After Transmigrating into the Cyber Game, I Defeated the Boss and Successfully Rose to the Top Chapter 1: Sea of Darkness - (1)

Author’s Note:

The protagonist’s na is Kui (kuí) Xin. “Kui” sounds like “kui” as in sunflower (“kui hua”).

***

Kui Xin was jolted awake by notifications from her class group chat.

Her vision was still blurry upon waking up. She fumbled beneath her pillow for her phone and squinted to decipher the ssages on the screen.

“We have announced the list of Crimson Earth’s first batch of closed beta players!”

“Is this real?”

“The official website posted it just three minutes ago [image].”

“Dang! Who’s that lucky?”

“Only ten thousand spots for the initial closed beta? Considering it’s a worldwide selection, isn’t the number released by the officials too low?!”

It took Kui Xin a mont to react, waiting until the drowsiness dissipated before recalling that she had also applied for the ga’s beta testing under her classmates’ encouragent. Ten months ago, she casually filled out a questionnaire on the official website and submitted it.

At that ti, “Crimson Earth” had just released its trailer, with the promotional tagline being “A groundbreaking holographic ga: your second world made reality.”

The trailer instantly captivated gars worldwide. The ga’s selling points included open-world exploration and multi-path career choices.

Moreover, it combined cyberpunk elents with extraordinary abilities. Players could either follow the technological path, becoming cyborgs with full-body chanical prosthetics or pursue the extraordinary route, awakening various mystical powers.

The ga was grounded in reality yet transcended it, blending fantasy with an unparalleled sense of authenticity as if mirroring the real world.

What truly captivated Kui Xin were the last two sentences in the ga’s description.

“Light invariably breeds darkness; beneath the prosperous facade of cities, there always lurks a side of decay and corruption.”

“In comparison to wealth and power, survival and death are the eternal thes of that world.”

Given this description… perhaps “Crimson Earth,” beyond its cyberpunk aesthetics and superhuman abilities, also incorporated a darker underlying the?

Kui Xin clicked on the screenshot shared in her class group chat. The ga’s official team would send closed beta invitation emails directly to players’ inboxes. Indeed, only ten thousand participants were selected for the initial closed beta phase, with the formal testing date set for tomorrow.

It’s worth noting that when “Crimson Earth” first opened pre-registrations just one day earlier, over ten million people worldwide signed up instantly. After several months, the number of pre-registered users had already surpassed 100 million. Selecting just ten thousand lucky individuals from this massive pool dramatically reduced the chances of being picked for the closed beta.

Despite not harboring much hope, Kui Xin still opened her email inbox to check.

“You have one unread ssage.”

The notification popping up from her inbox startled Kui Xin, causing her heart rate to accelerate as she instantly bounced off the bed.

“Congratulations on obtaining access to the closed beta of the ga ‘Crimson Earth’.”

The email subject was prominently displayed in red. Kui Xin’s expression turned dazed; she repeatedly checked the sender and compared it with the officially announced email account, confirming again and again in disbelief.

Once she finally verified that this email indeed ca from an official source, the first thought that surged through her mind was—I’ve struck gold! I’ve struck gold!!

Selling this closed beta access would undoubtedly fetch a substantial amount of money!

A poor ghost’s delight!

Kui Xin had always been plagued by misfortune. Her father lost his investnts and fled with the funds, while her mother, after remarrying, provided only a fixed monthly allowance of eight hundred yuan for living expenses. It barely covered food, leaving little room for purchasing study materials or clothes. The second-hand smartphone she used was even bought with earnings from working part-ti at a bubble tea shop.

Living alone in the old house left by her grandparents, Kui Xin diligently studied day and night, resilient like tenacious wild grass, enduring until now.

At the end of this sumr vacation, Kui Xin will be starting university. Her academic performance was strong, allowing her to get accepted into a reputable institution, but the tuition fees and living expenses were a cause for concern.

If she could sell her closed beta access for Crimson Earth, she wouldn’t have to worry about her living expenses for quite so ti.

However, the following sentence in the email dashed Kui Xin’s hopes:

“Closed beta access for Crimson Earth is non-transferable and cannot be gifted; the invitation codes are permanently linked to the player’s registration information. This closed beta will not involve monetization, nor will accounts be wiped after its conclusion.”

Kui Xin’s face fell, clouded with disappointnt, as her potential inco source was ruthlessly cut off.

In fact, she didn’t really care about gas because she lacked even basic equipnt, such as a holographic headset, which made it impossible for her to play them. When filling out the ga survey initially, it was rely on a whim, hoping to join the hype. Most importantly, she had thought, “What if closed beta access becos tradable? I could make a fortune.”

