Zeya Noir was jolted awake by the barrage of notifications from her class group chat.
Her vision still blurry from sleep, she fumbled for her phone under the pillow and squinted at the screen to read the messages.
"The first wave of beta testers for *NeuroShade* has been announced!"
"No way, really?"
"Official website posted it three minutes ago [screenshot]."
"Damn! Who's that lucky?"
"Only 10,000 beta testers in the first batch? That's global selection—we barely get anything from the official side!"
Zeya Noir blinked slowly as the sleepiness faded. She vaguely remembered signing up for the closed beta of the game on a whim, urged by a classmate. It was just a quick survey on the official site—click, submit, and done. That had been months ago.
Back then, *NeuroShade* had just dropped its trailer, touting itself as a "revolutionary holographic game, a second world that truly exists."
The trailer exploded online, grabbing global attention. The game's biggest selling points? A fully open world and multi-path class progression.
It was a cyberpunk game laced with supernatural elements. Players could choose the high-tech path, becoming cybernetically enhanced beings, or go supernatural, awakening all sorts of powers.
It was reality-based, yet more than real—an immersive illusion with hyperrealistic detail, as if connected to the real world.
But what truly intrigued Zeya Noir were the final lines of the game's description:
> "Where there is light, darkness is born. Behind the city's glamorous facade lies rot and decay."
> "In that world, survival and death—not money or power—are the only eternal themes."
If that's the premise, maybe *NeuroShade* had something deeper than just flashy cyberpunk aesthetics and cool powers—a darker core.
Zeya Noir tapped the screenshot in the group chat. According to the image, the beta invite would be sent to selected players via email. Only 10,000 people had been chosen, and the beta started tomorrow.
When the signup opened, it had only been one day, but signups had already passed ten million globally. Now, months later, that number had climbed past one hundred million. To be one of just ten thousand—those odds were microscopic.
Not expecting anything, Zeya Noir still opened her email.
"You have one unread message."
The notification made her freeze. Her heart skipped a beat. She shot up in bed.
"Congratulations! You've been selected for the *NeuroShade* beta test."
The email subject was in bold red. Zeya Noir blinked, stunned. She checked the sender multiple times, comparing it to the official email listed on the site.
Once she confirmed it was legit, her first thought was—jackpot! JACKPOT!!
Selling this beta key could make her a fortune!
Zeya Noir was broke. Her dad had fled with debt after a failed investment. Her mom, now remarried, sent her a monthly allowance of 800 yuan—barely enough to eat, let alone afford textbooks or clothes. Her secondhand smartphone was paid for by working shifts at a milk tea shop.
She lived alone in her grandparents' old apartment, studying relentlessly, like a wild weed refusing to die.
This fall, she'd start college—her grades were good, the university decent—but tuition and living expenses were a real headache.
If she could sell that beta key, she wouldn't need to worry about money for a while.
But then, the next line in the email crushed her hopes:
"*NeuroShade* beta access is non-transferable. Beta codes are bound to each player's registered information and cannot be changed. The beta is free and will not be wiped."
Zeya Noir's face fell. Her quick-money dream was dead on arrival.
She didn't even care about the game—her gear was trash, and she didn't even own a holographic headset. She only filled out the survey out of curiosity and vague dreams of profiting from reselling the access.
Now, despite being one of only 10,000 people globally chosen, she was still a broke loser. Winning the golden ticket but not being able to use it—it was like sitting on a mountain of gold with no way to spend a cent.
She sighed and scrolled down.
The email was short and mostly uninformative. But at the very end, one sentence caught her eye:
> "If you agree to join the game, the company will provide you with the necessary game equipment."
Zeya Noir: Hell yeah!
Problem solved! She could actually play the game now! Her emotions roller-coastered.
At the bottom of the email was a link to a player questionnaire.
Zeya Noir clicked out of curiosity.
**Question 1:** If given a chance to start anew, would you take it?
Easy. She clicked the affirmative without hesitation. A new start sounded great. Her current life was already a mess—how much worse could it get?
**Question 2:** Do you believe in gods?
No. She was a staunch atheist.
**Question 3:** Do you want superpowers?
Yes! That didn't contradict atheism in her book.
"You've completed the questionnaire."
"Game files and instructions have been sent to your inbox."
"An anonymous player forum has been unlocked. Please save the URL and register soon."
Zeya Noir followed the instructions and saved the forum link.
In some games, beta content is confidential. Testers help devs find bugs. The *NeuroShade* team offering a forum made sense—a space for players to talk.
Only 10,000 people had access. The forum would be fresh. She might be among the first to explore it.
She didn't register right away. Instead, she opened the new game email. These usually required signed agreements—legal documents.
