Unable to shake off Director Qiu’s shameless persistence, Fu Changxun ended up giving him his number anyway.
Of course, the Special Affairs Office could easily dig up their contact info if they wanted to—but the fact that Qiu Yi asked directly showed a certain level of respect, at least on the surface.
“I get out of school at 4:30,” Xu Xiao said, backpack slung over her shoulder. “You have to pick me up. I don’t know the way.”
Fu Changxun straightened her little braids and slipped a box of kids’ milk into her bag. “Of course I’ll come get you. If you get hungry at school, drink the milk.”
Xu Xiao muttered under her breath, “When’d you even buy milk…”
But she still zipped up her backpack right away, gave a firm nod, and headed through the school gates.
Fu Changxun watched her until she disappeared into the main building.
Only then did he look away.
Dong Zi had waited quietly the whole time. Once Fu Changxun gave the signal, he turned the car around and drove toward the clinic.
“Xu Xiao’s actually a really sensitive little girl,” Fu Changxun said, half to himself, half to Dong Zi. “When she was first diagnosed with depression, I was still just an intern. The first time we met, she wouldn’t let go of me.”
“I had nothing but theory in my head—no practical experience. I ended up treating a dead horse like a live one, so to speak, and somehow managed to make her laugh. That’s when Xu-ge decided I’d be her doctor.”
Dong Zi didn’t interrupt—just let him talk it all out.
Some things sit heavy on the chest. Letting them out, even just a little, helps.
Fu Changxun suddenly had a thought. “Do you think if I asked her to call me Dad, she’d agree?—Actually, never mind. Sounds weird. Better to stick with ‘ge.’”
Xu Zhengyi had entrusted his daughter to him. That trust meant everything. What she called him didn’t really matter.
“Maybe you should have her call you Mom,” Dong Zi said suddenly, half-joking. “She probably wouldn’t mind that.”
Fu Changxun: “…”
Fu Changxun lunged at him. “Oh, real funny, Ah Zi. So you’ve picked up sarcasm now?!”
That little jab was enough to break the somber mood, easing the tension between them.
The landlord of the clinic had already called earlier. Dong Zi dropped Fu Changxun off at the entrance, and the two agreed to meet back up at 4:00 in the afternoon before parting ways.
The landlord was a woman in her thirties—unmarried, independently wealthy with multiple properties, basically a rich single lady.
When she saw Fu Changxun, she let out a sigh of relief. “Dr. Fu, thank god you’re alright. I hadn’t been able to reach you for days—I thought you’d gotten pulled into that game. Scared me half to death.”
Fu Changxun shook his head. “Well, you’re not wrong. I was pulled in. Luckily, I made it out alive. We’ll need to amend the lease contract—if I die in the game one day, you won’t be able to rent out this place anymore.”
She immediately cut in, “Peh peh peh! Don’t say such unlucky crap. Everyone’s going to be just fine.…So you’re a player now?” she asked hesitantly. “Can I… ask you something about the game?”
She’d watched tons of livestreams, but the anxiety still lingered—just like many others.
The game loomed over them like a Damocles sword, ready to drop at any second. It made eating, sleeping, and even thinking a struggle. Everyone was wound tight.
She was one of those people.
Didn’t want to go in—but also half-hoped she’d just get pulled in already, so the waiting would be over.
Fu Changxun could see her unease and nodded. “Sure. Let’s talk inside.”
After being closed for nearly two weeks, Dr. Fu’s psychology clinic finally reopened.
His first patient? His mildly anxious landlord.
“…That’s basically how the game works. Observe carefully, find the clues, and you’ll get through it.”
He summarized what he’d learned from the last two instances and tried to help her relax. “If you’re still nervous, there are guides posted on forums and discussion boards.”
Since the internet was still up, players could share experiences online—helping others indirectly.
Even in the apocalypse, there were still genuinely good people out there.
Her anxiety eased a little. After thanking him, she added generously, “If I ever get pulled into the game and don’t make it back, I’ll leave this storefront to you.”
Fu Changxun didn’t refuse. He just threw her own words back at her with a grin: “Peh peh peh! Don’t say such unlucky crap. Everyone’s going to be just fine.”
She burst out laughing.
After she left, a few more patients trickled in.
Some were long-term clients, but most were new—anxious and stressed from the overwhelming pressure.
Fu Changxun sighed. The psychological toll of the game on people was far greater than most realized.
Just as he was about to grab some lunch around noon, Dong Zi showed up early—and brought an unexpected guest.
Director Qiu.
“Heh… Sorry to drop in like this.” Qiu Yi rubbed his hands awkwardly. “Say, want to come check out the Special Affairs Office?”
Dong Zi and Fu Changxun exchanged a look—and both let out a long breath.
So much for shaking Qiu Yi off.
In movies, the headquarters of the “Investigation Bureau” was usually in some remote, top-secret bunker—maybe even underground.
The Special Affairs Office, however, operated out in the open. Their headquarters was on the top floor of a commercial building, with a sweeping view of the city below.
