MMPS Ch. 39

Chapter 39: Cyber Haunting

Yu An removed his headphones, straining to discern whether the knocking sound he heard came from the game or reality.

“Probably just the game.” he murmured, slipping the headphones back on.

The moment his gaze returned to the screen, a horrific face filled the display—a ghostly visage with blood streaming from its hollowed eye sockets, its pallid complexion chillingly lifeless.

Yu An flinched, his heart skipping a beat. He squinted at the face, quickly realizing it was identical to the righteous young man who had been brutally killed moments earlier in the game.

“Jump scare.” he muttered, his voice heavy with disdain. “How cheap.” Any remaining patience he had for the game dwindled further.

The viewers were less composed. The sudden appearance of the grotesque face had sent them into a frenzy, and the live chat exploded in chaos. Some berated the developers for resorting to such tactics, while others mocked those who complained, asking why they were watching a horror stream if they couldn’t handle being scared. The argument quickly escalated, spilling over into insults aimed at the game’s developers,Gray Crow Games, as the chat seethed with collective frustration and rage.

The tension in the stream reached its peak, the audience’s fear and anger feeding into a growing storm of discontent.

Yu An frowned. “Something’s off. Jumpscares don’t last this long.”

He stared at the screen, unflinching, locking eyes with the lifeless corpse of the righteous young man. He scrutinized every detail, searching for the smallest sign of movement or change.

Then he saw it. In the bottom corner of the screen, just barely visible, a pair of hands rested on the corpse’s shoulders.

Something was behind the body, holding it upright, forcing it to face the player.

Slowly, the corpse’s face slid out of frame, replaced by another.

A mischievous, youthful face emerged, half-hidden by a mane of unruly curls. The boy’s eyes were strikingly unnatural—one gold, the other blue, both set against pitch-black sclera. His grin widened, revealing two sharp, tiger-like fangs as he leaned forward, basking in the screams and curses erupting from the other side of the screen.

Huang Qi, the man running the stream, was already a mess. The sudden appearance of the corpse’s face had left him trembling, desperate to shut down the broadcast and flee. But a cold glare from the subordinate, Xiao Qi, pinned him in place. Xiao Qi, calm and calculating, understood the situation clearly: as long as Xiao An—their eerie “good luck charm”—remained nearby, Huang Qi wouldn’t be the first target of whatever monstrosity they faced. For now, they were safe.

Yu An, meanwhile, studied the screen with unwavering focus: “Is it just an NPC, or…?”

The curly-haired boy tilted his head, meeting Yu An’s gaze. Unlike the other viewers, Yu An showed no reaction, and the boy’s playful smirk darkened into a scowl. Slowly, he raised a hand and pressed it against the screen, every detail of his palm and fingerprints disturbingly vivid.

Yu An had played through hundreds of horror games. He was no stranger to the cheap thrills of jump scares or the unsettling dread of more sophisticated frights. Most attempts to terrify him failed to leave any lasting impact. But what happened next shattered every expectation.

The boy’s hand began to push through the screen.

Yu An’s breath caught. Instinctively, he leaned back in his chair, his right hand darting to the drawer beside him. In one swift motion, he pulled out his armor piercer and drove it down toward the intruding hand.

The blade passed straight through.

The hand, no more than a phantom projection, remained unharmed. The tip of the blade, however, lodged deep into the wooden surface of Yu An’s desk.

The boy chuckled, his laughter a soft, mocking melody. His hand reached further out, brushing aside items on Yu An’s desk before finding the awl’s handle. With a casual tug, he dislodged the weapon and held it up, twirling it playfully.

The boy then shifted his attention to the webcam perched on Yu An’s monitor. He gripped it lightly, tilting it upward until it captured Yu An’s face in full view.

A young, stern face appeared on the stream, framed by the faint glow of the monitor. His left eye was hidden beneath layers of gauze.

Yu An was stunned as he saw his face on the screen.

The chat went silent for two seconds.

Then it erupted. Messages flooded in, filling the screen with countless iterations of the same phrase: “So handsome!”

Huang Qi, still trapped at his desk, stared in horror. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water as he saw Coal Black’s face. 

