46: The Doomsday Bell of Trademark Squatting

The screen on the left side of the main console was still lit.

The knuckle of Cheng Mo's right index finger still rested against the space bar. A 0.8-centimeter diagonal scratch on the keycap's surface showed a hint of matte white under the dim light. He didn't press it.

The sound of the door being pushed open came 0.4 seconds earlier than expected.

It wasn't a knock; it was a push. The metal hinges emitted a short, dry "click," like a compressed biscuit being snapped in half.

Six figures stood at the doorway. They wore uniform gray-blue uniforms with oval metal nameplates pinned above their left chest pockets, engraved with the relief of the twelve-nation emblem and a line of small characters: "EU Game Content Review Joint Action Group." The person in front held a roll of seals in his left hand and a silver-gray law enforcement recording device in his right. The microphone cover was deployed, its mesh filter glinting with a cold light.

Cheng Mo raised his left hand.

Instead of touching the keyboard, he slid his hand directly across the edge of the main console and tapped the left screen's frame three times—tap, tap, tap. The rhythm was exactly the same as at the end of the previous chapter, but this time the sound was more solid, harder, like three steel balls hitting a sheet of iron.

The screen instantly went full-screen: in the center of a waveform diagram, an audio file labeled [SYMPHONY_FINAL] was quietly suspended. The cursor automatically dragged to the filename and double-clicked.

There was no loading animation. No buffering prompt. The moment the audio source started, the speaker system in the central area of the console silently switched to full-room surround mode, the low-frequency vibrations transmitting directly from the floor to the soles of their feet.

The first second was distorted white noise.

It wasn't a hiss or a screech; it was a physical explosion of the entire audio segment being forcibly stretched to the breaking point. It sounded like a hundred old radios failing to tune at once, or the sound of magnetic powder being scraped off a tape during high-speed rewinding.

The review team leader instinctively raised his left hand to his ear, fingers splayed and palm facing out. Three people behind him moved in synchronization; one of them had a Bluetooth earbud fall to the ground, bouncing twice before its light went out.

Chen Hao straightened up from behind the equipment cabinet.

He didn't look at the door. He only raised his right hand and lightly tapped the metal frame on the right side of the main console three times—tap, tap, tap. The sound was half a pitch higher than Cheng Mo's three taps, the rhythm seamless, like interlocking gears.

After tapping, he pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. The reflection on the lenses flashed, not showing people, but only reflecting the timestamp in the upper right corner of the code terminal window in the central area of the console: 02:14:08.

The second second of "Symphony of Pain" cut in.

It was no longer noise. It was a collage of human voice samples:

"I'm deleting the game because of this shitty level!" (German)

"I've smashed my controller three times!" (Spanish)

"Damn it, my wife said she'll divorce me if I play again!" (French)

"...Listen to this BGM, doesn't it sound like an ICU heart monitor?" (English)

"Aaaahhh!!!" (Japanese scream, captured from a moment of a livestream breakdown)

All voice samples were without noise reduction, retaining the original electrical hum, heavy breathing into the mic, and the background clattering of pots and pans. The speech rate was uniformly compressed to 187 words per minute, the pitch flattened, and the reverb set to a negative value, making it sound as if it were coming from the bottom of a deep well.

The review team leader's lips moved slightly, as if he wanted to shout something. But he made no sound. His right thumb pressed against the red button on the side of the law enforcement recording device, preparing to hold it for three seconds to initiate a forced archive.

The device screen lit up.

Then, static noise flashed.

It wasn't a black screen or a crash; it was standard 4:3 ratio gray-white static, uniform in density and scrolling continuously, like the picture on an old TV with no signal. He released his thumb and pressed again. The screen was still static. He switched to his left hand and poked the bottom right corner of the screen with his index finger—same position, same static.

He looked up.

Cheng Mo didn't look at him. His gaze was fixed on the code terminal window in the central area of the console. A new log line was automatically refreshing there:

/audio/engine/symphony_trigger → OK

Chen Hao moved in synchronization.

He moved his right hand to the physical keyboard on the right side of the console and typed in the command: certify_cultural_diversity --source=SYMPHONY_FINAL --lang=all --auto_approve

The Enter key was not pressed.

The terminal cursor hovered at the end of the command; the green characters had not yet been generated.

The second person in the review team pulled out a tablet and brought up the implementation details of Article 7 of the EU "Anti-Pain Game Act," sliding his finger to the definition clause for "sound pollution," about to speak.

His tablet screen also flashed with static noise.

