181: Chapter 181 Kidnapping the Livestream Room, Charging in Reverse

At the 72nd second after the paid subscription system was launched, the platform's emergency communication blasted through Lin Chen's firewall.

It wasn't a warning.

It was an ultimatum.

[Myriad Dimensions Sandbox Supreme Council · Emergency Resolution]

Content: Immediately revoke the paid subscription system for the K-742 world and restore free public livestreaming.

Time Limit: Within 10 minutes

Consequences: If not executed within the time limit, Article 7 of the "Platform Security Law" will be activated—implementing "Rule Stripping" on the non-compliant world, permanently cutting off all its connections to the dimension network.

The resolution was followed by a detailed explanation of "Rule Stripping":

1. The world's physical constants will be locked at their current values and can no longer be modified by any permissions.

2. Dimension channels will be permanently closed, making it a closed system.

3. All external technology, energy, and information input will terminate.

4. The world will naturally progress toward heat death according to the second law of thermodynamics; time scale: approximately 3,000 years.

“They want to turn us into an island,” Su Qingyu stared at those clauses, “and then let us slowly wait for death.”

Zhang Hao had already pulled up a defense plan: “We can use shareholder permissions to counter them—but the Supreme Council's permission priority is higher than that of a single shareholder. If we go head-to-head, we're bound to lose.”

Lin Chen didn't speak.

He was looking at the real-time data on the payment backend.

Paid subscriptions: 8,347,192 (still growing rapidly)

Monthly subscription revenue (pre-collected): 8.347 billion dimension points

Payment rate: 71% (meaning 71% of viewers chose to pay to continue watching)

“Ten minutes...” Lin Chen smiled, “Too long.”

He opened the cross-dimension broadcast channel and spoke to all the viewers again:

“The Supreme Council gave me ten minutes to revoke the subscription system.”

“The countdown begins now.”

“But I'm adding a rule: if my paid subscriptions exceed 100 million within ten minutes, I will initiate an ‘Emotional Supply Cut’—all paid users will also lose their viewing permissions until the Supreme Council withdraws its resolution.”

“You have ten minutes.”

“Either convince the Council.”

“Or go through withdrawal with me.”

The broadcast ended.

The bullet chat pool exploded instantly:

“Are you crazy?!”

“This is kidnapping!”

“Platform, hurry up and deal with him!”

But the number of paid subscriptions began to tick up frantically.

85 million.

88 million.

90 million...

Because the viewers knew Lin Chen wasn't joking.

They knew the consequences of an “Emotional Supply Cut” all too well—after 72 hours, their emotional fluctuation values would drop below the safety line, and after 300 hours, an existential crisis would trigger a large-scale consciousness collapse.

And the Higher Civilization Alliance couldn't afford such a risk.

Countdown: 9 minutes 17 seconds

The footage of the Supreme Council's emergency meeting was forcibly patched into the livestream by Lin Chen using his shareholder permissions.

They were nine phantoms shrouded in light, sitting around a circular conference table.

“Lin Chen, you're committing suicide,” the voice of the central phantom was cold. “Once Rule Stripping is initiated, it is irreversible.”

“Then initiate it,” Lin Chen sat on a black throne, legs crossed. “But before you do, I'd like you all to take a look at this.”

He pulled up a piece of data he had just compiled.

[Emotional Dependency Analysis · Higher Civilization Alliance]

Average daily demand for emotional stimulation: Equivalent to the full output of 1,000 B-rank worlds

Current supply gap: 37% (Reason: Audience fatigue due to repetitive plots in multiple worlds)

Reserve stock: Only enough to maintain civilization stability for 12 days

Lin Chen's world's current emotional output efficiency: Ranked 8th on the platform's overall list, accounting for 6.3% of today's total emotional stimulation across the entire network.

“If my world is stripped,” Lin Chen pointed at that 6.3%, “your gap will expand to 43%. With current reserves, you'll only last 7 days.”

“We can fill it with other worlds—” another phantom said.

“You can't,” Lin Chen pulled up an audience preference analysis. “Among my viewers, 18% are ‘Severe Addicts’—they only accept the emotional frequency of my world. If switched to other worlds, their physiological parameters will collapse within 48 hours.”

He played a surveillance video.

It was the data of an individual from a Level 8 civilization: when it tried to watch livestreams from other worlds, its emotional fluctuation value hovered below 0.5, but when watching Lin Chen's livestream, this value could surge to 3.7.

“Do you see?” Lin Chen said. “This isn't a replaceable commodity. This is a custom-made drug.”

Countdown: 7 minutes 42 seconds

Paid subscriptions: 95 million

The Council phantoms fell silent.

They were rapidly calculating the risks.

If Lin Chen's world were forcibly stripped, those 18% of Severe Addicts might trigger a chain collapse—emotional dependency is contagious. Once panic spreads, the stability of the entire Higher Civilization Alliance would be threatened.

But if they compromised, it would mean the platform lost control over a single world. If other worlds followed suit...

“Are you worried about the demonstration effect?” Lin Chen saw through their thoughts. “Don't worry, other worlds can't replicate this.”

He pulled up the economic model on the backend.

“I dare to charge because I possess three core resources:”

“First, I've bought out the fate lines, so the Screenwriting Team can't threaten me with the plot.”

“Second, I have a team of eight thousand experts who can continuously produce high-quality emotional events.”

“Third, and most importantly—”

He clicked on the “Addict List” in the audience data, which was marked with the political weight of the civilizations these viewers belonged to.

