10: Chapter 10: The entire internet is in tears – is this really a trash game?

The spasms in his stomach had not completely subsided.

The mouthful of Coke he had spat out dripped down the edge of the desk, soaking into the expensive handmade carpet and leaving an ugly, dark brown stain.

Jack didn't bother wiping it up.

Only the host computer's fan was spinning, and the air conditioner vent made a faint scraping sound.

The livestream camera was still on, the red light glaring.

The First Gun God, usually arrogant and belligerent, always talking about 'headshots,' was now curled up in his chair, his face buried in his arm, his shoulders twitching intermittently.

The barrage comment section experienced a sudden halt.

In a room with five million concurrent viewers, for a full minute, not a single line of text popped up.

No one typed '666,' and no one mocked his terrible gameplay.

The scene just now was too brutal.

The over one hundred ice sculptures frozen in shooting stances, that black potato with the broken tooth—this wasn't game data; it was a sledgehammer that smashed everyone's throats.

Finally, someone broke the dead silence.

[User 9527: Streamer... are you still alive?]

[I actually cried just now. When Little Shandong died, I, a grown man, couldn't stop my tears.]

[The modeling is too real. That skin color from the extreme cold, those eyes... I was trembling all over.]

[Why didn't anyone charge in at the end? Is that a bug? Why were they all lying there motionless?]

[Idiot upstairs! That wasn't a bug! The entire company froze to death on the position just to avoid exposing themselves and to wait for the charge signal!]

[This game is called 'ice and snow world'? The name sounds like a tourism simulator, but entering it means going to your death? The developers have no heart!]

Jack looked up.

He grabbed a few tissues and haphazardly wiped his face.

His face was smeared with snot and tears, his eyes bloodshot. His once imposing elite demeanor was shattered into pieces.

His hair was messy like a bird's nest, but he didn't care.

He glanced at the barrage.

Some people were sending rockets, some were cursing the developers, and more people were asking, 'What happened next?'

'There was no next.'

Jack's throat was hoarse, as if he had swallowed a handful of sand.

He pointed at the pitch-black window on the screen.

'What happened next... was just that.'

There was no shout-out to a big brother on the leaderboard, no announcement for tomorrow's stream.

He didn't even close the streaming software.

Jack reached out and directly yanked out the power cord to the host computer.

Zzzzt.

The screen went completely black.

Jack slumped back in his chair, the monitor reflecting his pale face.

His right hand subconsciously moved toward his left armpit.

It was empty there.

But on his skin, there seemed to linger that bone-chilling cold, along with a slight, phantom heat emanating from that hard potato.

That thing was truly hard.

And truly delicious.

The stream cut off just as the fire was starting to catch.

The internet is bloodthirsty.

Clips of Jack's breakdown, vomiting on the spot, flooded the short video platforms within half an hour.

The titles were sensational:

<'First Gun God's Livestream Disaster! Scared Sick by a Domestic Game?>

<'The Entire Internet Weeps! Who Was That Little Soldier Holding the Potato?>

<'Wiped Out at the Start? The Game Developer is a Demon!>

The hot search rankings shifted dramatically.

The entry about a top-tier idol being 'rushed to the hospital for a finger abrasion,' which had dominated the charts all day, was forcibly pushed down.

#IceSculptureCompany# Exploded.

#BrokenToothPotato# Boiled.

#JackCried# Hot.

#SaveLittleShandong# New.

The comment sections erupted.

'It must be scripted, right? Everyone knows Jack's acting. He'd sell his face for traffic.'

'Blind upstairs? Go watch the original footage. You can't fake that kind of physiological vomiting; his pupils were dilated.'

'I just want to know where to download it. Little Shandong said he wanted to go home and grow sweet potatoes; I want to go help him plant them.'

'Don't go die. The pain system is set to 10%. Going in is just asking for abuse.'

In an era accustomed to superheroes in spandex saving the world, people hadn't seen a scene like this.

No superpowers.

No respawn tokens.

Just over one hundred corpses at minus forty degrees Celsius, gun barrels pointed down, blocking the enemy's path.

This raw, bloody stench pierced straight through the frivolous culture of entertainment to the death.

Magic City, River View Apartment.

Smoke curled in the air.

Xie Dabao, chewing on a Cuban cigar with his legs crossed, didn't even look properly at the tablet his assistant handed him.

He was half the power in the domestic FPS circle—a technical player, a data fanatic.

He despised clowns like Jack who relied on being goofy and foul-mouthed to gain popularity.

'Just seeking cheap attention,'

Dabao flicked off some ash and sneered.

'For traffic, he'll take any dirty money. Crying over a game because he froze? Vomiting? Anyone who didn't know would think he actually went to a battlefield.'

The assistant forced a smile: 'Brother Bao is right. This performance was over the top.

His fan groups are all cursing, saying he colluded with the game company for marketing. A domestic little game, where would it get a realistic physics engine?'

'Technique? Does a domestic game deserve to be called technical?'

Dabao pushed the tablet away, sat up straight, and turned on his streaming equipment.

'I don't believe it. A game that relies on selling misery to trick people into crying, with no health bars and no minimap, is garbage.'

He adjusted the microphone and started broadcasting.

Viewers flooded in.

'Brothers, we're not playing ranked today. Since Jack next door hyped this game up to the heavens, I'll go inspect the goods for everyone.'

The barrage scrolled across the screen: [Brother Bao is exposing the fraud!] [Teach Jack a lesson!] [Technical players still look to Brother Bao!]

Dabao's eyes were filled with disdain.

'I will show everyone what technique looks like. Extreme cold? Hunger? They are just data in the face of absolute marksmanship.'

He held up one finger.

'If Jack doesn't clear this chapter in ten minutes? I'll set a flag: if I don't clear this chapter in half an hour, I'll eat my monitor right here!'