Xi Yu recently developed a fascination with a game. He had stumbled upon it on a computer web page late one night after returning from his part-time job.
Most people experience a sense of lethargy after finishing work late at night, feeling exhausted yet reluctant to wash up and go to sleep, so Xi Yu opened his computer intending to relax a little bit.
However, that night, the power in his home inexplicably tripped for a brief moment. When the electricity came back on, he couldn’t help feeling that the webpage where he usually played mobile games looked somewhat strange. The small advertisement in the bottom right corner, which he was so accustomed to seeing, was now flashing with a deep, eerie glow, somewhat bizarre, yet inexplicably alluring.
Xi Yu clicked on that advertisement link involuntarily, and bold characters suddenly flashed across the screen: Welcome to XX Game. The dark red font color gave Xi Yu quite a start, and he wanted to click the X to close the webpage. However, his computer became virtually unresponsive, and he could only watch helplessly as the game began to load.
Xi Yu had never played a game like this before. Upon entering, instead of battles or cards, he saw a lifesized avatar with exquisitely detailed modeling, almost indistinguishable from a real living person, lying inside a dark room.
The entire room was dilapidated, filthy, and extremely dim. Only a sliver of moonlight shining through allowed Xi Yu to see the figure clearly.
The shock brought to Xi Yu by an appearance indistinguishable from a real person was limited; that face, which could only be described as supremely beautiful, merely made Xi Yu freeze for a second. What truly surprised Xi Yu was that
This avatar’s gaze, those amber-like eyes looked straight over, resembling a pool of water under the illumination of the moonlight. His gaze seemed to pierce through the screen and look straight into Xi Yu’s heart.
How pitiful.
The clothes he wore were extremely tattered, with several scars visible on his exposed arms, not to mention the dusty grime covering his face.
Looking over like that, it seemed as though he were crying out for help to Xi Yu on the other side of the screen.
Xi Yu’s hand, which was frantically clicking to close the window, paused slightly. His heart felt like a calm lake brushed by a stone, stirring up ripples.
On an impulse, Xi Yu reached out and touched the screen, trying to brush away the overgrown bangs that were obscuring the boy’s eyes so he could clearly see those pitiful orbs.
To his astonishment, even though Xi Yu’s computer did not have touch-screen capabilities, the avatar on the screen reacted as if he had genuinely been touched by Xi Yu, shrinking back in fright.
Only after confirming that Xi Yu had no intention of harming him did the avatar emit a voice so faint it was barely perceptible: “It hurts.”
If it weren’t for such a quiet night, Xi Yu would have barely heard what he was saying. But when the bangs were brushed aside by Xi Yu, revealing fresh wounds on the avatar’s forehead as well, Xi Yu finally understood, he said it hurt.
He had hurt him, and it seemed the boy was constantly subjected to abuse.
At this moment, Xi Yu no longer had the mental bandwidth to care about the numerous bizarre occurrences of tonight. His sole thought right now was how to make this avatar feel a little better.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?” Xi Yu spoke slowly. His voice was just like him, and just like his name, truly like jade. At first listen, it was somewhat cold and crisp, but upon closer listening, a hidden warmth and gentleness could be detected.
The avatar stared blankly at him, as if confirming whether he was worthy of trust. Yet, presumably because he had never encountered anyone who looked this exquisite and handsome here, the tone directed at him was so soft, and his demeanor so warm, that it naturally made one want to draw closer and depend on him.
“I…” The avatar had just let out a sliver of sound when Xi Yu’s room plunged into pitch darkness once more.
The power tripped again. Xi Yu rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling somewhat irritated. The computer screen had gone completely black, leaving no trace of the game or the avatar.
He collapsed onto his bed as exhaustion washed over him. Had he been hallucinating lately from working too many part-time jobs? According to current gaming technology on the market, could a 2D paper doll really be made to this extent?
Not only did it possess exquisite lifesized modeling, but it also supported real-time voice interaction and communication. With such a superior and realistic user experience, if a game like this truly existed on the market, its popularity would be immeasurable. Would it still need to rely on small ads in the bottom-right corner of a webpage?
Xi Yu walked into the bathroom to take a shower, then collapsed onto the bed and fell straight asleep.
Turns out, he had started dreaming even before he actually went to sleep!
Xi Yu grew busy once again, juggling classes and working multiple part-time jobs. Having been an orphan since childhood and raised by the community, he had managed to get into a prestigious university, only to find the cost of living in this city of skyrocketing land prices so high that he had no choice but to desperately squeeze every spare moment of his rest time to work several jobs.
He had almost treated the events of that night as a dream. Yet every time before going to sleep, those pitiful eyes carrying a plea for help and expectation would constantly flash across his mind.
With a hint of restlessness, Xi Yu sat up. Just so he could get a good night’s sleep, he opened his computer once again after many days. However, no matter how he searched, he could find no trace of that night’s history.
He sighed somewhat helplessly; it really had been an exhaustion-induced hallucination. He thought about closing the computer and heading to bed early tonight. Yet, as if destined by fate, that game webpage materialized before Xi Yu once more, and this time, he hadn’t even clicked any URL.
