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There was a brief silence in the elevator.
Perhaps seeing that no one was breaking the silence, JoyBee continued, “The reason all of you were chosen for this game is because none of you possess any levitating abilities or conditions. Falling from a great height would cause severe injuries — if not death. Therefore, I suggest abandoning any pretense of having mid-air floating abilities to numb other players’ strategies.”
It seems someone must have tried that trick before.
Upon reflection, if someone claimed they weren’t afraid of punishment, it would undermine the game’s foundational rules. JoyBee — or the game publishers behind it — naturally wouldn’t want to see this, hence the need to nip such possibilities in the bud from the start.
The four players each took two steps forward, casting their gazes outside the window. From this height, they felt as if they were suspended in the air. Whit E. seemed to have acrophobia, even hesitating to approach the window.
As posthumans — even without levitating abilities — if they were to be thrown out, they would likely have various means to save their lives. For instance, Lin Sanjiu could use her space-traveling ability to avoid a part of the falling process. Others might have some large objects to cushion their fall. However, the problem was that these methods might only save their lives.
Lying grievously injured on the ground, only to be dragged by a volunteer to the next game location — this might be the same vision that appeared in everyone’s minds, making their faces pale.
“Any other questions?” JoyBee asked in an excited, childlike tone.
“I’d like to confirm.” Qian Dao stepped back in front of the elevator, placing his hands together in front of him, making him look like a monk or a religious disciple. “You mentioned that players cannot harm each other. What’s the specific definition?”
“In the game, any means you employ cannot harm others,” JoyBee said, seemingly prepared for this. “Even if someone eats a banana and throws the peel on the ground and another person steps on it, they won’t fall. Negative effects will also be nullified, like items causing temporary blindness or forcing someone to tell the truth, etc. These are considered negative effects.”
“So, there’s no penalty for trying?” Whit E. asked.
“None. You’d just be wasting precious time,” JoyBee replied.
“So, we can only attack someone’s level 3 employees?” Lily inquired. “If I pass by someone’s office, can I recognize it?”
“Yes, you can. Each occupied office door will have the player’s avatar displayed, with only specific details like the number of clients being hidden. You can consider yourself as a Level 5 employee and attack someone else’s office. But such an attack is only on paper, serving as a means to occupy the office. In reality, you can’t kill any employees other than the Level 3 ones. The same goes for Level 5 employees,” JoyBee explained.
“How do we hire employees?” Whit E. inquired.
“It’s simple. Just whisper into the air the level of the employee you want, and they’ll appear. A Level 1 employee takes one minute, a Level 2 employee takes two minutes, and so on. However, one thing to note,” JoyBee said. “Apart from Level 3 and 5 employees, other employees and all the clients you capture cannot be outside the office for more than five minutes. Otherwise, the employee will vanish along with the hourly wage you paid for them. Any more questions?”
As the other three frowned in thought, Lin Sanjiu couldn’t hold back from saying, “I think we’re all set. Let’s start as soon as possible.” She not only wanted to get out soon but also wished to quickly call out the Life Coach for a discussion. She didn’t have the time to let the other three ponder potential loopholes in the game.
JoyBee glided from the window to the elevator and declared, “Alright, the high voltage has now been deactivated. The game begins. I wish everyone—”
What JoyBee wished everyone, no one stayed to hear.
By the time it said, “The game begins,” all four participants had already dashed into the building like arrows released from their bowstrings. The game had removed the usual floor plan typically displayed in buildings. Unsure of the building’s layout, the moment they left the elevator, the four players each chose a different direction and quickly disappeared into the corridors.
Lin Sanjiu moved down the carpeted hallway and, after a turn, encountered a row of three offices. As JoyBee mentioned, each light grey door displayed, “Small office, accommodates 4 people, 20 yuan/hour.” She slowed down to think and decided to skip these offices.
The most crucial person in an office is the client. Beyond the mandatory Level 1 and 2 employees that must be hired, it’s always better to accommodate more clients. A small office that fits four means having to choose between clients and Level 2 employees, which would reduce her hourly earnings.
As she took a quiet breath and focused on the faint sounds around her, Lin Sanjiu could faintly hear the distant, hurried footsteps deeper inside the building. These must be the footsteps of other players, as their hurried pace was distinct from the leisurely wanderings of the projected clients. After all, if one could locate clients just by listening to footsteps, it would be too easy.
She looked around and was about to head in the opposite direction of the footsteps when an idea struck her. She tried the door handle of Office 6013. As she felt the handle turn, Lin Sanjiu stared intently at the door, fearing her avatar would appear on it. She whispered, “I’m not renting… just checking it out.”
Perhaps her self-muttered words worked, as when she entered 6013, the door still bore the message, “Small office, accommodates 4 people, 20 yuan/hour.” Mrs. Manas sighed in relief inside her mind, saying, “Ah, that makes sense. What if clients are hiding in the office? You can’t be considered renting just by entering.”
Right, clients could wander into offices as well. Lin Sanjiu gently closed the door behind her and searched under the four office desks. Her luck wasn’t that good; there wasn’t a single client in the room. She quickly de-carded the Life Coach. Perhaps because of the longer duration of converting this time into a card, the Life Coach emerged confidently, puffing out his chest and cheerfully asking, “What seems to be troubling you—”
“Shut up,” she hissed, covering the Life Coach’s mouth. “Come out with me and act confused. Got it?”
“Like the Artist?”
“Yes, like him. Try not to open your mouth when you speak.” After all, clients didn’t talk.
In the hallway, Lin Sanjiu gestured for the Life Coach to split up and search the other two offices. They both came out empty-handed. She chose a direction and, while walking, gave the Life Coach a brief overview of the game they were in. The Life Coach, with a stiff neck and indifferent face, murmured, “Why did you call me out then? Pretending to be a client doesn’t benefit you.”
“That’s what I wanted to discuss,” Lin Sanjiu replied, peeking into the men’s restroom. “Do you remember what happened when I fell?”
“You mentioned something about hearing your parents in an illusion,” the Life Coach said, tilting his head. “Do you suspect Ji Shanqing’s voice was also an illusion?”
Lin Sanjiu paused, then murmured, “damn, I hadn’t even considered that possibility… No, no. That wasn’t an illusion.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The hallucinations started after I fell, when I was mentally unstable. But I heard the voice during the transition process, before the negative effects on my psyche began… So, he must have genuinely called out for help.”
Of course, this realization was undoubtedly bad news for her. She truly wished it had only been a figment of her imagination.
“What truly troubles me is that I landed face-first when I fell,” Lin Sanjiu said, then sighed heavily, recalling the axe material she left downstairs as a marker. She might never need them again. “I was lying flat on top of the elevator cabin, with my destination beneath my back.”
The Life Coach’s brows furrowed momentarily, but he quickly relaxed them, resuming his numb, clueless demeanor.
“I was clear about my orientation inside the elevator. What I needed to do then was move backward — or, in other words, fall,” Lin Sanjiu whispered, touching her face. “Either way, I shouldn’t have landed on my face; it should have been my back. When I was transitioning between spaces, I was fully aware that I was moving backward, falling because the elevator cabin was underneath me. I had no reason to move forward. In fact, I didn’t. I did fall into the elevator, but at some point, I had turned around and landed face-first.”
“You mean…”
Lin Sanjiu paused for a moment.
“After much thought, I’ve come to one conclusion,” she said in a soft voice. “While transitioning through spaces, my orientation and position in each space were different. By the time I fell into the elevator, I had unknowingly turned many times during the transitions, which means the direction I was facing when I fell in the apartment might not have any relation to the grand prize.”