33: The second game, Dark Fetal Movement

Click, click, click.

The screwdriver tightened the last screw, and the arcade button module was firmly embedded into the edge of the main control console. Cheng Mo shook his wrist and tossed the tool into a pen holder labeled "Don't Touch! Infinite Loop Warning." The screen lit up, and a line of blue-on-white text popped up: "Device recognized, input mode: High-feedback physical interaction."

He leaned back, and the chair let out an overburdened groan. The hood of his sweatshirt slid back, revealing hair that hadn't been washed in two days and a silver stud in his right ear. The dark circles under his eyes were so deep they looked like they'd been drawn with a marker, but his eyes were frighteningly bright, like he'd just pulled an all-nighter to win an impossible boss battle.

At 9:17, the studio door was pushed open.

Chen Hao walked in carrying two takeout coffees, his shirt buttons fastened to the very top as usual. Three phones were tucked into his backpack's side pocket, their screens all displaying different data panels. He placed one cup by Cheng Mo's hand; printed on the cup in small characters were the words "Operations is not the scapegoat."

"The pixel maze prototype is ready." He walked straight to the projector, not asking if last night's assembly went smoothly or mentioning Wang Zhen. "The 'Death is Reconstruction' mechanism you wanted is up and running."

The projector screen lowered, and the screen was filled with the code interface. Chen Hao tapped a few keys, and a visualization model began to run: a maze made of blocks unfolded on the screen. The character exploded instantly upon touching a trap, and immediately after, 30% of the entire map began to warp, flip, and reconstruct. Paths shifted, walls collapsed, and even the direction of gravity briefly inverted for 0.7 seconds.

"Every death doesn't just refresh the map," Chen Hao's voice was steady, as if reading an experimental report. "It's to force a reset of the player's cognitive coordinates. Vision, spatial memory, and operational inertia are all scrambled. This isn't a Roguelike; it's Cognitive Calibration Training."

Cheng Mo picked up the coffee and took a sip, baring his teeth at the heat, but he didn't put it down. He stared at the constantly collapsing and rebuilding maze on the screen, his fingers unconsciously tapping out a rhythm on the desk—the exact same one from yesterday while waiting for the delivery.

"Has Lin Wanqing seen this version of the algorithm?" he suddenly asked.

"She came by once this morning." Chen Hao pulled up a document thumbnail titled 'First-Generation Psychological Load Prediction' but didn't open it. "She looked at it for three minutes, frowned, and left, leaving behind the comment: 'This will cause dissociation.'"

"Dissociation?" Cheng Mo laughed, as if hearing a veteran player on a forum complaining that a "game is so hard it causes split personalities." "Last time she said leap platform nightmare would make players addicted to pleasure; the result? Five hundred thousand people globally volunteered to pay for 'Pain Replay Packs.'"

He stood up, walked around to the secondary workstation, and reached out for the keyboard.

Chen Hao didn't stop him, merely crossing his arms and stepping back half a pace, his glasses reflecting the cold light.

Cheng Mo's fingers paused for a second on the parameter field, then he quickly typed: "78%."

Enter.

A system pop-up confirmed the modification was in effect.

Chen Hao's brow immediately furrowed tight. "Are you crazy? 60% is the threshold for spatial disorientation in medical literature; 78% is equivalent to pouring cement directly into the hippocampus!"

"What we're making isn't a game." Cheng Mo's voice wasn't loud, but every word sounded squeezed out from between his teeth. "It's a Cognitive Scalpel."

He pointed at the screen. A new simulation had begun; the character stepped into a trap with the very first step. The entire map shook violently, and over three-quarters of the blocks began non-linear reconstruction—corridors folded into loops, ceilings became floors, and what was originally a safe zone suddenly collapsed into an abyss. The perspective warped as if looking at the world through a fisheye lens.

