4: Coca-Cola Keyboard

After the power was connected, the server cabinet emitted a continuous hum. The fan speed was unstable, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, like an old man gasping for breath. The CRT monitor's image flickered slightly, with ripples appearing at the corners, like an old TV with poor signal. Cheng Mo sat in the main control chair, his right hand resting on his earring, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the metal surface. He had just finished creating the project file, and his palms were a bit sweaty.

He reached his left hand toward the corner of the desk, feeling for a half-empty bottle of ice-cold cola. A thin layer of condensation covered the bottle, icy cold. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip. The sweet, syrupy liquid slid down his throat. The taste helped him relax a little. He stared at the screen, where the cursor was still blinking on the filename 'Project Pain v1.0'.

He was about to open the code editor to write the first line of logic. His finger had just touched the keyboard when his elbow accidentally knocked against the bottle.

The cola toppled over.

The brown liquid quickly spread across the desk, flowed over the edge of the mouse pad, and dripped onto the antique PS/2 keyboard. Cheng Mo reacted instantly, reaching to unplug the power cord. Too late. The liquid had already seeped into the gaps between the keycaps, trickling down the circuit board.

A wisp of white smoke rose from the motherboard port.

He froze.

The electric current hissed, like a red-hot iron rod plunged into cold water. The Caps Lock light on the keyboard flashed frantically, then the Num Lock light joined in. The two indicator lights alternated on and off, their frequency growing faster and faster. Finally, with a soft *pop*, all the lights went out simultaneously.

Cheng Mo sat back in his chair, motionless. He knew old equipment like this was most afraid of short circuits. This motherboard had held on for so many years; today, it might really be dead. He raised his hand and grabbed his hair, letting out a sigh.

Just then, a vibration came through the air.

It wasn't from the server cabinet, nor the monitor. It was some kind of invisible fluctuation. He looked up and saw a blurry band of light materializing in the smoke. Blue-green data streams rose from the keyboard's wreckage, twisting through the air like vines, forming characters and an interface.

A holographic projection.

It hovered directly in front of the console, about 1.7 meters off the ground, roughly the size of a laptop screen. The interface had no complex icons, just a single line of text:

【Reverse User Satisfaction System Activated】

Developer Authentication Passed

Initial Funds: 237 Yuan

Cheng Mo didn't blink. He stared at the line of text for five seconds, then looked down at the empty cola bottle lying on the floor. He looked back up at the projection. Looked down at the keyboard. Looked back up.

He suddenly let out a laugh.

It wasn't loud, but in this space filled only with the noise of the fan, it sounded exceptionally clear. He leaned forward, reaching his finger toward the projection. His fingertip passed through the light screen, touching nothing. The data streams flowed between his fingers, devoid of temperature.

"237?" he spoke. "Not 238, not 236, exactly 237?"

He remembered the price of the cola he had just drunk—three yuan and fifty cents a bottle. He originally had 241 yuan in his wallet. After buying it, he had 237.50 yuan left. The system had rounded it down.

His right earring reflected a faint glow from the projection. The silver metal reflected the blue-green data streams, flickering in the reflection of the CRT screen like a star that had fallen into ruins.

Cheng Mo ignored this detail. Right now, his mind was completely filled with the two words: "system." He had seen too many game companies use AI to analyze user behavior, creating recommendation algorithms, but he had never heard of anyone's development tool automatically starting up when the motherboard burned out.

And it was a system with such an absurd name.

He looked back at the projection and noticed a new line of small text below:

> Current Player Negative Feedback Conversion Rate: 0% (Platform Not Connected)

> Suggest releasing a test version as soon as possible to activate core mechanics

"Wait," he said. "Are you saying... someone has to curse me out before you'll work?"

The projection didn't answer. But it refreshed, and a new prompt popped up:

【Newbie Guide Skipped】

(Trigger method does not conform to standard procedure)

Cheng Mo leaned back in his chair and laughed. This time, it was a real laugh. His shoulders shook with laughter, causing the chair to wobble along. He picked up his phone, unlocked it, opened the calculator app, and entered 237.

Then deleted it.

Re-entered: 9999999.

He put the phone back down, looked at the number in the projection, and said softly, "So, from now on, I don't have to make games that people like?"

He stood up, walked over to the keyboard, and crouched down. The motherboard port was already blackened, with burn marks. He lightly tapped it with a pen tip, and a bit of copper skin flaked off. This thing was indeed beyond repair.

But he didn't care anymore.

He returned to his seat, placing both hands on the remnants of the keyboard. Although unusable, he still pressed the spacebar a few times. The clicking sound was gone, leaving only the dull thud of the plastic key sinking down.

"Before, as a numerical designer, I spent every day calculating retention rates, payment conversion, and daily active peaks," he muttered to himself. "Now this. The more negative reviews, the stronger? Getting ten thousand refunds can land you on the homepage recommendations?"

The projection flickered slightly, as if nodding.