“Among my paid users, there are three members of Level 9 civilization royal families, seventeen consuls of Level 8 civilizations, and over four hundred key technical experts from various civilizations,” Lin Chen smiled. “If they collectively collapse from withdrawal... will your Council seats still be secure?”

A threat.

A blatant threat.

But an effective one.

Countdown: 5 minutes 11 seconds

Paid subscriptions: 98 million

Only two million away from 100 million.

The phantom at the center of the Council finally spoke: “What do you want?”

“Three things.” Lin Chen held up his fingers. “First, permanently recognize my paid subscription system as legal and write it into the Platform Basic Law.”

“Impossible—”

“Then continue the countdown,” Lin Chen interrupted.

silence.

“Second,” he continued, “adjust the platform's cut ratio to: 90% for creators and 10% for the platform. And this applies to all worlds.”

“You're trying to subvert the entire economic system!”

“Yes,” Lin Chen nodded. “Third, I want a Council seat.”

This sentence shook all the phantoms.

“Are you crazy? A Council seat requires holding more than 5% of shares and passing the Civilization Alliance review—”

“I can buy a 5% stake,” Lin Chen pulled up his account balance: 12.7 billion dimension points, plus the 8.3 billion in pre-collected monthly fees, and the credit lines from ten whale shareholders. “Give me three days, and I can acquire 5%.”

“And what about the Civilization Alliance review?”

“Review?” Lin Chen laughed. “Among my paid users are one-third of the review committee members. Do you think they'll vote against me?”

A deathly silence.

Countdown: 3 minutes 4 seconds

Paid subscriptions: 99.5 million

Only half a million away from 100 million.

And panic had begun to appear in the livestream's bullet chat:

“Council, hurry up and agree to him!”

“I don't want to go through withdrawal!”

“I have 300 billion dimension points in my account. Can I help shareholder Lin acquire shares?!”

“I'll give 500 billion!”

The Severe Addicts of higher civilizations began to throw money around.

To them, dimension points were just numbers, but emotional stimulation was a necessity for survival.

Countdown: 1 minute 22 seconds

Paid subscriptions: 99.9 million

The phantom at the center of the Council finally dimmed its light.

“We... accept the terms.”

“But there is an additional clause: your paid subscription system can only be implemented in your own world. It must not be promoted to other worlds.”

“Fine,” Lin Chen agreed readily. “But if other worlds voluntarily follow suit, the platform must not stop them.”

“...Agreed.”

Countdown: 0 minutes 47 seconds

Lin Chen clicked pause.

Then he opened the Platform Basic Law modification interface, wrote the three conditions into an amendment, and sent it to all Council members for an “emergency vote.”

The voting results came out within thirty seconds:

In favor: 71%

Opposed: 29%

Passed.

[Platform Basic Law · Amendment Article 88] officially takes effect:

1. Creators have the right to independently choose their livestream monetization model (including paid subscriptions).

2. The platform's cut ratio is adjusted to 90% (creator) / 10% (platform).

3. After his shareholding reaches 5%, Lin Chen will automatically obtain a Council Observer seat.

Lin Chen closed the interface.

Then he canceled the “Emotional Supply Cut” countdown for the paid subscription system.

The livestream restored color and sound.

The bullet chat was filled with cheers of surviving a disaster—even though they had just been kidnapped and extorted.

But the viewers didn't care.

They only cared about being able to continue “doing drugs.”

The paid subscription count finally settled at: 100.03 million.

Monthly fee revenue: 10.03 billion dimension points.

Lin Chen looked at the skyrocketing numbers in his account and said to the Council phantoms:

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Additionally, I'll give you a heads-up.”

He pulled up a pathological model of emotional dependency.

“Your civilizations' ‘Emotional Dilution Syndrome’ can only be alleviated by external stimulation, not cured. And you'll develop drug resistance—today you need an emotional dose of 6.3%, next year it might be 12%, and the year after, 30%.”

“One day, you will suck all the low-dimensional worlds dry.”

“And then?”

The Council phantoms were silent.

They knew, of course.

But like all junkies—knowing it's a dead end, they just can't stop.

“Perhaps when that day comes,” Lin Chen smiled, “I can sell you a new medicine.”

“What medicine?”

“Dimensional Descent Experience Service,” Lin Chen pulled up a newly drafted business proposal. “Temporarily download your consciousness into low-dimensional bodies to personally experience birth, old age, sickness, death, love, hatred, and passion. The effect is a hundred times stronger than merely watching.”

“The price?”

“Very expensive,” Lin Chen said. “But you can afford it.”

He closed the communication.

Then he looked at Su Qingyu and Zhang Hao: “Prepare for the next stage.”

“We need to acquire 5% of the shares within three days.”

“Where will the money come from?” Zhang Hao asked.

Lin Chen pointed at the 100 million paid users.

“From the junkies.”

“Tell them: as long as they invest in my share acquisition plan, they will enjoy a 70% discount on the ‘Dimensional Descent Experience Service’ in the future.”

“How much do you think they'll invest?”

Zhang Hao did the math and then gasped.

“They will... empty out their entire fortunes.”

“Exactly,” Lin Chen smiled.

“Then let them.”

Outside the window, in the dimensional void, individuals from higher civilizations had already begun to inquire about prices via private messages.

And the platform's old economic system, after Lin Chen tore the first opening—

—began its slow and irreversible collapse.