"Do you remember the first day leap platform nightmare went online?" Cheng Mo continued. "Players called us anti-human and said the physics engine was sick. But after smashing three keyboards, they'd still click 'Try Again.' Why? Because they know that the real loss of control isn't the game, but the daily routine of punching in, meetings, and dealing with KPIs."

He paused, the corner of his mouth curving slightly.

"Now, I want to make them completely unable to distinguish—which death is real, and which rebirth is an illusion. Lin Wanqing is afraid of dissociation? I want them to experience dissociation."

Chen Hao didn't speak.

He stared at the string of modified parameters on the screen, his fingers tapping lightly in his trouser pocket as if mentally calculating some probability model. He knew he couldn't talk Cheng Mo out of it. Back in university, when this guy accidentally deleted his graduation project, he could say with a straight face that "data loss is also a form of artistic expression." Later, the two didn't speak for three months until Cheng Mo used a second-hand PS2 and a pirated copy of Silent Hill to win back the relationship.

It was the same this time.

Crazy as it was, it was effective.

He sighed, opened the terminal command line, and typed a string of instructions.

"Recording change log," he said. "Project number PM-001, version V1.2, terrain reshaping ratio increased from 30% to 78%, decision maker: Cheng Mo. Note: Technically feasible, risk at own discretion."

The screen refreshed, a new branch was added to the code tree, and a striking red tag hung next to the new parameter, reading: 'High-Load Cognitive Intervention — Warning: Failed Psychological Safety Protocol.'

Cheng Mo didn't even look at the warning.

He sat back down at the main control console, hands resting on the keyboard, gaze locked on the debugging interface of pixel maze. The cursor hovered over the "Start Test Environment" button, yet he didn't click it for a long time.

Outside the window, sunlight cut diagonally into the studio, shining on the arcade machine scavenged from the 90s. The screen was still covered in cursed sticky notes sent by players; the latest one read: "You'll go to hell sooner or later."

Chen Hao stood by the secondary workstation, arms crossed, his brow still furrowed. He looked at the glaring "78%" on the main screen, then glanced at Cheng Mo's profile—the man still had a smile on his face, as if he could already see the image of players worldwide breaking down and howling in the maze.

No one spoke.

There was only the low-frequency hum of the air conditioner and the slight whirring of a server fan.

Cheng Mo suddenly spoke: "Tell me, if a person died a hundred times in a row, but couldn't remember which time was which... would he doubt if he had ever lived?"

Chen Hao didn't answer that.

He knew it wasn't supposed to be a question, but a preview.

He only said one thing: "I've set up the test account using anonymous temporary credentials. If something really happens, it can at least stall the review process."

Cheng Mo nodded and finally pressed the left mouse button.

"Start test environment."

The screen flickered, a black loading interface emerged, and a row of pixelated fonts in the center slowly spelled out:

【pixel maze - COGNITIVE RECONSTRUCTION MODE】

【Death Count: 0】

【Current Reality Stability: 100%】

The next second, the screen cut to the first level.

The grey-white checkered floor stretched infinitely, enclosed by high walls on four sides, with three forks in the road ahead. There were no prompts, no guidance, only a swaying fluorescent tube overhead casting irregular shadows.

Cheng Mo picked up the intercom and pressed the talk button: "Test group prepare, first internal test starting. Objective: Verify behavioral adaptability under high-frequency cognitive reconstruction."

A short "Roger" came through the intercom.

He released the button and stared at the screen.

The first test character took a step and walked toward the middle path.

Three seconds later, the ground collapsed, and the character fell into darkness.

The screen went black for half a second before lighting up again.

The maze had changed.

The wall positions had shifted, the direction of gravity had rotated 15 degrees counter-clockwise, and what was originally the exit had become a dead end. The visual distortion lasted for a full two seconds before returning to normal.

The corner of Cheng Mo's mouth curled up.

He knew that the true chaos had only just begun.

He reached out and touched the silver stud in his right ear; his fingertips felt slightly cool.

Click.