized naturally differ.”
“For example, before coming here, I did some research on your department.”
“After reviewing countless records of successful clears from your department, I came to a general conclusion: your department’s style is centered on taking the simplest and most opportunistic route possible.”
“In other words, it isn’t trying to cultivate exceptionally elite players who can drive up the department’s overall KPI. Instead, it values the number of successful clears. Even if the rewards aren’t particularly generous, the goal is to develop a straightforward formula for victory.”
As soon as the investigator finished speaking, the system in Pei Liang’s mind chimed in agreement—
“Yes, yes! That’s exactly how our department works. We don’t aim for the best performance; we just want as many winners as possible.”
Put more plainly, it was like low margins and high volume—or, to borrow a term from the entertainment industry, a mass-production assembly line.
Because every instance was a novel world with its own plot, and the male lead held the greatest importance within the story.
Given the advantage of foreknowledge, winning over the male lead naturally became the easiest way to “struggle” for success.
Compared with achieving something in one’s career, studying and researching diligently for decades, or fighting and conquering territory...
In a game made up entirely of female players, that path was certainly more convenient and offered faster returns.
But there was a problem. As the worlds grew more difficult and the survival conditions increasingly harsh,
most players who devoted themselves wholly to pleasing the male lead, without developing any survival skills whatsoever, would eventually find their options narrowing.
To put it more bluntly, such players had no long-term future.
Their fate was to be eliminated by the environment. After all, the so-called Cannon Fodder Struggle Game itself did not care what kind of specialization you preferred, nor would it keep assigning you relatively safe missions with little pressure to survive simply because a different style did not suit you.
When those players died, there would always be new ones joining.
Then, following that assembly-line formula for clearing missions, they would continue supplying the department with points in an endless stream.
In that case, even the players themselves were little more than disposable commodities in the eyes of the department’s higher-ups.
Pei Liang was beginning to understand. Boldly, she voiced her conclusion:
“My method of clearing missions is completely at odds with this department’s approach.”
“For the department’s upper management, I may be something of an eyesore, but in the end, I’ve brought them so many points. From a supervisor’s perspective, there’s no reason for them to rush into dealing with me.”
“Setting that aside, the remaining issue is that my way of clearing missions will let me rise much faster—and in a very short time.”
“Someone doesn’t want to see that happen? Put another way, which veteran player am I likely to end up competing with?”
The investigator nodded. “Right. Every department has an annual performance ranking. That can’t be faked, just like the point settlements.”
“I checked the backend. Your points this year are leagues ahead of everyone else. Even second place is nowhere close.”
“And the annual top performer in each department not only receives a reward package, but also takes on the challenge of the highest-level missions.”
“One of the big shots in your department entered a mission last year and still hasn’t come out. That should tell you just how difficult that mission is.”
A year in the game space was not the same concept as a year in a dungeon world. Pei Liang could remain in one world for an entire lifetime, while only a week passed in the game.
It was easy to imagine that those top-tier missions could last hundreds, even thousands, of years.
“A cultivation world?”
The investigator nodded. “Yes!”
“Those worlds are far too advanced. I don’t know much about them myself, but in any case, if someone like her still hasn’t cleared the mission after a year, her chances of succeeding can practically be considered slim to none. If the team has a more suitable candidate, she’ll be replaced.”
“But if your group doesn’t have anyone suitable—or if this year’s top performer is only average in ability, and the game determines that replacing her wouldn’t improve the success rate—then that’s a different matter.”
“In other words, if you fail here, she’ll gain at least another year.”
The investigator spread his hands. “She could have given up on the game a long time ago, but I’ve heard of this veteran player. She’s an exceptionally stubborn person.”
Pei Liang nodded, unsurprised.
If she were not stubborn—if she lacked such a powerful desire to win and such pride—she never would have climbed so high in a department that turned people into useless deadweight.
“But since even you can see through this at a glance, others in the game can as well. Everyone knows it’s her, but there’s no evidence, right?”
The investigator nodded. “She’s currently inside a mission world. She has no opportunity to contact the supervisors directly.”