In the next second. Huang Qi immediately turned off the stream and exclaimed:“That’s him! The psycho from the beauty clinic—the one who… who plucked out eyes!”

He lunged toward Xiao Qi, clutching the younger man in a desperate embrace. “I’m done! I’m not doing this anymore! I’m going to the Underground Metro with you all!”

“Calm down.” Xiao An said softly, bending to offer a strained smile.

*

Meanwhile, the boy, delighted by Yu An’s earlier shock, began to revel in his newfound power. He extended more of his body through the screen—first his head, then his shoulders, then his torso—until half of him loomed over the desk, brandishing the awl in a mock threat.

That knife, embedded with a level two red core, could slice through skin merely by the glint of its blade without even needing to make contact. Yu An quickly stepped back, but his pajama top was still sliced open, a sharp reminder of the escalating danger. Realizing the situation was spiraling out of control, he hastily switched off the camera.

The boy became increasingly emboldened, extending more of his body through the screen. Yu An tried to fight back, but his attacks were useless. The boy’s body wasn’t solid; it was no more than a flickering, malevolent projection.

And yet, the boy could still harm him.

The boy’s body shuddered suddenly, as if a current of electricity had run through him. His gaze shifted, bypassing Yu An, and locked onto Zhao Ran, who stood behind him, one elbow draped over the chair’s backrest. A flicker of confusion crossed the boy’s mismatched golden and blue eyes, a glint of unease breaking through his guarded expression.

Zhao Ran parted his lips slightly, revealing sharp, gleaming fangs. From between them emerged a peculiar sound—a rasping, grating noise, as though his vocal cords were grinding against each other unnaturally. The sound was unsettling, more a fragmented utterance than a language, yet it carried an unearthly clarity.

“Chrysalis.” the boy whispered, his voice taut with alarm.

Immediately, the boy grew tense, his posture coiled with wariness. Without hesitation, he retreated into the screen, his movements abrupt and jagged, like a wounded animal fleeing a predator. The Armor-Piercing Awl, however, didn’t follow him. It collided against the surface of the screen, unable to pass through, and fell to the desk with a dull thud.

Once back behind the screen, the boy vanished completely, retreating further into the digital void until not even a trace of his presence remained. The audience, oblivious to the true nature of the encounter, murmured in confusion. They assumed it was a game bug—what else could it be? After all, outside the infamous Hongli City, few had ever seen an aberration, and ordinary players wouldn’t dare imagine such horrors could breach the boundaries of fiction.

Huang Qi, pale and trembling, was too paralyzed with fear to continue streaming. Yu An, with a casual yet sharp decisiveness, ended the broadcast and shut down the game, silencing the chaotic static of the digital world.

“That was the Aberrant Gray Crow Games hired us to hunt down, wasn’t it?” Yu An asked, his tone edged with disbelief. He picked up the fallen Armor-Piercing Awl, turning it over in his hands before tucking it hastily into the drawer. His voice steadied slightly: “Why didn’t you do anything?”

“You’ve tried it yourself,” Zhao Ran replied, his voice cool. “In the real world, none of us can touch them.”

“Them?”

“It’s confirmed. The entities causing chaos in the game are a pair of twins—the J.S brothers. They’re aberrations, parasitic beings that thrive in virtual environments. They feed on human emotions—fear and fanaticism, specifically. The stronger and more vibrant the emotions, the more drawn they are. They can invade game streaming rooms, cinemas, even household appliances in the homes of those consumed by rage or grief. Anywhere they want to be, they’ll go.”

Yu An frowned. “And what’s the company planning to do about it?”

“The tech team is working on a trap to confine them to a specific game scene. Once that’s done, one of us will go into Gray Crow: Toy House—inside the game itself—and eliminate them. Until then, your task is simple: stream this game for the next few days. I’ll test the connection equipment ahead of time for you.”

“Not a chance.” Yu An muttered, leaning back in his chair with a sigh of resignation. “I’m done.”

“If you don’t want to stream, then come upstairs and train with me—combat drills and physical endurance.” Zhao Ran said, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He feinted with his left hand, then sent a playful yet sharp flick to Yu An’s forehead.

