27: A wealth avalanche of 500,000 yuan

Cheng Mo held half a lollipop stick in his right hand while soldering a vibration motor onto a test controller with his left. A tiny cluster of sparks flashed from the tip of the soldering iron. He squinted, avoiding the intense light, the low hum of server fans buzzing in his ears. Chen Hao sat at the workstation on the right, his glasses reflecting a blue glare as his fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the keyboard, lines of encrypted protocols automatically generating logs.

His phone suddenly vibrated, sliding half an inch across the desk.

The screen lit up, and a bank notification window popped up: "Your account ending in 8821 has received 500,000.00 yuan. Current balance: 503,721.46 yuan."

Cheng Mo froze, the soldering iron hovering in mid-air. A drop of molten solder fell, solidifying into a small, irregular bump on the plastic casing. He didn't move, nor did he tap for details. He simply stared at that string of numbers for three seconds, then let out a soft "Hmm," as if confirming that a preset parameter had finally run through successfully.

He set down the soldering iron, casually tossed the broken lollipop stick into a cola can, pulled the main console keyboard closer, and called up the financial panel. The page automatically refreshed, charts flashing with highlights. The cumulative income curve shot up sharply at the five hundred thousand mark. Below, a clear annotation read: Number of transactions: 1,873; Number of refunds: 0; All payment platforms are legitimate channels; taxes have been automatically settled.

"It's arrived," he said, his voice quiet, as if speaking to the machines.

Chen Hao didn't look up. "Four hours and seventeen minutes earlier than the model predicted. The error likely stems from the impulsive spending window Steel Coin created after his livestream last night."

"It shows the harsher people curse, the quicker their hands move," Cheng Mo chuckled, swiping his finger to drag the entire report into the projection program.

Just then, the iron door was pushed open.

The metal hinges let out a harsh grating sound as Li Wei strode in, a folder tucked under her arm, her brows furrowed into a tight knot. She wore a gray-blue professional suit, one shoulder strap slightly slipped down, clearly having rushed over in a hurry.

"I just received a tip," she stopped in front of the two, her tone direct. "Does this count as illegal fundraising? Collecting so much money from players at once, with no refunds? And the amount concentrated in such a short burst—"

She pulled out a printed sheet and slapped it onto the desk. It was a screenshot from a forum, the title reading: 'Beware the New Mind-Control Game! Thousands Paying Voluntarily to Be Tormented.'

Cheng Mo didn't look at the paper. He pressed the enter key, activating the projector. A white beam of light hit the opposite wall, displaying the financial report in full screen. Each deposit was listed chronologically, with amount, ID (anonymized), IP location, device model, and transaction duration all clearly visible. The bottom scroll bar read: 'Data updated to the current second.'

"This isn't fundraising," Cheng Mo stood up, picking up a laser pointer. The red dot landed on the 'Refund Records' column. "Look here, zero entries. No one has applied for a refund, so the system hasn't triggered the process. If you want to investigate, I can pull up the payment platform's interface logs for you to see."

Li Wei stared at the chart on the wall, her lips pressed tight.

"They curse our game for being inhumane, call the designers psychologically troubled, some even post about reporting us to the police," Cheng Mo continued, his tone steady. "But after cursing, they pay for DLCs, limited-edition skins, and 'one more try' passes. This isn't coercion; it's a vote. Every payment is a revenge recharge after failing to clear a level."

He paused, moving the laser pointer to the top of the total income bar graph. "You said illegal fundraising requires promised returns, right? What have we promised? 'Hope you fall just as beautifully next time'?"

Li Wei didn't smile. She stepped closer to the wall, examining the transaction details carefully. "A large influx of funds in a short time, no obvious promotional costs, no well-known IP backing it... regulators won't just let this slide."

"Then let them investigate," Cheng Mo tossed the laser pointer back onto the desk. "All data is traceable, the servers are domestic, and the tax ID is listed at the bottom of the homepage. If you want an audit report, I can generate a PDF right now."

Chen Hao finally stopped typing code. He took off his glasses, wiped them, got up, and walked toward the water dispenser, casually picking up the coffee cup Li Wei had placed on the corner of the desk.

Only half an inch of cold coffee remained, a brown stain circling the rim.

He poured out the remnants, retrieved a Red Bull concentrate bottle from the cabinet, filled the cup two-thirds full, opened a small pillbox, shook in half a spoonful of pale yellow powder, and stirred gently.

"Your heartbeat is a bit fast," he said to Li Wei. "You ran too hard just now, blood pressure's a bit low. Try this."