“Of course, as a veteran player, she knew of your existence during the mission and was able to reach an understanding with the supervisors. Now that the supervisors have been brought down and are being investigated, even if they identify her, they can’t produce any concrete evidence. That alone proves how resourceful and cunning she is.”
Without evidence, even the most reasonable suspicion was still only suspicion.
Pei Liang had yet to meet this veteran player, but merely from the description, she had already developed a strong interest in her.
At that moment, the system piped up indignantly, “I knew it! No wonder there was a period when, whenever I went to work, her senior system would keep ordering me around—making tea, pouring coffee. Then I’d come back and find it snooping through my data. Even when I caught it red-handed, it refused to admit it and tried to throw its seniority around. So that’s what this was about.”
Pei Liang sighed. “I think it’s my duty to give you a little training in workplace wisdom.”
Otherwise, there was no telling how useful this blockhead might be—but at the very least, he’d better not fall for some dirty trick and drag her down when it mattered.
“Would it be convenient for you to reveal that veteran player’s ID number?”
The investigator shook his head. “No.”
Pei Liang was not surprised. A teasing smile appeared on her face. “Then I suppose we’ll have to meet in the instance.”
The investigator shuddered at the sight of her smile.
Logically speaking, that veteran player’s number of cleared instances, experience, and knowledge of the game surpassed Pei Liang’s by who knew how many times.
And judging by their current strength ratings, although Pei Liang ruled supreme in this world and was among the best newcomers of the year across the entire game—
in the eyes of a veteran player, that level of strength would be flattering even to call ant-like.
Compared side by side, it was like an egg declaring it would smash through a rock.
Yet at this moment, the one the investigator felt was truly in trouble was the veteran player.
After all, Pei Liang was someone who, while still a newcomer, had managed to take down an already-established illegal game operation, bring down the department’s top executive, and completely reshuffle the department’s structure.
Since the game had existed, who else had ever accomplished such a feat?
While the administrator was still marveling at this, his promotion reward arrived.
The game was efficient and swift indeed. Just as expected, he had been promoted several ranks in one go.
His face flushed with excitement, and he could no longer maintain his stern facade.
With no small amount of pride, he said to Pei Liang, “Allow me to introduce myself again.”
“Standing before you now is the Director of the Monitoring Department.”
Pei Liang merely lifted her eyelids. “Oh. No need to thank me.”
The investigator: “...”
Right. His promotion had been entirely thanks to her. All he had done was write a report.
There were plenty of investigators who could write reports, but he was probably the first person ever to get promoted because of a single email.
When all was said and done, she had practically handed him this job.
Any sense of accomplishment immediately evaporated.
Just as he was sinking into self-doubt, Pei Liang asked, “What’s your name?”
The investigator froze, and then heard her continue, “You’re a department director now. You can’t keep using an ID number, can you?”
“Tell me your name. Or does the game assign everyone official codenames?”
His face reddened. “N-No, I have a name.”
“In my previous game, I was called Ruo Shou.”
“Ohhh...” Pei Liang’s look changed at once.
Of course Ruo Shou knew exactly what she meant. His face turned scarlet as he hurriedly said, “That’s enough. I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like that.”
Then, as if giving himself away, he added, “In my previous game, I also worked in the romance department of an adults-only game.”
Under Pei Liang’s gaze, he mumbled, “Though the pure-love department really has tried to transfer me because of that reason several times.”
“But I refused to budge.”
Pei Liang patted him on the shoulder. “It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me so much.”
That was not what her eyes were saying at all. She looked like she wanted to start teasing him in earnest, Ruo Shou thought.
In order to avoid being toyed with any further, he averted his gaze.
“In any case,” Ruo Shou said, “our earlier agreement still stands. As long as it doesn’t violate the game’s rules, contact me through the system if you need anything.”
With that, he vanished from this world.
Pei Liang felt a little regretful. She should not have teased him so harshly.
Still, although she had won a complete victory and the threat of being suppressed and targeted by those above had been eliminated—at least that veteran player would have to keep a low profile for quite some time—this world had not yet come to an end.
