Chapter 162.2: Player 2937, Are You Sure?
As the fairy’s words fell, a golden palace rose up in front of He Miao. The banquet tables were covered in a dazzling array of food. The smell of roast chicken immediately made his stomach growl in hunger.
He reached out and grabbed a piece—
The texture felt real, and the taste was rich and savory.
He Miao bit down on the tip of his tongue.
…Yep.
It hurt like hell. Definitely not a dream.
Then he suddenly remembered something. “My… wish?”
The little fairy flipped open a book and said, “According to subconscious scanning data, you’ve had 297 thoughts along the lines of ‘Whatever, just let me die,’ 713 complaints like ‘When the hell is this crappy life gonna end,’ and 1,053 daydreams involving things like ‘Ugh, I just wanna be a winner at life.’ All of these surfaced in your subconscious simultaneously last night. So your desire was extremely strong~”
He Miao: “…”
“All right, stop talking! That’s so embarrassing!” He cut the fairy off in anguish, sitting down on the soft grass and feeling like the whole situation was completely absurd.
After a moment, he asked, “Hell difficulty?”
The fairy hesitated. “Well, personally, we do recommend the second option more…”
He Miao said, “Cut the crap.”
The fairy quietly pointed him to the entrance of the challenge.
Half an hour later, He Miao stumbled out of the gate covered in injuries, scowling as he dumped healing potion all over his wounds.
“This isn’t Hell difficulty—it’s psycho Hell difficulty…!”
The little fairy chuckled awkwardly. “Haha, yeah, it’s… kinda hard.”
He Miao didn’t respond.
In front of him was a sparkling lake. He stared at the rippling water for a long time.
Then he closed his eyes, waiting for the dream to end.
At the same time, the movie theater was no longer silent—whispers of discussion began bubbling up in the crowd.
—
This wasn’t exactly an unexpected development.
From the trailer alone, the audience already knew that the movie The Player referred to a player in a virtual game world. That this story had two worlds. And the two were linked through the consciousness of the protagonist, He Miao.
The main character, He Miao, really had been diagnosed with a rare illness.
In the final three months of his life, he could travel between the game world and the real one through his dreams.
He could choose to beat the game.
Or he could choose to do nothing—and simply wait for death.
If he succeeded at the former, he’d earn the right to stay in the real world. But the game was brutally difficult.
If he chose the latter, then after three months, he would be absorbed by the game, becoming an NPC with a preserved consciousness.
Meanwhile, his body in the real world would be replaced by a puppet—one that others wouldn’t be able to tell was fake.
The upside: he’d be immortal.
The downside: he’d be trapped in a virtual world forever.
Of course, once one of the two options was chosen, it could no longer be changed.
And in fact, He Miao wasn’t the only one granted this opportunity to choose.
He couldn’t see it, but the audience in the theater could.
On the big screen in front of them were countless small windows—terminal patients from all around the world, who had all, coincidentally, received an invitation to the game Reset to Zero.
This was a global-scale challenge. Every selected individual had their own unique player ID.
There was no limit to the number of attempts allowed, and the reward for clearing the game… was life in the real world.
*
“What made you think of this?” Xie Xizhao asked.
At the time he asked, he and Xuan Yang were still in K City.
He was surprised at how similar this game world was to a system world—so much so that, if not for the obvious signs that Xuan Yang wasn’t, he would’ve thought the other had once been part of a system too.
Xuan Yang paused. “…You remember when I won that award? There was a cash prize. I donated part of it.”
“The donation campaign,” he explained. “I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but later they said the amount was relatively large, and one of the patients wanted to thank me in person, so I went.”
He had gone to the critical care ward.
There, he met several patients who were approaching the end of their lives. In their eyes, he saw a desperate yearning for life. It deeply moved him.
“But it’s strange,” he continued. “I’ve also met plenty of people who believe their lives are synonymous with misfortune. If they could choose, they’d rather stay in some kind of utopia where they could live forever—even if they were just a string of virtual code.”
It was a different understanding of what it meant to live. So in the film, he gave them a choice.
On one side: eternal life in a virtual world full of beauty and fantasy.
On the other: a hellishly difficult path filled with almost unbearable suffering.
He even gave them a one-month trial period.
On the screen, one side showed palaces, feasts, and all imaginable freedom and beauty.
The virtual world was a complete one. In it, players could make friends with native NPCs, travel across different regions of the map, and even attend school and study in their spare time.
On the other side were monsters that humans stood no chance against.
The pain and fear of being torn apart, of dying over and over again, were real. Success looked like a distant dream, with no end in sight.
After repeated attempts, many people made their choice.
So… what about He Miao?
—
He Miao sat in a breakfast shop, across from him was Fan Xing, the lead singer of some underground band.
Fan Xing was He Miao’s friend—arguably the only person on equal footing with him, not one of his little lackeys.
