53: Emergency conception of monitoring mode

The indicator light in the bottom right corner of the main console flashed again—green, not glaring. Cheng Mo stared at that new message—"Dad, I heard you"—for a full ten seconds. Then, he put the pen he had just picked up back on the desk and remained silent.

Chen Hao was still adjusting the data interface, his fingers tapping the keyboard lightly and quickly, as if afraid of disturbing someone. Without turning around, he simply said, "The public opinion has slowed down, but the complaint portal is still rising, averaging one every three minutes."

"They're all parents," Cheng Mo replied, his tone like he was stating a long-known game mechanic. "They're not here to curse at us; they're here to ask, 'What proof do I have that my son is still alive?'"

Chen Hao finally turned around, his gold-rimmed glasses sliding down to the middle of his nose. He took them off, wiped them, and said, "All we can provide are logs, durations, and death counts. But to parents, that stuff is no different from gibberish."

"So we need to build a translator." Cheng Mo stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and drew a box with a marker. "On the left is the child, on the right is the parent. The middle shouldn't be a data stream; it should be a dialogue."

"You mean... monitoring?" Chen Hao frowned. "The kind with forced logouts, account locks, and pop-up reminders?"

"That's called electronic shackles," Cheng Mo scoffed. "We're not running an internet addiction treatment center. Besides, if we actually did that, the players would blow up the forums like fireworks tomorrow."

Chen Hao nodded. "And it would directly trigger a reverse-confrontational psychology—the more you ban it, the more they play."

"The point was never about controlling people." Cheng Mo drew an arrow on the whiteboard. "It's about letting the parents understand what they're doing. Look at that father just now; his last question was 'Is he being serious?' instead of 'Is he crazy?' This shows he's already switched from anger to confusion."

"Cognitive gap," Chen Hao picked up the thread. "One side is doing an extreme challenge, while the other thinks it's a mental breakdown. A collapse of trust caused by information asymmetry."

"So what we need to build isn't a firewall." Cheng Mo drew a small megaphone in the middle of the arrow. "It's a broadcasting station. When a child clears a level, the system automatically sends a message: 'Your son just successfully jumped over the B-7 cliff after seventy-three consecutive failures; during this period, his peak heartbeat reached 182.'"

"Too clinical." Chen Hao shook his head. "Parents will just call the police when they see 'heartbeat 182.'"

"Then change it to 'He fought until the very last second before dying, and then he smiled'," Cheng Mo rewrote. "An emotional expression, but real."

Chen Hao was silent for a few seconds before suddenly speaking, "I can make a visualization panel. Real-time display of online status, cumulative challenge attempts, and a classification of the most recent cause of death—for example, 'Stuck on level, retrying,' 'Active exit,' or 'Achievement reached.'"

"Add a timeline," Cheng Mo added. "Let his parents know that this kid isn't grinding twenty-four hours a day, but is secretly logging on for two hours after finishing homework, quitting when he dies, and coming back the next day. This isn't addiction; it's training."

"We can also add a reminder function." Chen Hao sat back at the computer, his fingers already tapping out code. "When a child is online for more than two hours in a single session, or logs in for three consecutive days, the system automatically pushes a gentle prompt: 'Your child has just completed a new round of challenges. Would you like to leave a message?'"

"Don't make it sound like a homeroom teacher's notice," Cheng Mo waved his hand. "Speak like a human. For example, 'Your warrior just fell in battle; the game is currently reloading. Do you want to send some supplies?'"

Chen Hao's lip twitched. "Are you really planning to turn parent-child relationships into a game dungeon?"

"They already are," Cheng Mo shrugged. "In reality, parents bring milk; in the game, they send voice messages. The essence is the same: 'I'm watching over you.'"

Chen Hao didn't argue. Instead, he opened a new document and began listing the module requirements:

[Parental Monitoring Mode Prototype]

1. Online Status Visualization (Color-coded: Green = Active, Yellow = Idle for a long time, Red = Offline)

2. Key Node Reminders (First time clearing a level, reaching a hidden achievement, failing more than 50 consecutive times)

3. Forced Pause Application Channel (Requires confirmation from both parties, not a unilateral lock)

"The third point needs to be handled cautiously." Chen Hao tapped the keyboard. "Once we open up forced logout permissions, it's equivalent to handing over control. If a parent abuses it, it will only intensify the conflict."

"Then set a threshold." Cheng Mo leaned in to look at the screen. "For example, they can only apply once a month and must fill in a reason, which the system automatically forwards to the child. The child can choose to accept or ignore it, but they must see it."

