47: The Light and Shadow Revolution of Dynamic Copyright

The cursor in the code window of the central control console remained motionless.

Cheng Mo's right index finger hovered above the F12 key, the fingertip half a centimeter from the keycap, like an animation afterimage stuck in a frame rate gap. He didn't move, nor did he withdraw. Chen Hao also didn't move, his right index finger still suspended over the Enter key, his fingernail pale white, his breathing frequency steady at twelve times per minute.

The lights in the entire room were maintained at the minimum safety threshold, just enough to illuminate the outline of the keyboard. The six members of the Review Panel were still standing at the door, the equipment screens continuously scrolling with snow noise; no one spoke, and no one took a step back. The red button of the Law Enforcement Recorder was in an untriggered state, but the system had determined its threat level had dropped to "negligible."

0.8 seconds later.

Chen Hao's right middle finger fell, striking the Enter key.

It wasn't a light tap, but a smash. The keycap hit the bottom with a dull thud, as if all the anger held back for the previous three minutes was pressed into this single action.

The terminal refreshed immediately:

certify_cultural_diversity --source=SYMPHONY_FINAL --lang=all --auto_approve → SUCCESS

CULTURAL_CERT_VALID_UNTIL_2025-04-23T00:00:00Z

A new record was automatically appended below the log:

＞ [SECURITY_MONITOR] Piracy_Trace_Global_v7 activated.

Cheng Mo's left hand finally moved. He withdrew his finger from his earring and slid it toward the left edge of the main console, tapping the screen frame three times with his fingertip—tap, tap, tap. This time the rhythm was 0.2 seconds faster than before, like some kind of activation signal.

The left screen instantly switched displays: a set of global heat maps emerged, the colors gradienting from blue to deep red, marking hundreds of abnormal data nodes. Three of these points were flashing at high frequency, their coordinates locked on an abandoned data center in Eastern Europe, a cybercafe cluster in Southeast Asia, and a home broadband IP in North America.

"The one in Eastern Europe," Chen Hao stared at the data stream, "is using the P2P protocol to distribute the cracked version of leap platform nightmare v3.7 in bulk, complete with dynamic patches and a verification-free launcher. The upload speed is two hundred megabytes, and the seed count has broken three thousand."

Cheng Mo gave an "mm," and his right hand finally left the F12 key, turning instead to reach for the physical keyboard on the right side of the main console, typing in a string of commands:

＞ activate_protocol “ShadowGuard_V1”

＞ target_ip = 213.187.××.××

＞ deploy_holographic_warning = true

Enter.

The system response time was 0.3 seconds.

In the next frame, the scene of the room where the Eastern European piracy source was located was cut into remotely—not through a camera, but through a desktop mirror back-projected via a residual process of the game client. The image quality was blurry, but the environment was clear: a table piled with instant noodle boxes, the monitor running a piracy site's backend management interface, with the title bar reading "[Free Resource] leap platform nightmare · Ultimate Fun Edition."

Suddenly, the screen distorted.

The original game interface was forcibly torn apart, pixels flying in all directions like shards of glass. Following that, a 3D reconstructed image slowly rose from the data rift.

Cheng Mo's virtual avatar appeared.

He was wearing his signature black hooded sweatshirt, the ends of a game controller cable half-exposed from his cargo pants pocket, and the silver earring in his right ear reflected a cold light. The image was not pre-recorded; the opening and closing of his lips were completely synchronized with the audio, and even the fibers of the hoodie's edge slightly upturned due to static electricity were clearly visible.

He stood in the center of the shattered data stream, with a background of a code wall constantly collapsing and reorganizing, symbolizing the structural vibration of a creative world.

"You are destroying the integrity of game art." His voice was low and devoid of emotion, yet it felt like a blunt knife slowly pressing into the nerves. "This isn't sharing; it's dismemberment. What you are taking isn't a copy, but the final beat of a heartbeat before it is cut off."

The pirate looked up sharply, the mouse slipping from his hand as he leaned back abruptly, his chair making a harsh scraping sound.

He tried to shut down the computer.

Pressing and holding the power button for three seconds—ineffective.

Pulling the power cord—the host was still running, the hard drive light flashing frantically.

Inserting a USB drive to manually clear the files—all USB ports automatically ejected, and the device was forcibly pushed out by the system.

"I... I'll delete it! I'll delete it right now!" He held his head in his hands, his voice trembling. "Please don't hack my home appliances! My mother's pacemaker is still connected to the Wi-Fi!"

The system captured the keyword "delete" and physiological stress signals (heart rate 128 bpm), determining the deterrence was successful.

The holographic image began to fade out. In the final frame, Cheng Mo raised his eyes, looking directly into the camera, and said a line that wasn't in the script:

"Before you steal next time, ask yourself if you're worthy of playing through to the end."

The image vanished.

The screen returned to a blank desktop. All game files had been remotely overwritten into encrypted fragments, leaving only a text file in the original path with the title: "You are being watched.txt".

On the control console's side, Chen Hao lightly tapped the space bar to bring up the purge report:

＞ Target_01_Purge_Complete

＞ File_Integrity_Recovered: 100%

＞ Device_Banned: Permanent_Blacklist

＞ Associated_Nodes_Cleared: 7 (including cloud backups)

"I cleared seven of his associated devices while I was at it," Chen Hao took off his glasses and wiped them with the hem of his shirt. "Including a hidden backup tucked away in his sister's tablet. This guy knows a bit about anti-detection, but unfortunately, he forgot that we can even dig out Bluetooth caches."