Kui Xin pondered back and forth, feeling sadly that although she had beco one of the ten thousand lucky participants worldwide, she remained just as impoverished and unlucky as before. Drawing the closed beta access yet being unable to experience the ga felt akin to having mountains of gold and silver but being unable to spend them, causing imnse frustration.

She sighed and continued scrolling through the screen.

The email was very short, with little substantive content. However, as Kui Xin reached the end, she was pleasantly surprised to find the phrase, “If the player agrees to join the ga, the gaming company will provide them with customized gaming equipnt.”

Kui Xin exclaid internally, ‘Yes!’

Her concerns were alleviated; now she could finally play the ga! Kui Xin’s mood oscillated like a rollercoaster.

At the end of the email, there was a link to a player survey questionnaire.

Curious, Kui Xin clicked on the link.

Question 1: If given the opportunity for rebirth, would you accept it?

Is that even a question? Without hesitation, Kui Xin selected the option representing her affirmative response.

Rebirth ant starting anew, and her current life was already dreadful enough—how much worse could it get?

Question 2: Do you believe there are deities in this world?

Kui Xin chose “No.” She was a firm atheist.

Question 3: Would you desire superpowers?

“Yes!”

Her wish for superpowers did not conflict with her being an atheist!

“You have completed the survey.”

“The ga-related docunts and important notes have been sent to your email. Please check accordingly.”

“The Closed Beta Player Anonymous Forum is now open to you. Please save the URL and register promptly.”

Kui Xin carefully reviewed the new ssage and, following the text prompt, first saved the URL of the anonymous player forum.

The content of so ga-closed betas is considered confidential trade secrets and is not to be disclosed externally. The purpose of beta players is to assist developers in identifying bugs and fixing ga vulnerabilities. The creators of “Crimson Earth” provided a dedicated forum for beta players, possibly allowing them a space to interact and share information.

Currently, only ten thousand individuals have obtained access to the closed beta, so the forum’s content should be quite limited; she would be among the initial wave of pioneers on this forum.

Kui Xin didn’t imdiately register on the closed beta forum. Instead, she opened her inbox to check the newly sent ga files. Typically, these docunts require players’ signatures as confirmation, serving as contracts with legal implications for breach of terms.

She clicked open the new email and was taken aback just after reading the first few lines:

“Six Piece Of Advice For ‘Crimson Earth’ Players: You can choose to follow or disregard these, but any consequences arising from disregarding them will solely be your responsibility.”

“First, treat the ga world as if it were real.”

“Second, do not reveal your status as a player to anyone.”

“Third, do not disclose ga content to anyone.”

“Fourth, you have only one life; death is irreversible.”

“Fifth, once you choose to start the ga, there are two paths available: ‘ga completion’ or ‘character’s death.'”

“Sixth, everything cos at a price.”

This… just these few lines? Isn’t it too hasty for the ga disclair to contain only these statents?

Kui Xin was utterly perplexed.

Playing a ga should be straightforward; it diminishes the fun when the ga developers intentionally create ambiguity with atmospheric phrases in their warnings. The term “real world” is rely a marketing gimmick—everyone knows that ga worlds are fictional.

Kui Xin clicked open the ga agreent file, which required her signature.

She ticulously read through it from beginning to end, but even after going over it twice, she couldn’t find any confidentiality clauses within the docunt. However, the clear instructions labeled “Six Pieces Of Advice For ‘Crimson Earth’ Players” explicitly stated not to reveal ga content.

It seed too peculiar and contradictory. If they didn’t want players to disclose information, why not include a confidentiality agreent in the legally binding docunt? Those advisory points had no enforceable constraints.

At the end of the docunt, there was an electronic signature field, and Kui Xin entered her na.

Just as she finished signing, a small pop-up window appeared with bold red text: “Do you confirm joining the ga? You have only one chance to exit.”

Is there only one chance to exit?

Kui Xin, unconcerned, clicked “confirm” without hesitation.

The page changed, revealing new prompts.

“Contract completed.”

“Welco to your rebirth, Kui Xin.”

…Why does this ga sound so mystical? Kui Xin looked puzzled at the computer screen.

After so contemplation, she opened the closed beta anonymous forum and clicked on registration.

The registration process was unbelievably simple; all that was required was to enter the Closed Beta invitation code.

In the nickna field, Kui Xin casually typed “233.” All her gaming usernas were simply “233,” as she lacked creativity for naming characters, and any carefully chosen nas often turned out to be too common. Thus, Kui Xin stuck with “233” indefinitely.

