Chapter 22
“Sorry.”
Although he didn’t know how the information had leaked, Han Shuo still apologized immediately. “We will give Mr. Jiang an explanation.”
Jiang Jitang had no reason to lie to him, so the people from the Research Society really had come to him—earlier than they did.
Yet a multi-use healing item was such an important matter, and they had actually let it leak. Even if Jiang Jitang turned hostile and walked away now, no one could blame him.
Who knew which link in the chain had gone wrong?
Fortunately, judging from his tone, Jiang Jitang hadn’t joined the Research Society yet. They still had a chance. Even if he wouldn’t join, at least becoming friends was good enough.
“More than the Research Society, what I really want to know is: who ambushed me back then?” Jiang Jitang had come out specifically to ask about this. Although Song Ji’an had said the Dongying Association did it, he still wanted confirmation.
“We’ve investigated,” Han Shuo said. “For something that can be used in reality, appears as paper, and kills without a trace—matching what happened at the time—there is only one item that fits: the Life-and-Death Record, which came from the already closed zone of the ‘No-Constant Walker’ instance. And currently, it’s said that only two organizations possess this item: Dongying Association and Butterfly Valley.”
Closed zone?
“It’s already closed? You’re certain only those two organizations have it?”
“I can’t be certain about others, but the instance ‘No-Constant Walker’ originated in our C-Country, and it’s a sixth-level advanced dungeon. Anyone who played it, we would know. As you know, after an instance is cleared many times, it becomes permanently closed. ‘No-Constant Walker’ instance was closed after five clears—two of which were high-score clears that had a chance of dropping clearance items.”
“What tier player are you?” Jiang Jitang asked.
Han Shuo looked a little embarrassed. “I haven’t played much, only a fourth-tier player.”
“Mr. Han is being too modest. You also guide newcomers?”
“When needed, yes. We all help each other.”
“You use the players’ forum?”
“I browse casually. Rarely post.”
“What do you usually do for leisure?”
“Read. Play games. Our leader says—”
Halfway through, Han Shuo froze. He suddenly realized—why was he answering all this like he was being interviewed?
He looked at the person beside him, but Jiang Jitang was innocently biting his straw, looking harmless.
…Perhaps it was only because he himself was too serious that a normal conversation had turned into an interview?
A small group had existed for two years and eight months now, internally calling it the Cube World. Players were ranked by tiers, and because team-linked items might exist, veteran players could take newcomers through dungeons.
Player organizations were common. The government also had its own, though likely infiltrated. Still, they’d left a decent impression and could be partners in trade.
Players had their own forum. It was unclear whether the forum was provided by Cube World itself or created by humans. He could search later; if he couldn’t find it, he’d look for another way to probe.
Only players could access or relay information about Cube World. Otherwise, spoken words became garbled noise and written words blurred beyond recognition. Cube World might be protecting itself—or building a wall. The boundary between players and non-players would only grow sharper.
The dangerous games in Cube World had levels. Each instance produced fixed items—one or more—and high scores were needed for drops.
Once an instance was cleared enough times, it closed, so clearance data was likely extremely valuable—tradable for items, intel, or real-world resources.
A month ago, immunity rights appeared, so players started dragging large numbers of newcomers in as cannon fodder.
When a player died inside, they would die in reality in some corresponding manner. Injuries also carried over, and special wounds required items to heal or suppress—making healers rare.
…If one controlled the medical system, one could probably identify players hiding among civilians.
He still had many things he wanted to know, but there was no rush. He had patience.
“Does Mr. Jiang have any plans?”
The special detector hidden in Han Shuo’s chest bandage vibrated—one long, one short—meaning “probe.”
So he pretended as if suddenly remembering his purpose, and asked the question.
“No plan. I’ll just take things as they come. And you, Mr. Han? Not resting a few more days?”
“As a fourth-tier cube player, I must enter a game once every twenty-one days. Although my last run was seven days ago, I need to farm low-level instances for high scores to get items. I’ve been doing dungeon runs non-stop lately.” He sighed.
“That really is tiring.”
“Actually, I’m considered lucky,” Han Shuo said.
At least he met Jiang Jitang, who could save him—unlike some senior players who had already sacrificed themselves.
“I still have something to do. I’ll leave now. If you need anything, come to me.”
Finishing the last sip of milk tea, Jiang Jitang patted his shoulder and walked away. Han Shuo sat frozen, his hand slowly pressing his chest.
The itching sensation from fast healing wasn’t there this time, but he could clearly feel that whatever had been preventing his wound from healing was now completely gone.
Just like that? No other cost?
“Are you interested in forming a team?” Han Shuo couldn’t help asking.
“We’ll see.”
He wasn’t truly a player—just passing through their world—so he couldn’t team up.
“At least first clear away those extra eyes and ears you have inside.”