Fan Xing had a bit of that artsy melancholy vibe. The lyrics he wrote were full of poetic sorrow, and even the things he said carried that dramatic air. His dream was to die romantically on an open-air stage under a sky full of stars while singing his heart out.
He Miao mercilessly shot that down: “If you die in public, your head’s going to slam into the floor. You can’t even control which way you fall. No matter how you spin it, it sounds extremely unromantic. I suggest you reconsider.”
But the guy could keep a secret, and he always had a lot on his mind. The two of them sat in the breakfast shop—one biting into a bun, the other sipping soy milk. He Miao said, “Xing, what kind of existence am I to you?”
Fan Xing replied, “Your tombstone can be neighbors with mine.”
He Miao: “…”
“Can you not be so obsessed with dying all the time?” he said helplessly. “I…”
What if he really did die?
He rolled his eyes and held it in. Then he said, “So, let’s say… I have this friend.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Fan Xing asked, not even looking up.
Well, now there was no way to ask it properly.
He Miao finished his bun and went home, staring at himself in the mirror. The boy in the reflection looked disheveled, indifferent, aimless—already showing signs of illness.
This was someone who only had three months left before meeting the King of Hell.
He thought to himself.
It all seemed absurd.
He tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the person in the mirror gave a wry, almost ridiculous smile.
…
He Miao felt that there was nothing for him to hesitate about.
He had a pair of parents who were as good as dead, few friends, and was a problem child. If nothing unexpected happened, he would likely be a burden to society in the future.
A person like him, the world didn’t need him. It would be better for him to shine in the game world. The only thing he was reluctant to leave behind was his grandparents. He had tried a few times, but honestly, it was too hard.
He was indeed familiar with the game mechanics. But that was based on the premise that he wouldn’t get hurt in real life.
His best performance was on the eighteenth day of the trial period. His progress bar had reached 58% for the first time. The little fairy praised him, saying that he was the fastest player to reach the progress in the entire game, but that was still far from completing the game.
Forget it, he thought.
He had heard that the puppets the game found were just like real people, and they should be more obedient than him.
A rebellious person like him, who only caused his grandparents pain with his constant injuries, might as well be replaced by someone else.
With that thought, for two consecutive nights, he didn’t try to finish the game before falling asleep.
He wandered through the castle of his residence, strolling through the market. He met many enthusiastic people, kind-hearted and sincere. What surprised him the most was that he even encountered people from the real world here.
Some were Chinese, some were foreigners. They already had NPC markers on their heads. They greeted him warmly, then shared their lives here with him.
They said this was a paradise.
In this place, there were no diseases, no worries, no chaos.
There were only slightly repetitive but not boring NPC tasks, and a carefree life.
They said, “You’ll like it here, darling.”
They sent He Miao a basket of fresh fruit.
When He Miao woke up, he still faced the mottled wall and the desolate world outside.
He Miao felt the weakness in his own body.
When he fought, he always vaguely felt a pain in his abdomen.
He pressed his waist, gritted his teeth, and pulled the person next to him away, making sure they avoided the brick coming from the opposite side.
The hard brick brushed against his arm. The thug with a non-mainstream “kill me” hairstyle grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall. He retaliated, using clever force to pin the person down on the ground.
He wasn’t injured today. His slim waist and abdomen were smooth and delicate as he pressed on the painful spot. For the first time, he felt the approach of death.
…
The next day, he went to school on time.
His homeroom teacher was a bit surprised but also pleased.
She smiled with relief and said, “Just like this, it’s good. You’re young, and there’s still plenty of time ahead of you.”
He tugged at the corner of his mouth and pretended to be obedient: “Thank you, Teacher.”
Then he sat down.
A bird outside the window chirped. They weren’t data, they were still afraid of people. Once people arrived, they flapped their wings and flew away in all directions.
Spring had arrived.
Spring had arrived, and the day to make a decision had come.
On the day of the choice, he normally ate the breakfast his grandparents made for him. He went to school as usual and supported his little brothers as usual. As dusk fell, he entered the game and told the little fairy:
“I choose option one.”
…
“I choose option one.”
This sentence rang out simultaneously in every theater screening The Player.
In nearly every showing, there were people whose faces bore silence and shock.
Equally shocked was the little fairy on the screen.
For the first time, it showed an expression other than its usual dazed look. “…Player 2937, are you sure?”
It was a decision that would surprise anyone.
In fact, after rigorous calculations and analysis, people like He Miao were statistically the most likely to choose to stay in the game world.
Because they had no attachments, nothing holding them back.
“I’m not Player 2937,” He Miao calmly corrected it. “I’m He Miao.”
Outside the screen, Xie Xizhao lowered his eyes and suddenly smiled.
On the screen, the gentle-faced boy revealed, for the first time, an expression so striking it could almost be called aggressive. He still looked as casual as ever, but his words came out clearly and firmly, one by one: “I don’t need any fake version of me to replace me. I am who I am. I want to live. And if I can’t, then I’ll die trying. I won’t regret it.”