From the very beginning, Pei Liang’s plans had never been solely for the sake of point rewards.
Now that the reconstruction of human society was on the right track, she naturally could not simply abandon it halfway through.
After all, this world was still facing far too many problems.
Without an absolutely powerful force to keep things in check, no one knew where the new order forged by the apocalypse would lead humanity.
Take, for instance, the differences in supernatural awakenings that had been mentioned before. If they were not properly guided, they would eventually divide humanity into separate social classes. This was hardly a trivial issue.
Thus, in the years that followed, Pei Liang, together with Chu Yebai, Gong Ran, and a host of followers, carried out her original ideals with unwavering persistence.
Along the way, some strayed from the path. Some forgot their original intentions. Some lost themselves in power.
Not everyone could turn away from privileges that lay within easy reach, and there were no shortage of people who wanted the gifted to become a privileged class.
Mere ideological instruction and ethical restraints among their own kind could not address the problem at its root.
Pei Liang dared say that even if she created an order that satisfied her, once she left this world, everything would become entirely different.
Ordinary people who had not received the gift of evolution needed their own paths to advancement. That was the fundamental solution.
Many years earlier, she had already made methods of cultivating internal energy widely available. Gong Ran had developed a way to alter one’s constitution so that the human body could store internal energy.
And as bioengineering advanced at a rapid pace, humanity also gained the option of artificial evolution.
The research samples came from the cells of countless gifted individuals. Overall, the process was safe and free of side effects.
However, candidates first had to pass rigorous tests of physical fitness, willpower, psychological health, moral character, and even investigations into their family’s criminal history before they could undergo artificial evolution.
From elementary school onward, physical education classes included martial arts training. In this way, the gap between evolved humans and ordinary humans was finally narrowed.
In truth, even among evolved humans, only a small minority possessed abilities that could truly be considered powerful and useful.
Most were merely ordinary people with a slight advantage.
With enough effort, an average person could close the gap—or even surpass them.
By the time Pei Liang was due to leave, the entire century had entered a new era.
It resembled the futuristic world people had imagined before the apocalypse. Global mutation had not only accelerated technological progress, but had also brought countless new and unknown rare energy sources.
Social advancement naturally fostered more advanced human constitutions. With greater productivity, abundant resources, and the sharp population decline caused by the apocalyptic catastrophe, each individual had access to more resources, and everyone’s basic standard of living improved dramatically.
Projects to venture into space and develop the limitless expanse of the universe had already begun, but Pei Liang did not have time to remain and witness them.
Chu Yebai and Gong Ran left this world before Pei Liang did. Yu Cheng had returned to collect them.
The flow of time in the reincarnation space differed from that here; one could also say that, within that space, it was possible to freely choose the point in time at which to enter.
In any case, by the time Yu Cheng returned, many years had already passed in their world.
Thanks to evolution, humanity’s lifespan had increased considerably, so neither of them had aged much.
Even after all these years, though, they still didn’t get along.
Of course, how could a shameless woman possibly admit that it was because those two kept taking turns being each other’s current boyfriend and ex-boyfriend?
In any case, as a rich woman who kept pretty boys, Pei Liang had never been stingy with what she gave them.
Feeling absolutely no guilt whatsoever, Pei Liang left the post-apocalyptic instance world at the appropriate time.
This time, her contribution to the entire world had been even greater than in the previous one.
If the last world had marked the beginning of an industrial age, then in this world, not only had she made comparable contributions—she had directly saved hundreds of millions of people from a crisis of survival.
The points she earned were even more astonishing.
Combined with the points she had not spent before, the balance in Pei Liang’s account was enough to make even the game’s upper management green with envy.
It was no wonder someone had targeted her. She was simply too conspicuous.
The system smiled ingratiatingly. “Big Sis, the shop is open now. What would you like to buy?”
Pei Liang smiled and casually spent a thousand points on a [One-Million Shopping Card].
The system froze. “Big Sis, what are you buying that for?”
“This thing clearly isn’t meant for players.” What a joke—how could a player possibly spend a thousand points to buy a shopping card worth one million?