Yu An flinched, glaring at him in silence, one hand pressed against the sore spot. Zhao Ran, smug as always, wielded his strength as casually as his authority—a boss who had no qualms about physically coercing his interns.

“Am I going into the game too?” Yu An asked after a long pause, his voice low and measured.

“It’s the final test for interns before they’re officially hired.” Zhao Ran explained with unnerving nonchalance. “A simulated rescue mission. Pass the test, and you’ll gain access to several useful company privileges.”

Yu An’s expression remained disinterested: “What privileges?”

“For one, access to the company’s internal marketplace. Employees get first pick of all premium items.” Zhao Ran replied smoothly.

“Hmm…” Yu An’s attention drifted midway through Zhao Ran’s explanation. His mind circled back to the boy’s final word, a single utterance that clung to the edges of his thoughts like a shadow.

Chrysalis.

The boy had spoken it with reverence—or was it fear? Yu An couldn’t shake the feeling that the word carried an ominous weight, tied inexplicably to Zhao Ran.

*

On Wednesday, the technical and mechanical teams made their first attempt at linking. To everyone’s surprise, they completed it a full day ahead of schedule—an achievement that was nothing short of remarkable.

For several interns, the commission from Gray Crow Games marked their first real-world project. Yong Zheng sat in front of his computer, his fingers flying across the keys with a speed that seemed almost unnatural, embedding complex lines of code into the toy house program. The room buzzed with the constant hum of his work as he tested and debugged, his focus absolute.

The head of the Safety Technical Unit leaned over the desk, watching his apprentice with sharp eyes. His gaze never wavered as Yong Zheng spoke, his voice steady.

“I’ve embedded a one-way door at the entrance of the toy house scene. It only allows entry, not exit. Once I sever the connection here, the entire scene will close instantly.”

“How’s the stability?” came the brief reply.

“No problems.” Yong Zheng said, without hesitation. His computer was a piece of high-end equipment, a beast of calculation, able to handle vast amounts of data in an instant. It could run anything, no matter how complex.

Across the room, Ji Nian sat amidst a chaotic mess of mechanical parts, inspecting soldering points in the linker. He hummed to himself absently, his legs dangling carelessly in the air. His mind was elsewhere, drifting, until the door to the room creaked open.

Zhao Ran stepped inside, hands tucked into his pockets to avoid disturbing anything. He surveyed the room, his eyes falling on Ji Nian first.

“How’s it going?” he asked, voice low, measured. “Where’s your team leader?”

“He’s not here.” Ji Nian looked up, his lips curling into a soft smile that almost seemed too innocent for someone working in a place like this.

“Can you handle it?” Zhao Ran asked, his tone sharp, searching.

“I’m almost there.” Ji Nian replied, his voice clear and confident. He climbed to his feet, brushing metallic dust off his overalls. “There’s just one problem. If we only use mental linking to project the consciousness of the operator onto the game character, they’ll be forced to fight using the character’s predetermined movements.”

He paused, catching the slight confusion in Zhao Ran’s expression. Sighing, Ji Nian elaborated: “For instance, the character of the vicious witch—when she swings her staff, she can only follow a set movement: left, right, then left again. The game has already decided the actions. Our people will be trapped in these movements, their attacks and defenses limited, creating vulnerabilities.”

Zhao Ran’s eyes narrowed: “So you’re saying, it’s a setup. The characters are bound by their predetermined actions, and if we send our people into that, they’ll be defenseless.”

“Exactly.” Ji Nian confirmed. “The game’s creators designed this scene—J.S brothers’ territory. Our people will be at a disadvantage, trapped in a cycle of scripted movements. And death in the game… it’s not just a loss. It sends a mental shock to the linker. You can’t just ignore it because the character can respawn. If it’s too severe, the linker might never wake up.”

Zhao Ran’s eyes darkened: “So, what’s your plan?”

“We need an Illusion Chamber as the linking medium.” Ji Nian suggested, his voice growing more resolute. “In an Illusion Chamber, our people can move freely. We need one that’s still intact, where the guardian has left but hasn’t been broken.”