The third person's body camera shoulder screen, the fourth person's portable spectrum analyzer, the fifth person's electronic seal card reader... every device with a screen, at the same moment, at the same frequency, with the same static density.

Cheng Mo's right index finger finally left the space bar.

He didn't pull it back, but shifted it two centimeters to rest on the physical knob on the right side of the console. The knob was matte black metal, its edge engraved with sixteen graduation marks. He turned it counter-clockwise to the end.

Click.

The lights in the entire room dimmed. It wasn't an instant shutoff, but a gradual decay. The ceiling lights went out first, then the LED strips on the side walls turned from white to warm yellow, until finally only the dim glow of the console screen remained, illuminating the line of Cheng Mo's jaw and the curved surface of the silver stud in his right ear.

The review team leader opened his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

In the upper right corner of the console, a matte gray prompt box popped up, displaying in the center:

Cultural Diversity Certification Passed.

The font was sans-serif, of moderate size, not flashing or jumping, and unaccompanied by sound effects. The frame had no border, looking as if it had "grown" out of the screen itself.

Cheng Mo didn't look at the prompt box.

His gaze was still locked on the central code window. There, below the /audio/engine/symphony_trigger → OK log, a new line had been automatically appended:

CERTIFICATION_GRANTED_IN_0.8s

Chen Hao took off his glasses.

He used the hem of his shirt to wipe the lenses with steady movements, the fabric making a very faint "shasha" sound against the glass. After wiping, he put them back on. In the reflection of the lenses, the central code window of the console was visible—below AdrenalineCompensation_v3 = true, three new lines of code had automatically been generated:

# SYMPHONY_LOG

log_level = "critical"

trigger_path = "/audio/symphony/cert_valid"

His right index finger hovered 1.2 centimeters above the Enter key, the knuckle strained straight, the fingernail turning a pale blue-white.

Beside the countdown box in the lower-left corner of the console, a new line of small characters appeared:

CULTURAL_CERT_VALID_UNTIL_2025-04-23T00:00:00Z

The timestamp was accurate to the second. But the actual time right now was 02:14:11. The system was 17 minutes fast.

The review team leader's lips just opened, his tongue pressing against his palate, preparing to utter the first syllable.

Cheng Mo reached for the stud in his right ear and gave it a gentle twist.

Chen Hao's fingertip remained suspended.

In the central code window of the console, the cursor was still at the end of the third line.

Cheng Mo's pupil diameter stabilized at 6.61 millimeters.

Chen Hao's breathing rate was 12 breaths per minute.

The room's lighting had dropped to the minimum safety threshold, just enough to see the outlines of the keyboard keys.

To the right of the console, that cup of cold lemon tea still sat in its original place. The condensation on the cup's wall had dried, leaving only a faint water mark extending diagonally downward from the rim to two millimeters below the edge of the tape, shaped like an unclosed parenthesis.

Cheng Mo's right index finger was still resting on the dimmer knob, the pad of his finger pressing against the cold metal surface.

Chen Hao's right index finger was still suspended above the Enter key, unpressed.

In the central area of the console, the code terminal window cursor did not move.

In the upper right corner of the console, the matte gray prompt box hung quietly.

In the lower-left corner of the console, the small line of text beside the countdown was clearly visible.

Cheng Mo didn't look at the water mark.

Chen Hao didn't blink.

The springs in their chairs didn't creak.

The low-frequency hum of the equipment cabinet fans continued, their speed unchanged.

The six members of the review team stood motionless.

The static on the law enforcement recording device screen was still scrolling.

Cheng Mo's right index finger left the knob.

He didn't pull it back, but shifted it three centimeters to rest above the F12 key on the central physical keyboard.

The pad of his finger hovered 0.5 centimeters from the keycap.

Chen Hao's right index finger was still suspended above the Enter key.

In the central code window of the console, the cursor was still.

Cheng Mo's pupil diameter was 6.61 millimeters.

Chen Hao's breathing rate was 12 breaths per minute.

The screen on the right side of the console was scrolling real-time audio protocol handshake logs, the latest line ending with a timestamp: 02:14:12.

Cheng Mo's index finger did not fall.

Chen Hao's index finger did not fall.

In the central area of the console, the cursor was still.

The silver stud in Cheng Mo's right ear was slightly cool.

In the reflection of Chen Hao's gold-rimmed glasses, three lines of code were reflected.

Cheng Mo's left index finger tapped the desk three times.

Tap, tap, tap.

In the central code window of the console, the cursor was still.

Cheng Mo's index finger did not fall.

Chen Hao's index finger did not fall.

In the central area of the console, the cursor was still.