Li Wei turned to look at him, frowning. "What is this?"

"Extreme Caffeine Formula v1.0," Chen Hao pushed his glasses back up, his tone like he was reading an experiment report. "Base ingredient: Red Bull concentrate. Added trace salt for electrolyte balance, supplemented with B-vitamin powder to enhance neural transmission efficiency. Alertness effect increased by three hundred percent. Side effects limited to slight fingertip tremors, lasting no more than two hours."

He handed the cup over, beads of condensation clinging to its side.

Li Wei froze. She didn't respond, nor did she reach out immediately. Instead, she stared at the dark red liquid as if judging whether it was some new type of code virus.

Cheng Mo sat down beside her, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. "You don't believe we're making money just from the game, but we really aren't doing anything else. No crypto mining, no cash-outs, no social media pyramid schemes. We just made a game where people get beaten up, and players curse while throwing money at it."

He pointed at a steep spike on the projection. "Look at this peak, 3:17 AM, sixty-eight thousand in a single hour. Reason: a streamer lost ten matches in a row, their chat exploded, and viewers collectively rushed in to buy the 'Same Pain Experience Pack.'"

Li Wei slowly took the cup, her fingertips touching the cool, damp surface.

She lowered her head and sniffed it—a pungent odor, a mix of sickly sweetness and metallic tang. She didn't drink, just held it.

"Do you know what could happen if this model spirals out of control?" Her voice lowered slightly. "Public opinion can flip with a single sentence. Today they're willingly suffering; tomorrow it could become evidence of your mind control."

"Then let the evidence speak," Cheng Mo clicked the mouse, switching to a user behavior heat map. "Each player averages 7.3 attempts before giving up on the first level. Payment nodes cluster between the 4th and 6th failures. Psychology calls it the 'sunk cost effect.' We call it the 'pain investment payback period.'"

He looked up at her. "They aren't being controlled; they're addicted to their own unwillingness to give up. We didn't force anyone to hit start. They pressed it themselves."

Li Wei was silent for a few seconds, then finally took a small sip. As the liquid went down her throat, her eyelids twitched slightly, her spine stiffening as if brushed by an electric current, her whole body tensing for an instant.

"This stuff... it's too strong," she said.

"Get used to it," Chen Hao returned to his seat, reopening the code editor. "We drink three cups a day."

The workshop fell quiet again. Only the soft whir of the projector fan and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards remained. Li Wei stood where she was, one hand holding the cup, the other clutching the folder, her expression complex.

Cheng Mo said no more, closed the financial projection, and the screen shrank back to the main console interface. He rested his right hand back on the mouse, ready to archive this record.

Chen Hao, meanwhile, typed a new line in the code comment area:

// Extreme Caffeine Protocol v1.0 deployed

// Trigger condition: external skepticism intensity ≥ threshold

// Effect: temporarily boosts cognitive clarity, suppresses irrational anxiety

He pressed enter to save. The screen's blue light reflected in his glasses, like a silent barrier.

Li Wei remained standing, asking no further questions. She looked at the lingering light spot on the wall, which moments ago had displayed the details of the half-million yuan's origin. Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the rim of the cup, knuckles turning white.

Cheng Mo suddenly spoke up. "You know what's the most ironic part?"

He didn't wait for a response, continuing on his own. "The ones who curse the loudest end up becoming the most loyal users. There's an ID called 'Never Logging In Again.' The name sounds pretty final, but yesterday their playtime was four hours and twenty-one minutes, and they bought the full set of Pain Commemorative Badges."

He chuckled lightly and clicked the refresh button.

The data stream scrolled, a new small payment coming in, noted as 'Indulgence Ticket x1.'

Li Wei finally moved. She gently placed the cup on the corner of the desk, away from the keyboard. Tucking the folder back under her arm, she turned and walked toward the iron door.

Her hand on the doorknob, she paused.

"I'll report the situation," she said, her back to them. "But don't think that means you're safe."

The door opened, a shaft of blinding sunlight piercing in for a moment before it was quickly shut again.

The room returned to its dimness. The server lights continued to flash rhythmically, like some mechanical breathing.

Cheng Mo looked at the closed door, that sarcastic smile still hanging at the corner of his mouth. He swiveled his chair to face the main console, right hand on the mouse, ready to close the financial projection interface.

Chen Hao adjusted his glasses and continued typing comment lines in the code editor: "// Extreme Caffeine Protocol v1.0 deployed."