The only place players could buy things was the shop itself, and the card’s description read—
[This card may be used in any world with a functioning economic system.]
In other words, it could be used anywhere money could be spent normally.
If someone lacked confidence in their ability to make money, they could buy one of these cards. If they were frugal, one million would keep them from worrying about money for a long stretch of game time.
But then again, anyone who couldn’t easily earn one million probably wouldn’t be able to casually fork over a thousand points for this thing either.
When all was said and done, it was a losing deal.
But Pei Liang said, “Didn’t I say I was giving you a raise? Take this card. Just deduct your salary from it every month.”
The moment she finished speaking, the card appeared in the system’s hands.
After all, gifts voluntarily given by players were delivered directly.
At that moment, the system was sitting in its cubicle, holding the gleaming golden million-value card as though it had been handed a pie that had fallen from the sky.
It had thought Pei Liang’s promise to increase its salary tenfold was merely an exaggeration. Besides, salary payments wouldn’t come until next month at the earliest, right?
And yet!!!
With a monthly salary of three thousand, it now had savings of one million?
Systems received notifications whenever they were tipped or gifted something by players.
In an instant, the entire department was in an uproar. Systems from all around flocked to its desk, consumed with envy and jealousy that it had been assigned such a generous, wealthy player.
After completing an instance, many players did not even earn a thousand points. There were so many things they needed to buy that they wished they could split every single point in two.
Spend a thousand points to tip a system? Not even veteran players did that.
The other systems watched as the fellow sat there stupidly for a long while, before suddenly dropping to its knees—
“Big Sis—no, Dad!!!”
By then, its dad had already entered the next world.
At present, Pei Liang did not have much she wanted to buy.
There were not many things in the shop to begin with—and even fewer that were useful to her.
Most of them were things like Charm-Boosting Pills, Mary Sue Auras, and Appearance-Enhancing Spirit Elixirs. (That last one could be extremely useful if bad luck landed you in a role with no advantages in the looks department.)
There were also Spirit Spring Spaces, mind-reading abilities, and all sorts of other random items.
Naturally, the more broken an item was, the higher its price—and every one of them was single-use, never available for permanent purchase.
Until you knew what the next mission world was like, an item’s usefulness depended entirely on luck.
Judging from the sales records, mind-reading abilities and Mary Sue Auras were among the most frequently used items.
That was hardly surprising. Given the department’s previous operating policy, players had naturally focused on strategies of that sort, so those were the items most people bought.
Skills, bloodlines, and supernatural abilities, on the other hand, sold far less.
The problem was that not only were those things exorbitantly expensive—prices beyond what the vast majority of players could afford—but their initial effects were also negligible. Players had to improve them through their own efforts, which took a very long time and required countless experiences to reach a higher level.
Take a combat-type superpower, for example. Chu Yebai’s telekinesis was a good case in point.
After purchasing the ability, the most one could do at first was manipulate something as light as a leaf.
And manipulating objects was completely different from manipulating living beings. To turn it into formidable combat power, one had to undergo countless battles and rounds of training.
The department’s previous assembly-line approach had rendered most of its players useless. With the advantage of knowing the plot in advance, they could pinpoint the crucial moments and target the male lead with precision.
The male leads, meanwhile, were usually the cream of the crop in their respective worlds. They could easily obtain everything through love. How many people would willingly give up a shortcut and choose a far more difficult path through thorns?
Pei Liang quickly scanned the shop. She had no need for those disposable junk items and wasn’t about to waste her money on them. As for bloodlines and skills, many of them were mutually incompatible.
She still needed to see what direction the new supervisor would take the department before making a decision.
And as for skills, she could learn those herself. There was no need to spend money on them.
Thus, aside from purchasing one inexpensive but necessary item—Body Memory Transfer—
the value of this item was calculated according to everything the player had accumulated over the years. If a player had cleared a dungeon without learning any skills or accumulating anything, the item would be completely useless.
But someone like Pei Liang had the bodily memory of a top-tier chef, nearly a century of internal cultivation accumulated over two consecutive worlds, and a natural aptitude for researching martial arts.