To form an Illusion Chamber, the space had to be tainted by death—a aberration had to have killed or consumed a living person there. Breaking the illusion required either killing the creature that guarded it or deciphering its mechanisms. But sometimes, the creature would wander away, leaving behind a vacant, abandoned Illusion Chamber—a safer option, but even that could have its own dangers.

Zhao Ran was quiet for a moment, holding his chin in thought: “That’s not easy to find.”

“It’s not hard! I’ve been searching for it. Here—look!” He dug into his overalls pocket and pulled out a photo, holding it up with a gleam in his eyes. “It’s from the amusement park where you captured those mutated pet smugglers—the abandoned circus tent.”

Ji Nian scratched his head, almost sheepish. “It was quite a coincidence. It’s strange that there was an empty Illusion Chamber there, isn’t it?”

Zhao Ran’s smiled, revealing a glint of sharp teeth: “It is. Very weird.”

“…” Ji Nian quickly grabbed the linker. “Anyway, you should try the equipment. For safety’s sake, link to the boss—not a character that can die easily.”

With Ji Nian’s help, Zhao Ran strapped the linker on. Yong Zheng checked the data. “Attempting to link to the boss, the Scream Warden. Team Leader Zhao, you’re currently restricted by the character’s actions. You’ll only be able to use her movements to fight back. Be careful.”

“Okay.” Zhao Ran nodded and closed his eyes.

*

Three days into his training, Yu An had started to adjust to the streamer role. As long as he ignored the fact that the viewers on the other side were living, breathing people, all he had to face were the relentless comments on the screen.

He was becoming adept at responding to them.

“Alright, folks, playing the same game every day gets boring, but my boss says it’s all I can stream. So, today, let’s make things interesting.” His expression remained deadpan, almost robotic, as he entered the game and, as always, selected the Pumpkin Head Warrior.

“Let’s see—speedrun of the Plague Village’s ultimate boss, the Scream Warden.”

The Pumpkin Head Warrior swiftly equipped his exclusive weapon, the Noble Musket. He only had four bullets, but in this scene, killing the righteous youth would drop four backup bullets. At the altar, smashing the charred corpses would also yield one bullet with each strike, for a total of two strikes.

“Alright, folks, let me show you how to bug the blackened corpses. Every time it takes damage, it will drop one bullet. The corpse’s health is estimated to be around one hundred, and a single axe blow will remove fifty. Once it’s smashed, it won’t drop any more bullets.”

“So here’s what we do.” Yu An ran to the edge of the village, picking up a thorny hedgehog plant that was scattered all over the ground and pressed it against the blackened corpse.

The hedgehog plant continuously deals one point of damage to the surroundings, so every time it pricks the corpse, a bullet will drop.

The comments erupted into a storm of question marks.

He ignored them, continuing his methodical work, collecting fifty bullets before ignoring all other equipment and heading straight for the Scream Warden’s hut.

“The Scream Warden is a beginner boss, and she won’t attack unless you give her something. Whatever you give her triggers her mad animation, and then the boss fight starts.” Yu An’s tone was flat and calm. “But we can bug it here. We won’t give her anything.” 

“Just like this, jump up and get as close as possible. If it doesn’t work, keep jumping until it does.” Yu An guided the Pumpkin Head Warrior to leap toward the Scream Warden, carefully positioning himself near her.

And then, it happened. The Pumpkin Head Warrior landed on the Scream Warden’s outstretched hand, pinning her in place.

“Stepping on her hand prevents the battle animation from triggering. We just need to shoot her through the door.” Yu An raised the Noble Musket, thrusting the barrel into the crack in the door, and began firing wildly.  When he ran out of bullets, he reloaded, knowing there were plenty more.

The screen exploded with gunfire effects, flames, and bright flashes of light that momentarily caused the game to stutter.

He didn’t forget to glance at the audience’s comments and respond: “Why’s it lagging? Because the graphics card exploded.” he said, reading the comments as they flooded in.

Meanwhile, Zhao Ran had linked with the Scream Warden. Less than a minute later, he was thrown out, clutching his hand and grimacing in pain.

Clutching his hand, he braced his throbbing head and muttered: “What just happened…?”