[Even if I can’t make it back, I gave it my best during this time. I have no regrets.]
The figure on the screen pressed the cursor.
In an instant, the field of blooming flowers beneath his feet dissolved into nothingness, replaced by a gaping black abyss.
The game’s final boss appeared before him, revealing its bloody, gaping maw.
And in front of Xie Xizhao, it was as if that same old confirmation panel reappeared.
He suddenly closed his eyes. The fear and panic that had once lurked beneath the surface now surged forth in full force—for the first time, real and overwhelming. But this time, they were no longer venomous snakes coiled in the depths of his heart.
They had become fireworks, bursting brilliantly across the sky.
He Miao began to clear the game.
He was a gaming prodigy. The reigning champion of the Whac-A-Mole tournament. Taking down a boss was nothing to him.
He calculated each hit with precision, relying on the data he had gathered from countless attempts.
In the final week, he was practically living inside the game.
No one knew that his progress bar had nearly reached 99%.
But he had only one chance. No saves. No do-overs. If he failed, he’d become nothing more than a cold corpse in the real world.
But… he thought.
So what?
He only wanted something real—something within reach. Even if it was scarred and broken, he wanted a life that was vivid and alive.
He was He Miao, not Player 2937. He staked everything he had for a shot at survival. And even if he failed, his soul would still shine bright.
Because there was no room for error, every step He Miao took was cautious and deliberate.
At the same time, he encountered many companions who had already become NPCs.
In the final moment, he dragged his injured body to the boss’s domain and calmly healed himself within the trigger zone.
From beneath the terrifying boss mask, a familiar face was revealed.
He Miao froze.
It was the person who had called him darling back in the town square.
That person tossed him some healing items and said, “Impressive. Out of everyone in our batch, you’re the only one still holding on.”
Unlike what many viewers had assumed, the other path wasn’t some flower-filled trap.
It truly was a peaceful resting place—where, after losing the chance to live in the real world, one could gain immortality in the virtual one. And even as an NPC, they hadn’t lost their consciousness or humanity.
“Look,” he said, “this outfit—I can take it off as soon as I’m off duty.”
“If you hit me, I won’t feel anything. I’m just data,” he said. “But you will feel pain.”
“If you give up now,” he continued, “they’ve promised to make an exception and let you into this world. Are you really still going to keep pushing forward?”
He was here to persuade him.
He Miao was silent for a moment.
“I’ve actually thought about it many times,” he said. “I kept thinking, why?”
Why didn’t his mom and dad want him? Why did he have to live in that kind of environment? Why, out of all the people in this vast world, did he seem like one of the unluckiest?
Why?
Why do accidents happen? Why is there death? Why is there pain and fear?
“I couldn’t come up with any answers,” He Miao said with a smile. “This world just doesn’t make sense. The moment you open your eyes, you’re in it. Everything you go through feels like it’s already been decided.”
“But then I thought,” he smiled again, “says who? I want to try fighting back.”
“It’s strange,” he said. “Once I had the thought of resisting, life suddenly didn’t seem so dull anymore.”
“I think that whole idea of ‘happiness is defined by suffering’ sounds like a coping mechanism,” He Miao said. “Happiness is happiness. Suffering is suffering. But I have to admit, the contrast really does work. Now I feel like, whether I’m happy or in pain, as long as I’m still me—real and one of a kind—then everything I’ve gone through doesn’t seem so unbearable anymore.”
“I’m not saying your choice is wrong,” he said, lying on the ground, his fine features catching the light. “Who doesn’t want immortality? Even as data—who knows how many parallel universes are out there in the cosmos? This is just my personal choice.”
“I want to live with all my heart,” he said. “You know, for as long as I can remember, I’ve hated myself. I always thought I was just some unwanted piece of trash. But during this time… for the first time, I felt like maybe I wasn’t that terrible. At the very least, I once gave something my all.”
Humans are such small, yet astonishing creatures. Each one of them, a grain of sand in the vast machinery of time and the world—but when they pour every bit of themselves into something, that energy can be seen. By themselves. By all living things.
Perhaps that, too, is the meaning of being human.
“I’ve had enough rest,” he said, standing up. “Let’s do this.”
He adjusted the weapon in his hands. Once he confirmed its surface was restored—smooth and gleaming—he charged at the boss in front of him.
Falling, rising. Falling again, and rising again.
Beneath the giant screen, with cheerful background music and robotic sound effects echoing, the beautiful young man was struck down over and over again. Blood bloomed in the air like vivid, jarring flowers. Alongside the distant sound of firecrackers outside, it became a strange, magnificent symphony.
And at the exact moment his weapon pierced the boss’s heart, the pixelated sky above exploded in a burst of massive fireworks.
The word “Victory” appeared boldly across the screen.
He lay on the ground, eyes reflecting the sky full of fireworks and stars. And in that moment, he finally made peace with his fate.