For her, this ability could carry everything she had painstakingly acquired into her future bodies, without losing a single thing.
Just as before, if Pei Liang hadn’t happened to draw that reward, then even if she could still use the techniques she had learned in the previous world, her internal energy aside, her physical strength, memory, and power would still have been unable to keep up with her consciousness.
This item was inexpensive. Compared with the flashy cheat abilities on offer, it was practically a bargain.
But wasn’t this gift to the players proof of the game’s true purpose?
The struggle of the cannon fodder!
After buying a few more items that she considered useful, Pei Liang entered the next dungeon on her own.
The moment she opened her eyes, Pei Liang felt that her entire body was somewhat weighed down. Her clothes were layered upon layered, and atop her head sat a ceremonial crown weighing at least twenty pounds.
She wore formal robes of deep black shot through with subtle patterns. Looking down, she could make out the design embroidered upon them—a phoenix.
Judging by the solemn, imposing scene around her, they stood atop an enormous white-jade altar. The people surrounding them were likewise dressed in stately, luxurious attire.
Had she been transmigrated into royalty in this instance?
Yet this time, Pei Liang had not immediately received the original owner’s memories. And when she entered this body, its former owner’s fists had been clenched tight.
Pei Liang could even feel the dampness. Pain followed at once—sharp and intense. Clearly, she was bleeding.
How much resentment and unwillingness did it take to leave someone like this?
Before she had time to assess her surroundings, a voice rang out from above, impossible to identify as male or female—
“Prince Liang, why have you not accepted the decree?”
Pei Liang did not move at first, but the people beside her seemed extremely nervous.
She turned to look at one of them: a cute-looking girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with a somewhat timid air about her.
The girl stared at Pei Liang with a bewildered expression, as though she desperately wanted to explain something. When Pei Liang’s gaze fell on her, she looked so anxious she was nearly in tears.
Pei Liang then looked to the person on her other side. She was also a woman, though gentle and reserved in temperament, and she was watching Pei Liang with evident concern.
From behind came a cautious whisper. “My lady, please accept the decree.”
There was no way to tell what sort of situation she was in from appearances alone, so Pei Liang simply went along with it and accepted the imperial decree.
The people around her visibly breathed a sigh of relief.
The young girl hesitated. “Eldest Sister, I—”
Pei Liang looked at her, but the girl could not bring herself to continue.
Seeing that this was not a suitable place to talk—and that she apparently held considerable authority before these people—Pei Liang turned and walked down from the altar on her own.
Everyone knew that she must be deeply dissatisfied at the moment. None dared provoke the violent-tempered Eldest Imperial Daughter—
No, Prince Liang now.
Sure enough, not long after she descended from the altar, Pei Liang received the script for this world.
The moment she saw the opening premise, her eyes lit up. Her interest was piqued.
This was actually a female-dominated world, where the status of men and women was completely reversed.
As the Eldest Imperial Daughter, the original owner was exceptionally gifted, accomplished in both civil and martial arts, and should have been the first in line to inherit the throne.
The original owner had always believed so herself.
But at the critical moment, the Empress named the young, timid Third Imperial Daughter as heir apparent.
The original owner, meanwhile, had been granted the title of Prince Liang.
To be honest, Pei Liang rather liked her own name, but this title clearly did not bode well.
How could the original owner endure such humiliation?
Thus, she became increasingly irritable and extreme. Her ambition was laid bare, and in the end, she was executed by the Empress for treason.
The plot itself was fairly commonplace, though the world-building of this instance was rather complex.
Despite how impressive the original owner seemed at the moment, she was merely a cannon-fodder boss in the larger story. Before the heroine—the Third Imperial Daughter—could even come into her own, the original owner had already been eliminated by the Empress.
And since Pei Liang had not received the original owner’s memories, she knew nothing at all about this minor character with so little screen time.
As Pei Liang wandered aimlessly through the imperial palace, she pondered what had gone wrong this time.
Fortunately, no one dared stop her.
Then someone spoke cautiously beside her. “Prince Liang, the Imperial Consort requests your presence.”
