12: The Dawn of Received 273 Yuan

Cheng Mo's phone lay on the table, screen up, with only eleven percent battery remaining. He didn't move it, nor did he look at it. His fingers rested on the edge of the table, with bits of instant noodle residue stuck under his fingernails—leftovers from yesterday's lunch. The studio lights weren't on; only the monitor glowed faintly, reflecting half of his face, looking as if someone had hurriedly sketched it with a pencil.

The fan was still spinning, its sound lower than last night, likely due to too much dust accumulation making it hard to turn. The old wall clock in the corner remained stuck in a counter-clockwise position, the minute hand wedged between seven and eight, as if something were biting down on it deathly hard.

He stared at the phone.

He wasn't waiting for a notification, nor was he hoping for feedback. He had already given up hope. The hype from Steel Coin had come and gone quickly; it took only six hours to drop from third on the trending searches to outside the top fifty. Players left as soon as they finished cursing, the game's rating stabilized at 2.1, and not even three positive reviews could be found in the Steam comment section. He knew that with these numbers, it wouldn't survive two weeks.

But just as he was preparing to turn off the power, lie down, and take another bite of a cold rice ball, the phone vibrated.

It wasn't a call, nor a message; it was a bank alert.

[Your account ending in 8821 has received an income of 273.00 RMB. Current balance: 297.56 RMB. Transaction Note: The Livers of 7 Players.]

Cheng Mo blinked.

He blinked again.

He picked up the phone, brought it close to his eyes, swiped open the notification with his thumb, and read it once more. The words were correct, the amount was correct, the time was 10:03 AM, and the payer was listed as "Steam Platform Settlement System."

He looked down at his hands—they weren't shaking. His heartbeat hadn't accelerated either. He didn't even feel that this matter was particularly absurd.

He simply tapped open the bank app, logged in, and checked the details.

Sure enough, there was an entry, the amount was identical, and the note was the same: "The Livers of 7 Players."

He refreshed it once.

It was still there.

He refreshed it again.

It was still there.

He pulled the page to the very top, took a screenshot, and saved it.

Then he opened the phone settings, selected the screenshot, and set it as his lock screen wallpaper.

Now, as long as he lit up the screen, the first thing he would see was that line of text: **The Livers of 7 Players**.

He stared at it for ten seconds, without smiling or speaking. He just gently placed the phone back on the desk, his movements very light, as if afraid of waking something up.

But he knew that something had woken up.

It wasn't a system, wasn't an algorithm, and wasn't some bullshit turning point of fate. It was himself.

The man who had been kicked out of his company, who gnawed on cold rice balls in a convenience store, and who had to calculate a twenty-yuan taxi fare for half a day, was now sitting amidst a pile of scrapped equipment. Looking at a transfer record of 273 yuan, he suddenly felt—this could work.

He stood up, bypassed the power cords scattered across the floor, and walked to the main monitor. The screen was still on the backend data page. Real-time online players: **6**. One fewer than yesterday, but no one had requested a refund. All six IDs were in-game; the longest had been online for four hours and seventeen minutes.

He tapped the keyboard to wake it from sleep mode and pulled up the user behavior heat map. Six light spots were scattered across different levels. Two were stuck at the fourth jumping platform, and one had died over eighty times in a loop on the fifth level.

No one quit.

No one complained.

They were playing.

They were really playing.

It wasn't out of curiosity or to watch the spectacle; they were moving forward, jump by jump, for real.

Cheng Mo let out a breath, his nose feeling a bit sour, but he ignored it. He turned back to his seat, picked up his phone, opened his contacts, and found the number he had saved for three days but never dialed.

He dialed.

A few ringing tones came from the receiver.

He didn't speak, just watched the data stream on the monitor, looking at those six player IDs that refused to quit, like looking at six unburned matches.

The call connected.

He spoke, his voice not loud nor excited, just as if saying "it's time to pay the electricity bill today":

"Chen Hao, buy two cases of Red Bull. We're going to turn this number into seven digits."

The moment the words fell, a new prompt popped up in the bottom right corner of the monitor:

[New Online Player +1]

Cheng Mo didn't move, nor did he hang up the phone. He just leaned his body forward slightly, his eyes fixed on the screen, watching that number jump from 6 to 7.

The seventh ID finished loading, entered the main interface, stayed for three seconds, and clicked "Start Game."

The character appeared on the edge of the first jumping platform. The sound of wind rose, and the pixelated little figure swayed, waiting for instructions.

Cheng Mo's fingers unconsciously rubbed the silver stud in his right ear; it was the only thing his father had left him. When he was a child, he had asked why he only wore one. His father said, "Because as long as it's bright enough, it doesn't need to be a pair."

Now, he also only needed this bit of light.

As long as it was bright enough.

He remained in the calling posture, phone pressed to his ear, his gaze never leaving the screen. The new player had already cleared the first level in two minutes and fourteen seconds; the movements were clumsy but steady. Before the second level began, the system automatically pushed a beginner tip, which was manually closed by the other party.

—No help needed.

—Do it yourself.

The corner of Cheng Mo's mouth twitched slightly, very faintly, like an electric current coursing through muscle.

He said nothing, nor did he hang up. There was no response from the other end of the phone either, only faint static noise, like someone far away was tuning equipment.

But he knew that the message had been sent.

It wasn't said to Chen Hao.

It was said to the whole world.

273 yuan wasn't much; it wasn't even enough to pay for a week of server electricity. But it wasn't a refund, it wasn't a tip, and it wasn't a charitable donation.

It was a share of the profits.

It was someone willing to pay for this pain.

It was seven players, using their livers to trade for recognition.

He slowly sat back in his chair, his back straight, no longer slumped. The dark circles were still there, his stubble was unshaven, and the cuffs of his hoodie were frayed. But his entire state had changed.

He was no longer a person waiting for news.

He was a person waiting for the storm.

The seventh player on the monitor was stuck at the end of the second jumping platform. A perspective shift caused the jump timing to go haywire, and they fell into the abyss. The loading animation appeared, the progress bar advanced slowly, and the words "Welcome to Hell" surfaced once again.

The player retried.

Failed.

Retried again.

On the third attempt, the jump was successful.

The level clear prompt popped up, lasted for five seconds, and disappeared automatically.

System record: First clear achieved.

Backend data updated: Achievement unlocks +1, average survival duration increased to 8 minutes and 43 seconds.

Cheng Mo stared at that update record and finally moved his hand.

He took the phone away from his ear; the screen was still lit, the call not yet hung up. He re-entered the bank app and checked the balance page.

It was still 297.56 yuan.

But he no longer cared about this number.

What he cared about was the next 273, and the one after that. It was ten thousand, one hundred thousand; it was when every platform wrote "this game is toxic," yet someone still clicked on it, put on their headphones, took a deep breath, and pressed the start button.

His right hand was on the keyboard, and his left hand held the phone, maintaining a posture as if about to issue a command. His eyes were always fixed on the monitor, watching the seventh player enter the third level with steady steps and a clear rhythm.

There was no wild joy, no shouting, no slamming the table in celebration.

There was only a quiet certainty, like a seed buried in the soil, quietly cracking its shell in the depths where no one could see.

The studio was still dim, the fan hummed, instant noodle boxes were piled in the corner of the desk, and the stickers on the wall were yellowed and curled. Nothing had changed.

But some things were already different.

He said softly, as if talking to himself, yet also as if confirming:

"Seven people... that's enough."