She opened it and froze at the first lines:
> "Six pieces of advice for *NeuroShade* players. You may follow them, or break them—but consequences are yours alone."
>
> 1. Treat the game world as the real world.
> 2. Do not reveal your player identity to anyone.
> 3. Do not share any game content.
> 4. You only have one life. Death is permanent.
> 5. Once you start the game, you either finish it or die.
> 6. Everything comes at a price.
…That's it? Just six cryptic lines? Was this all?
Zeya Noir was baffled.
It's just a game. These vague, ominous warnings were clearly just for flair. The "treat it like real life" gimmick was part of the marketing—everyone knew it was fake.
She opened the game file. It required her signature. She read it twice. No mention of a confidentiality clause—but the earlier "six pieces of advice" clearly warned against leaking info.
Weird. If they wanted to prevent leaks, why not put it in the legal document?
That advice wasn't legally binding. It made no sense.
At the end of the file was a space for an electronic signature. She signed her name.
The moment she did, a popup appeared in bold red:
> "Do you confirm entry into the game? You only have **one** chance to back out."
Only one chance?
Zeya Noir didn't care. She clicked confirm without hesitation.
The screen changed.
> "Contract complete."
> "Welcome to your new life, Zeya Noir."
...This game's trying too hard to be mysterious. Zeya Noir stared at the screen.
After a pause, she opened the anonymous beta forum and clicked "register."
The process was ridiculously simple. One code and done.
For her nickname, she typed in "233." She always used "233" in games—it was easy and never taken.
> "Nicknames cannot be changed once confirmed."
She ignored the warning and clicked confirm.
Another message popped up:
> "You are the 233rd registered player on the forum."
Zeya Noir: "…Huh?"
What a coincidence. Could 233 be her lucky number?
After a short load, the forum opened.
Its background had a cold metallic sheen. The layout was minimal. Only three functions: post, reply, message.
In the top right corner glowed a bloody red number: **10,000**.
Next to it: "Number of Players Alive."
Zeya Noir's heart skipped a beat when she read that. A strange chill crept over her.
Dozens of threads floated with "new" tags. The forum had just opened. Everyone was posting. She refreshed—more threads popped up, titled in English, Japanese, Russian, and Chinese. Players from around the globe, all ten thousand, had gathered.
She could roughly translate English titles. The others were incomprehensible.
She skimmed through the Chinese threads: "Here to explore!", "Any players from Shanghai? Meet-up time!", "First 100 threads, I'm in!"—all fluff.
She hesitated, then opened a new post. Title:
> "Does anyone else find the 'Six Player Advices' kind of strange?"
But her cursor hovered on the post button, unmoving.
She remembered: *Treat the game world as real. Only one life.*
Then looked at the forum's top-right corner: **10,000** in bloody red.
Something hit her deep inside. A chill prickled her spine.
It made no sense—like something out of a bad sci-fi story.
Zeya Noir rubbed her temples. "Entering a holographic game actually means crossing into a real world"? That only happened in novels.
Still, despite the self-reassurance, she deleted her draft post. She'd just lurk for now.
She kept refreshing and reading every Chinese post.
Then, one new post caught her attention:
> "Game company never explained how they'll ship the gear. Has anyone received a headset or install package?"
The moment she read that, someone knocked on her door.
She stood up instinctively, walked over, and checked the peephole. No one.
She waited a few minutes, slowly opened the door, and found a small black box on the floor, labeled *NeuroShade*.
Inside was a silver metal card. Intricate, overlapping lines formed the image of a mechanical hand.
"A souvenir?" Zeya Noir mumbled, examining it—then shivered.
She'd never entered her address on the game's website. How did this box get delivered?
Panic rising, she slipped on her slippers and ran downstairs.
She lived in an old apartment complex. Outdated, but with security cameras nearby.
A few neighbors were playing mahjong near the entrance.
"Mrs. Zhang! Did the delivery guy come by just now?" she asked.
"Nope, Xiao Li only comes around 3 p.m.," Zhang replied, pushing her tiles forward with a grin. "Oh! Hu!"
"Did anyone come upstairs?"
"Nope," Zhang replied, not even looking up.
Despite the sweltering July heat, Zeya Noir felt a chill down her back.
No one had come. Then who knocked?
She never entered her address.
How was the *NeuroShade* card delivered *to her door*?
She had signed the contract less than five minutes ago…
She looked at the card again, turned it over.
Etched on the back were the words:
> "Depriver · Zeya Noir. ID: 233."
233—her game nickname. Her registration number.
Zeya Noir felt her scalp go numb.
Something was happening.
Something very wrong.