Cheng Mo suddenly realized something. The game he had planned to make, 'leap platform nightmare,' was originally designed to be deliberately infuriating. The jumping rhythm was inhuman, the landing detection was erratic, and the heartbeat curve fluctuated wildly with every action. A normal player would want to throw their keyboard after three minutes.

If a game like that could activate the system's rules... He abruptly sat up straight.

"Then I don't have to pretend? Don't have to package it? Just make something utterly terrible, and it could explode in popularity?"

He thought of his college roommate. That guy made a casual puzzle game with warm art and soothing music. Its revenue broke 100 million in its first month. Six months later, he was found dead in his rented apartment, with an unsubmitted resignation letter and a bottle of sleeping pills on the table.

At the time, everyone said he was under too much pressure.

Only Cheng Mo knew he was killed by gentleness. That false sense of comfort that makes you forget who you are.

And now, he held in his hands a tool that could turn pain into power.

He didn't need to please anyone.

He could openly torment players, make them curse, make them refund, make them smash their keyboards while unable to stop playing.

As long as they voiced their complaints, the system would grow stronger.

He looked at the projection and noticed a small icon had appeared next to the funds column. It looked like a smiling face, but the corners of its mouth were twisted up to its ears, making it look more like a sneer.

He didn't ask what this was. He didn't want to know too much right now. He knew that once he understood the rules, he would start calculating, optimizing, restraining. But right now, he didn't want to restrain himself.

He just wanted to go crazy once.

He opened the computer, found the 'Project Pain v1.0' folder he had just created, and double-clicked to open it. Inside was only a blank document titled 'Core Mechanics Design Draft.'

He created a new text file and typed the title:

**Ten Ways to Make Players Hate Us**

Number One: Give the wrong equipment at the start, and make it unchangeable.

Number Two: Set an infinite loop trap in the tutorial level.

Number Three: Name all achievement system entries with negative vocabulary (e.g., 'Finally Gave Up,' 'Are You Even Worthy of Being Called a Player?').

Number Four: Hide victory conditions, but make failure penalties public.

Number Five: Every time you save, prompt: 'Are you sure you want to remember this moment?'

He stopped typing here.

He glanced back at the floating projection. The funds were still 237 yuan, unchanged.

He smiled and continued typing.

Number Six: Deliberately misadjust the physics engine so characters frequently get stuck in walls.

Number Seven: Use background music alternating between 432Hz and 440Hz to cause subconscious irritation.

Number Eight: NPC dialogue always gives irrelevant answers.

Number Nine: Force a pop-up choice every hour: 'Are You Happy?' Choosing 'Yes' reduces health.

Number Ten: After clearing the game, display: 'Thanks for wasting 72 minutes of your life.'

He saved the file and closed the editor.

Then he opened the browser and searched for 'lowest cost game publishing platform.' The first result was 'Minimalist Game Workshop,' supporting HTML5 uploads, with a five-minute review time and an eight-yuan listing fee.

He used his remaining 237 yuan to pay for a thirty-day membership and also bought a basic server hosting package. After the payment succeeded, a system pop-up prompted:

【First Consumption Record Captured】

Reverse Incentive Mechanism Startup Preparation... Estimated Completion Time: Pending

Cheng Mo ignored all this. Right now, he just wanted to quickly make something to test.

He returned to the project folder, dragged the 'Ten Ways' he had just written into the project directory. Then he opened a graphics tool and drew a pixel-art blocky character with stiff movements and a limping walk. He also created a background: a gray, murky sky with cracks crisscrossing the ground.

He named the game: 'Pain'.

Version: v0.1

Package and upload.

The progress bar finished, and the page redirected. The game status changed to 'Live.'

He refreshed the page and saw the current online player count: 1.

It was himself.

No comment section, no ratings, no share button. But in a corner, he spotted a small red dot that read 'Waiting for First User Feedback.'

He stared at that red dot.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

The red dot disappeared.

Replaced by a new message:

【First External Access Detected】

User IP: 112.64.89.xxx

Behavior Log: Load successful → Clicked Start → Stuck in tutorial loop → Force closed

Emotion Assessment: Anger Level 87%

System Rating Upgrade Preparation... Cheng Mo held his breath.

The projection suddenly enlarged, and the funds column started jumping:

237 → 241 → 249 → 256

Finally stopped at **256 Yuan**

The next second, the holographic interface refreshed:

【Core Mechanics Activated】

Reverse User Satisfaction System Officially Operational

Current Level: Lv.1

Available Functions: Basic Data Analysis, Public Opinion Monitoring Prototype, Funds Pool Growth

Cheng Mo's hand hovered above the keyboard.

He wasn't touching any device.

But he felt the air in the entire basement change. The fan noise no longer sounded harsh; instead, it resembled a rhythmic drumbeat. The snow noise on the CRT monitor turned into jumping musical notes in his eyes. His right earring continued to glow faintly, reflected on the screen like a star refusing to go out.

He opened his mouth and spoke a sentence:

"So, curses are the best fuel."