"Two-way transparency." Chen Hao nodded. "To avoid it becoming a unilateral judgment."

"Also," Cheng Mo suddenly narrowed his eyes, "we can't just let the parents watch; we have to let them 'enter' too."

"Enter? Enter the game?"

"Not literally entering." Cheng Mo picked up the game controller from the desk and gestured in the air. "When a child reaches a certain achievement, like 'First time clearing the seventeenth floor of the maze alone,' the system unlocks an exclusive Easter egg map called 'A Message from Dad/Mom.' Inside, there's a voice clip or a line of text hidden in a corner that can only be triggered by solving a puzzle."

Chen Hao was stunned. "You mean... turning family affection into a hidden level?"

"Exactly." Cheng Mo grinned. "To hear that message, the child has to play seriously. And the parents have to research how to write it so the kid doesn't feel embarrassed. For example, they can't write 'Go for it, baby'; they have to write 'I heard you fell seventy-three times today—that's even worse than when I was learning to reverse the car.'"

Chen Hao nearly choked on his own spit. "You're really going to stuff a family ethics drama into the pixel maze?"

"Why not?" Cheng Mo spread his hands. "Every game we're making now is essentially testing human psychological resilience. Since parents are also part of the ecosystem, we have to design a path for their participation. Otherwise, you think the pressure only comes from the outside? We're the ones creating the rift ourselves."

Chen Hao didn't speak. He stared at the screen for a long time, then created a new folder named: "Parent_Link_Design_V0.1."

"I'll build a basic framework first," he said. "The front end will use a minimalist UI to avoid looking like monitoring software. The data source will call the existing log system, with no extra data collection."

"Don't make those fancy charts," Cheng Mo reminded him. "Parents hate pie charts they can't understand. Just use progress bars, numbers, and icons to speak."

"Understood." Chen Hao typed the first line of code. "Online time = Combat duration; death count = Courage value of attempts; achievement lit up = Growth footprints."

"We can also add a 'Co-play Index'," Cheng Mo rubbed his chin. "A dynamic score based on the frequency of interaction between both parties. For example, if a parent's message is triggered more than three times, the index +1; if the child actively shares a screenshot, +2. At the end of the month, generate a 'Family Collaboration Report' titled 'How Many Battles Did You Win Together This Month?'"

"This sounds like a marriage counseling app," Chen Hao teased, but he still noted it down.

"It essentially is." Cheng Mo sat back in his chair and leaned back, his hoodie slipping off. "How many family problems aren't due to a lack of love, but a lack of common language? Now it's better; they have the same goal: helping the kid survive the next level."

The room fell quiet, save for the clicking of the keyboard and the low hum of the server fans. Outside the window, the sky gradually darkened, and the city lights flickered on layer by layer, like a slowly loading interface.

Chen Hao saved the current document. The flowchart was already taking shape. Three modules were clearly lined up, connected by dashed lines labeled "Emotional Feedback Loop."

"The plan is feasible," he said. "Technically, it's not hard to implement. A beta version can be out within a week."

Cheng Mo didn't respond. He stared at the sketch on the whiteboard for a long time before suddenly asking, "Do you think... some people simply won't want to participate?"

"Definitely," Chen Hao pushed up his glasses. "Some parents just want to delete the account and ban the IP, thinking that solves the problem."

"But we can't make the decision for them," Cheng Mo said slowly. "We can only provide an entrance. Whether they enter or not is up to them to choose."

"Just like a respawn point in a game," Chen Hao added. "Those who stand still will never wait for the light of a reload."

Cheng Mo smiled, picked up a new pen, and started spinning it between his fingers. On the fifth rotation, the tip of the pen tapped against the corner of the desk with a crisp sound.

He didn't stop and continued spinning.

On the left side of the screen, the back-end logs were still scrolling. The status of North America Server Three ID "SkyDiver_0924" updated to: Offline, stay duration forty-seven seconds, only viewed achievement page.

On the right, a prompt popped up in Chen Hao's code editor: [Parent_Link_Design_V0.1 Saved Successfully].

Cheng Mo glanced at it and tucked the pen back behind his ear.

"Let Lin Wanqing take a look tomorrow," he said. "She can always hear something else within the curses."

Chen Hao nodded. Just as he was about to close the terminal, he noticed the last node of the flowchart hadn't been named yet. He moved the cursor over and typed four words:

**"Hearing the Heartbeat"**.