Cheng Mo didn't respond. His right hand rested back on the edge of the keyboard, and his left hand unconsciously rubbed his right earring. His pupils still showed a slight contraction reaction, indicating his nervous system was still in the aftermath of high-load operation.

Chen Hao put his gold-rimmed glasses back on, the reflection on the lenses showing the log stream in the central area of the console. He suddenly chuckled: "That cybercafe in Southeast Asia—twenty machines just popped up warnings simultaneously, and the boss just knelt in front of an incense burner to burn the computers."

"Reasonable," Cheng Mo finally spoke. "They're using second-hand graphics cards with outdated driver versions. Holographic rendering will prioritize GPU memory, leading to screen overload. The visual impact is maxed out, and the psychological deterrence is doubled."

"What about the one in North America?" Chen Hao asked.

"Didn't do anything," Cheng Mo glanced at the data. "That's a high school student. He downloaded it to write a course paper, 'On the Impact of Extreme Games on the Stress Resistance of Adolescents.' He even left us a five-star rating and a long review in the Steam comments section."

"Oh." Chen Hao nodded. "Then let him go. It won't be too late to warn him after he finishes his defense."

The two were silent for a few seconds.

The low-frequency hum of the cabinet fans continued, their speed unchanged. That cup of cold lemon tea on the right side of the main console was still in its original place, the water marks on the cup wall having dried completely, shaped like an unclosed bracket extending diagonally downward to two millimeters below the edge of the tape.

Cheng Mo's right hand slowly moved back to the edge of the console, his fingertip tapping the screen frame again—tap, tap, tap. This time the rhythm was steady, as if confirming the system was still listening.

The left screen switched to a financial flow chart. The balance figures were jumping: 498,721 yuan → 498,753 yuan → 498,801 yuan... approaching five hundred thousand.

Chen Hao looked at the timestamp: real time 02:16:43. System time was still seventeen minutes fast.

"The ShadowGuard Protocol is up and running," he said. "From now on, as long as there's a piracy signal, a holographic warning will be automatically deployed. No manual intervention required."

"Good," Cheng Mo stared at the balance. "Saves me from having to call and scold them one by one."

"We could actually be more ruthless," Chen Hao tapped the keyboard twice. "For example, making the pirate's computer automatically play the leap platform nightmare BGM at maximum volume for ten minutes every day at 3:00 AM for a year."

"That's too much torture." Cheng Mo shook his head. "We make painful games, not horror movies."

"Then make them see a photo of you in pajamas eating a rice ball every time they turn on their computer?"

"That was when I was at my most miserable," Cheng Mo glared at him. "Respect the image of the founder."

Chen Hao laughed, then lowered his voice: "But honestly, if this system really succeeds, who would dare to just copy our stuff in the future?"

"It's not that they won't dare, but that they'll know the price," Cheng Mo said. "They think piracy is getting a bargain, but they're actually exposing themselves to the barrel of a gun. Now the whole world knows that stealing our games will result in a live 'projection visit'."

He paused and added: "And in high-definition, uncensored."

Chen Hao raised his hand and tapped the metal frame on the right side of the main console three times with his middle finger—tap, tap, tap. The sound was slightly higher than before, and the rhythm was seamless, like gears meshing.

A new log automatically refreshed in the code window of the central control console:

＞ [PROTOCOL_STATUS] ShadowGuard_V1 → ONLINE

＞ Active_Threats_Monitored: 3

＞ Last_Response_Time: 0.8s

＞ Founder_Image_Encryption_Level: MAX

Cheng Mo's right hand lightly rested on the edge of the keyboard, his left fingertip continuing to rub his earring, his expression calm. His gaze swept across the financial flow chart on the left screen; the balance figure jumped to 499,107 yuan and was still rising.

Chen Hao took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with the hem of his shirt, his movements steady, the fabric rubbing against the lenses making a very faint "shasha" sound. After wiping, he put them back on. In the reflection of the lenses, the code window of the central control console was visible—below AdrenalineCompensation_v3 = true, three new lines of code had been automatically generated:

# SYMPHONY_LOG

log_level = “critical”

trigger_path = “/audio/symphony/cert_valid”

His right index finger hovered 1.2 centimeters above the Enter key, his knuckles tense.

Next to the countdown box in the lower-left corner of the main console, a small new line of text appeared:

CULTURAL_CERT_VALID_UNTIL_2025-04-23T00:00:00Z

The timestamp was accurate to the second. But the real time at this moment was 02:16:47. The system was 17 minutes fast.

Cheng Mo didn't look at the water marks.

Chen Hao didn't blink.

The springs in their chairs didn't creak.

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

On the right side of the main console, that cup of cold lemon tea was still in its original place. The water marks on the cup wall had dried completely, shaped like an unclosed bracket, extending diagonally downward from the rim to two millimeters below the edge of the tape.

Cheng Mo's right index finger rested on the edge of the keyboard.

Chen Hao's right index finger hung above the Enter key.

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

The balance figure jumped to 499,632 yuan.