“Most of us are players,” Qiu Yi explained as they entered the building. In the elevator, he continued, “The higher-ups offered generous packages and recruited upright citizens with strong abilities. Sure, our powers may be weird as hell, but in terms of overall capability, we’re elite. Some are top-tier fighters. Others are wicked smart.”
Fu Changxun’s tone was calm. “So I’m one of the smart ones, and Ah Zi’s the muscle?”
Qiu Yi chuckled. “Something like that! Hah… but really, don’t overthink it.” He added, “Don’t worry—our nicknames and real identities are classified. Only internal personnel know who’s who.”
“So… the fact that you brought us here means we have to join if we want to leave?” Fu Changxun’s brows drew together. “That’s basically coercion.”
Dong Zi tensed immediately, hands balling into fists.
Fu Changxun quickly grabbed his arm. “Hey, relax. I never said I wouldn’t join.”
Dong Zi blinked. “Huh?”
He looked genuinely confused, but then reached back protectively, pulling Fu Changxun into his arms—like a large, territorial dog baring its teeth at a stranger.
Fu Changxun couldn’t see his face.
Qiu Yi, on the other hand, stood stiff as a rod—completely oblivious to the tension in Dong Zi’s expression.
“Alright, alright,” Fu Changxun said as he wriggled free of the embrace. Turning to Qiu Yi, he added, “If you want us to stay with the Special Affairs Office, at least let us look around. See what the team’s like. Wouldn’t want to leave here with a grudge if we end up saying no.”
Qiu Yi laughed awkwardly. “Of course, of course. Whether you join or not, I’ll respect your choice. Just thought I’d make the pitch, y’know?”
By the time he finished speaking, they’d reached the top floor. The elevator doors opened to reveal several players hurrying about. When they spotted Qiu Yi, they all called out to him.
“Director Qiu! You’re back?”
Qiu Yi grinned and waved. “Yeah. And hey—everyone come here! Got someone to introduce.”
“This guy right here is the second-place player on the Points Leaderboard—‘Doctor’ himself! I brought him in!”
People hadn’t been this excited when Qiu Yi came back alone—but the moment he made that announcement, the crowd surged over.
“No way! Seriously? Damn, Director Qiu!”
Fu Changxun suddenly felt like some rare zoo animal, with team members crowding in to take a good look at him.
Surprisingly, the atmosphere was warm and welcoming. Dong Zi, who’d been on edge the whole time, finally relaxed a little.
Qiu Yi asked again, “So—what do you two think? Want to join the Special Affairs Office?”
“I’ve got one last question,” Fu Changxun said seriously. “Do we get official status?”
Qiu Yi: “Absolutely!”
***
After the Player Points Leaderboard went public, countries all over the world began searching for the names on it.
These players were either absurdly powerful or freakishly lucky. Teaming up with them in-game drastically increased your odds of survival.
Governments, private groups, and average citizens alike were all scrambling to find them.
That was when usernames really proved their worth.
Vendettas inside the game didn’t carry over into the real world, but the nicknames made tracking people down much harder.
“Hey, Jie,” Swift Step said as he unwrapped a burger at a fast-food joint, “Do you think the guy ranked second—‘Doctor’—is the one we met in the instance? How does he have so many points?”
Zhao-jie whacked him on the head. “Keep your voice down! You trying to announce it to the whole world?”
Swift Step shut up. Ning Wan, sitting beside them, leaned in and whispered, “I think it’s him. His score… he must’ve traded in some loot.”
They hadn’t had time to loot the National Preceptor’s body before leaving the instance, but Ning Wan had quick reflexes. She’d grabbed his flashy horsetail whisk—and brought it out of the game.
When the system prompted her, she’d exchanged it for 30 points without hesitation.
The day after they returned to reality, she’d bumped into Zhao-jie and Swift Step on the street and ended up tagging along for a meal.
“I’m pretty sure it’s him,” Zhao-jie said as her soda arrived. She took a sip and shifted the topic. “We’ll have to go into the game again eventually. Want to form a team?”
Swift Step: “Fine by me.”
Ning Wan lit up. “If you two are okay with it, I’d love that!”
She’d been completely carried through the last instance and knew full well how capable these two veteran players were. Joining them was a no-brainer.
“Sorry about cashing in the whisk for points,” she added. “I’ll buy the team item this time—it’s worth 30 points, so it evens out.”
Zhao-jie gave a small nod. Seeing her insist, she couldn’t help but feel a bit more impressed with the girl.
Swift Step sighed. “Why can’t we trade points between players? That’s such a pain.”
The in-game currency-to-points exchange was only available within instances. Points could be converted to real money afterward—but not the other way around.
And players couldn’t trade or sell points to each other—only items.
This system made it so the more instances you cleared, the more points you earned. Freeloaders would only ever get the bare minimum.
In that sense, the game was surprisingly fair.
“I do have one question,” Zhao-jie said, frowning. “One point equals one day of rest. The player ranked first has over 5,000 points—he could skip the game for years. Doesn’t that mean he’s basically safe now?”
No sooner had she said it than Ning Wan gasped.
“Jie—look at the leaderboard!”
“Working Stiff’s” score had suddenly dropped to just over 4,000!