Watching the game loading screen, Xi Yu felt a sudden sense of urgency. He desperately wanted to know how the avatar was doing. During the days he hadn’t come to check on him, had he suffered again?
However, upon re-entering the game, Xi Yu faintly sensed that something was amiss. Pulling back the curtains of his rental room, he realized that, God knows when, dawn had already broken.
This bizarre game actually possessed a real-time feature synchronized with Xi Yu’s real-world environment. When he opened the game at night, the room where the avatar resided would also be night; conversely, when Xi Yu opened the game during the day, the avatar’s room would correspondingly be daytime.
“Are you alright?” Xi Yu looked at the daytime hut. Although it was still dilapidated, with light filtering through, the overall room felt much better and no longer emanated an unsettling despair.
Yet when the avatar raised his head, Xi Yu locked eyes with an unfamiliar gaze, and a sudden sense of rejection welled up in his heart. The eyes that had previously elicited his sympathy now felt somewhat dangerous.
He seemed even more heavily injured than the last time Xi Yu opened the game. How exactly were these newly added wounds inflicted, and who kept hurting him?
It was no fault of Xi Yu’s for feeling sympathetic; the game’s modeling was simply too lifelike, with every action of the avatar resembling that of a living human being. Furthermore, he was exceptionally pretty, and Xi Yu had never been able to bear watching attractive things suffer.
“Hypocrite,” the avatar uttered.
Xi Yu acutely sensed that this voice differed from the cry of pain he had heard last time, though he couldn’t pinpoint where the difference lay. If not the timbre, then perhaps it was the tone.
Was he blaming him?
Xi Yu instantly lost interest. It made no sense to endure scolding and blame in real life, only to be resented inside a game as well. He pressed his mouse, intending to exit.
Yet the avatar seemed acutely perceptive of Xi Yu’s expression and appeared somewhat panicked: “Don’t go.”
His tone remained somewhat cold, but carried a trace of an imperceptible plea?
“Please, don’t leave me behind.” The avatar looked at Xi Yu aggrievedly, looking utterly pitiful.
Xi Yu had always been soft-hearted rather than hard-headed: “Stop crying. Is there anything I can do to help you? You haven’t answered my question from last time.”
The avatar raised his head and looked at him in some astonishment: “Last time?”
He lifted his head, and Xi Yu naturally caught sight of his tears. Yet what left Xi Yu somewhat perplexed was whether a normal person’s eyes were supposed to look like that when they cried.
He was clearly crying, shedding tears, but Xi Yu could not feel a shred of sorrow in his eyes. A strange sensation welled up inside him, as if the boy wasn’t truly weeping from the heart, but rather treating these tears as a tool.
A tool to keep him here.
So much so that Xi Yu missed the confusion in the boy’s tone: “Last time?”
However, the avatar quickly adjusted himself and said to Xi Yu, “My name is Ye Weifeng. What’s yours?”
“The valley winds blow from the north, bringing wind and rain.” Xi Yu murmured to himself. “A good name. The lines come from the Classic of Poetry.”
Ye Weifeng didn’t understand what he was talking about. Locked away in this place since birth and never having stepped outside, merely surviving here had exhausted his every ounce of strength. How could he possibly pay attention to such things? The Classic of Poetry, he didn’t even know what that was.
Yet the person before him, reciting that verse and uttering his name, possessed an undeniable allure. He found himself irresistibly wanting to hear him recite it once more.
The person stopped reciting, but now he knew the other’s name. Watching those handsome lips part and close, the man said, “My name is Xi Yu, also derived from a line of poetry.”
Ye Weifeng waited for him to continue, but Xi Yu refused to reveal the original verse, falling silent instead.
Ye Weifeng suddenly felt that this person was a bit difficult to handle. He didn’t know whether his plan would proceed smoothly, and perhaps this wasn’t a gamble worth taking, but he had no other choice.
“I want you to take me away from here,” Ye Weifeng spoke slowly.
Xi Yu paused slightly. What did that mean?
“I mean leaving this house. Every day, people abuse and whip me, and having no power to resist, I can only endure it in silence.”
“The roof leaks every day, and rainwater drips onto my hair as if it’s going to pierce right through a stone.”
“I never get enough to eat every day and am always starved. They only give me food when I perform well.”
Looking at those pretty eyes brimming with tears, Xi Yu involuntarily spoke up, “They?”
The avatar took a step forward, as if wanting to give Xi Yu an embrace. Clearly, he was a product generated by code and could never touch him in the real world, yet the moment he rushed forward, Xi Yu subconsciously stretched out his hands, wanting to catch him.
He felt the boy was like a low-chanting siren by the sea, while he was the sailor trapped on a ship, hearing the siren sing and charm him.
“I’m begging you, save me, take me out of here, Xi Yu!”
Xi Yu took the bait. Not because of that shallow and easily seen-through alluring tactic, but because Xi Yu saw his own reflection in that avatar.
Equally pitiful!