Han Shuo’s face flushed red.
The world was full of undercurrents, but the excitement belonged to others. Deliveryman Little Jiang still had to keep working cautiously.
—
He returned home. The two local recycling stations delivered the dismantled wooden house, the wooden beds, and the wardrobe.
“Thanks for the hard work. Take care.”
He handed them chilled bottled water and closed the backyard door. Fortunately, the backyard had nothing except his electric bike and was spacious enough.
There was a lot to do for this order. He couldn’t finish everything today, so he covered the materials with tarps, except for the palm-fiber mattresses, which he cleaned and set out to dry.
“I can still complete the meal-delivery order today.”
—
From 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. was the evening market. Most of the goods sold were leftovers from the day—cheap, sometimes bundled with other unsold items. He used to love coming here, and today he came again.
“75 yuan, for seven people.”
Seventy-five wasn’t little. He could buy casually to muddle through, but he preferred perfection.
“There must be meat, vegetables, and enough calories.”
There was also a hidden requirement: “quickly supply necessary nutrients.” That squad seemed trapped somewhere, unable to sit peacefully and enjoy a fine meal.
He suspected they had been hungry for a while—they needed calories, water, salt, fat, and vitamins.
He bought disposable oil-paper sheets, food containers, cups, and the stall owner gave him plates, chopsticks, and spoons for free.
Watermelons were in season. Local ones were cheap—0.3–2 yuan per half-kilo. He bought a large one, around ten catties. He rounded down the price to nine yuan. Fruit course: done.
Then tomatoes, eggs, scallions—for tomato egg soup.
As for dishes, simple was best: blanched greens, half a braised egg, and a whole Orleans roasted chicken leg.
The frozen chicken legs were cheap—two bags, eight legs, close to expiration. After haggling: 52 yuan.
Most importantly—they tasted good.
People disliked factory-raised fast-growth chickens, but he didn’t. Their meat was loose and dry, and some farms used too many antibiotics, but they were cheap and provided digestible protein. With spices and cooking, the texture could be fixed.
He bought five jin of broken rice—1.2 yuan per jin—good for eating or feeding chickens.
He also bought a large bag of toast, a box of latte, coconut milk, and more—these were for home consumption, not part of the order.
—
Back home, he washed the rice and put it in the cooker. Wearing gloves, he coated the marinated chicken legs with oil and placed them in the oven.
He boiled eggs, peeled them, and put them in melted marinade jelly—good time to clear the fridge.
It was nearly six o’clock.
Then the tomato egg soup—he made the richer version.
Blanch tomatoes to peel them, dice, sauté until soft, add salt, sugar, water to boil, then pour in beaten eggs and finish with scallions.
This soup came out with a layer of red oil, full tomato flavor, sour and sweet.
He tasted it lightly. His eyebrows lifted with joy. “Perfect.”
“?”
Golden Eye stared at the thick red oil on top. Jiang Jitang’s cooking was usually delicious and healthy—but this time he deliberately used fat and heavy salt.
It couldn’t help but ask.
He ladled the soup into disposable bowls.
“In resource-poor places, most people are malnourished.
“Why was donkey-hide gelatin considered a precious tonic in ancient times? Because it contains high concentrations of animal protein, collagen, and vitamins—quickly supplementing what people lacked.
“High sugar and high fat are poison to modern people, but to ancient civilians, they were life-saving nutrition.
“Salt is the same. Modern people don’t lack salt, but ancient people—especially laborers—needed much more.”
The task world wasn’t ancient times, but worse. Even warriors looked lean and underfed. They lacked calories and salts.
The best food was the food the eater needed most. That was Mrs. Jiang’s belief—and his.
He packed seven portions, then he and Golden Eye quickly ate their own Orleans chicken-leg meals. After resting five minutes, he submitted the order.
Before confirming, he put on his liquid protective suit and took the stun gun.
—
But at the moment the world shifted, heavy negative energy nearly pierced the parts of him not yet fully covered, injuring the exposed skin.
“Watch out!”
A shout came from behind. A bullet flew past him, blasting through the head of a rat leaping from the grass. A bloody hole burst open on the other side.
But the rat didn’t die. It stood up, shaking its head, its fur standing like black needles, eyes blood-red, and its long, curved claws sliced grass roots as thick as saplings with ease.
Jiang Jitang gripped his stun gun tightly.
Just as it prepared to pounce, a black blade flew in, chopping half its neck open. This time it finally collapsed, twitching twice before going still.
“Where the hell did you come from? This isn’t a sightseeing spot!”
As Jiang Jitang stared at the rat the size of a boar, a bearded man clutching his arm emerged from the grass. He smelled of treated wounds—disinfectant mixed with blood.
But what caught Jiang Jitang’s attention was the glowing text above the man’s head: [Black Eagle Squad Member.]
A wisher.