“Once confird, the nickna cannot be modified.”

Unfazed, Kui Xin clicked “confirm” as usual.

A new ssage popped up.

“You have beco the 233rd registered player on the forum.”

“…Ah?” Kui Xin exclaid internally.

What a coincidence! Is 233 her lucky number?

After a brief loading period, Kui Xin saw the forum page.

The background of the forum had a cold tallic sheen, and its design was exceptionally simple with minimal features—only allowing for creating posts, replying to threads, and sending private ssages.

However, at the top right corner of the forum, there was a striking blood-red nural, “10,000.”

Next to “10,000” were small words written: “Number of Survivors.”

For so reason, upon seeing “Number of Survivors,” Kui Xin’s heart jolted, causing a montary palpitation.

On the forum, dozens of threads floated with the label “new.” The forum had just opened, and players had recently registered, resulting in all the fresh postings. Kui Xin refreshed the page, and another ten or so threads appeared. The thread titles included various languages, such as English, Japanese, Russian, and Chinese, reflecting the diverse global community of ten thousand players converging within this small forum.

Kui Xin could stamringly decipher the general aning of the English titles, but for other languages, she was completely unable to translate them.

She briefly scanned through the existing Chinese posts and noticed titles such as “Let’s embark on this adventure,” “Any Shanghai players? Let’s et up IRL,” “My na must be in the top hundred threads”… These were typical filler comnts with little substance.

After hesitating for a mont, she clicked to create a new post and typed in the title, “Does anyone find ‘Six Pieces of Advice for Players’ sowhat strange?”

With the title written, Kui Xin’s mouse hovered over the “Post” button without moving for a long ti.

Recalling the phrase “Please treat the ga world as if it were real” and the subsequent warning “You have only one life; death is irreversible,” she glanced at the bloody number “10000” prominently displayed at the top of the forum. Sothing seed to strike deep within her mind.

A sudden chill ran down her spine, yet she couldn’t pinpoint its source. This feeling was abrupt and almost absurd.

Kui Xin rubbed her forehead.

How could sothing straight out of fantasy fiction, where entering a holographoc ga actually transports you to a real-world counterpart, happen in reality?

Despite trying to reassure herself, Kui Xin inexplicably deleted her post content, as if guided by so unseen force. She decided to lurk and observe the situation closely.

She continuously refreshed the forum, reading through each post written in Chinese.

A few minutes later, a new thread caught her attention:

“The ga company hasn’t ntioned anything about shipping gaming equipnt. Has any player received their holographic headset or installation package?”

At the very mont she saw this post, soone knocked on Kui Xin’s door.

She stood up and approached it instinctively, hoping to peek through the peephole, but she couldn’t see anyone.

She waited for a few minutes before slowly opening the door, noticing a small black box quietly lying on the ground. The box contained the words “Crimson Earth.”

Kui Xin opened the box and found inside a silver tallic card with intricate yet skillful designs. The interwoven lines ford a chanical hand.

“This is… a ga commorative card?” Kui Xin examined the card, feeling a chill run down her spine imdiately after.

She recalled that she had never provided her address information on the ga’s official website, so how was this card delivered to her?

Her heart tightened, and she descended downstairs in her slippers.

She lived in an old residential area with outdated facilities, but surveillance caras were installed nearby.

A few elderly n and won were playing mahjong at the entrance of the building stairwell; they all knew each other as neighbors. Kui Xin asked, “Aunt Zhang! Did a delivery person co by just now?”

“Nope, doesn’t Comrade Little Li usually arrive around 3 PM?” Aunt Zhang pushed forward a row of mahjong tiles with delight, exclaiming, “Aiyo, mahjong!”

“Has anyone gone upstairs recently?” Kui Xin pressed further.

“Nope.” Aunt Zhang was engrossed in her ga, not even turning to respond.

Despite it being a scorching July day, Kui Xin felt a chill run down her spine upon hearing this.

No one went upstairs, so who knocked on her door? She had never provided any address information, so why was the Crimson Earth ga card accurately delivered right to her doorstep? Just minutes after signing the ga agreent—no more than five minutes—the card arrived…

Kui Xin looked down at the silver tallic card in her hand and flipped it over.

On the backside, several words were engraved:

Depriver · Kui Xin. Code: 233.The number 233 was the userna she had entered earlier for the ga, as well as her registration sequence on the forum.

Instantly, Kui Xin’s scalp prickled with unease.

It seed that events were spiraling rapidly towards sothing eerie.