MMPS Ch. 37

Chapter 37: Thunder God

“You’ve learned to steal bikes now? Don’t you have Eagle Wings?”

Yu An was roughly dragged into the living room, his body stiff and taut, the feeling of disobedience still clinging to him like a heavy shroud. He had been made to change into his pajamas, forced to stand there with his hands locked behind his back, head bowed in silent submission. The reprimands hit him like a dull, unrelenting drumbeat, each word sinking deeper into the quiet of the room.

“I always get this feeling… when I use the core, you can feel it,” Yu An muttered, his gaze fixed on his toes, as if the answers to his confusion could be found there. “At Guxian County Hospital, we never met, but you knew I’d connected with the Goat’s Horn. And in the beauty salon’s Illusion Chamber, you appeared when I overused the core, right before I couldn’t replace it anymore.”

Zhao Ran scratched his nose absently: “…Next time, just use Eagle Wings.”

The mechanical eagle—its wings had been sliced away to obtain the core that gave him the Eagle Wings. The promise of flight at incredible speeds, the ability to slip past the city’s watchful eyes, all for the cost of twenty-four fleeting hours. And those hours were slipping away, fast.

“You know about the bike…Was I caught on camera? Impossible.” Yu An lifted his eyes, his expression unbothered, almost as if the answer didn’t matter. It was a question born of defiance more than curiosity.

Li Pu, the one whose job it was to track Yu An’s every move, recoiled under the weight of his own actions. His fingers twitched nervously, his posture retreating into the shadows as if hoping to disappear.

“Keeping tabs on the intern’s movements is part of my job.” Zhao Ran said flatly. He raised his wrist, casually letting his hand fall onto Yu An’s head: “If you don’t like it, deal with it.”

Yu An’s fingers curled around the task list in his hands, the streamer contract still clenched between them like a symbol of his entrapment: “Fine… whatever. But could you give me something else to do?”

“Oh? The intern gets to pick tasks now? Even I have to follow the boss’s orders, and I’m not about to let you bypass that.”

“You’re rich.” Yu An said, his voice low, tinged with disbelief. “You have everything—houses, cars. Yet you stay here in Hongli City, working for the Underground Metro’s boss? Hunting Aberrants is dangerous, isn’t it?” 

“I have my reasons for staying here. If you want to leave, the internship contract can be voided.”

The casual dismissal of “voided” felt like a cold breeze, as though whether he stayed or left was of no importance to him. In the diary, they had seemed so close, yet in reality, Yu An was just another faceless intern among the many Zhao Ran had dealt with—someone whose replacement could be justified by the excuse of inadequate skills at any given moment.

“Just stream. It’s just playing games,” Yu An waved his wrist dismissively, walking straight into the bedroom. He powered on the desktop and expertly logged into the game store. “No need to work, just stay home and play games. That works too.”

Zhao Ran’s provocation succeeded, and the corners of his lips lifted into a secretive smile. He leaned an elbow against the back of the computer chair, standing behind Yu An as he watched him.

As Yu An scrolled the mouse wheel, row after row of horror, thriller, and action-adventure game covers appeared on the “purchased” page. He had played more than just the games listed on his resume—aside from the ones in which he’d set speedrun records, there were hundreds of others, big and small, most of which had progress over ninety percent.

Zhao Ran stared at the screen, suddenly realizing why Yu An had never managed to save any of his pocket money over the years.

“You didn’t do anything else at school, did you? Just played these games every day.”

“Fast to finish, doesn’t waste time.” Yu An looked up at him, “Otherwise, what should I do when I’m bored? I’m not like them, I don’t have a significant other.”

He didn’t make any exaggerated expression, but his intense gaze pulled people in, making them feel the need to make contact.

Zhao Ran quickly turned his gaze away, looking up at the computer screen, but Yu An raised his hand to touch his neck, his fingertips lightly brushing over the rolling Adam’s apple.

“You want to watch me play which one?”

Catching his mischievous hand, Zhao Ran handed him a new phone: “Gray Crow Games sent one of their streamers to guide you. He’ll teach you how to adjust the software.”

Yu An took the phone, already dialed, his face full of impatience. He rarely made calls, and even when ordering takeout, he preferred to leave a note for the delivery driver to leave the food at the door rather than talk to them.

*

On the other end of the phone, Huang Qi slumped over his computer, letting out a long, weary sigh.

A few days ago, he had been terrified out of his wits at the Xiliu Beauty Salon. He hadn’t grown taller, but he had come dangerously close to losing an eye. When his luck turned sour, even drinking cold water seemed to get stuck in his teeth. The strangest part was that after meeting the young man in black at the beauty salon, every night when he closed his eyes, his mind was haunted by the image of that man holding his eyeball in his hand, turning it over and over as if it were some macabre trinket.

It was bad enough to send him to the hospital for three days, and when he finally managed to leave, he was left short on his streaming hours. He had missed the company’s offline events, only to be sent on an investigation assignment under the guise of “offsetting losses,” along with a confidentiality agreement that he had signed in the most professional way possible.

The investigation, though, was nothing more than a joke. He had been asked to take a new streamer under his wing—essentially, babysitting the rookie.

But this wasn’t just any mentoring job. It would be done in front of hundreds of thousands of fans. If the newbie was quick-witted, if he could throw out a few good jokes or catch on to some trending topics, it wouldn’t be too bad. The pressure would be bearable. But what if this was some clueless rookie who had no idea what they were doing? If they babbled nonsense in front of the viewers, the fallout would be disastrous.

There was also the unpredictable nature of a new streamer’s technical skills. If they kept failing in the same part of a game, or lost every match in a competitive game, the show would quickly lose its appeal, and fans would start to drop off.

Just then, Huang Qi’s phone vibrated, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. He scrambled to answer, confirming the number from Manager Chen. With practiced politeness, he introduced himself, learned about the newbie’s equipment setup, and gave them a rundown of the software required for the stream.

It’s a skill for any streamer to talk endlessly, but Huang Qi had barely finished rattling off his instructions before the rookie merely responded with a cold “Mm.”

“Uh…” Huang Qi hesitated, but then he heard the rookie speaking to someone, a strange remark. “Have you ever eaten lurid bolete? The kind where the mushroom turns green when you touch it… But why do you turn red when your being touched?”

Huang Qi froze.

Was that flirting? Despite having prepared himself for a rookie with less-than-ideal professionalism, this was a bit much.

“Cooperate with the investigation…” he muttered to himself three times, willing his anger to subside.

Fine. Whatever. Just play along.

He adjusted his camera angle, checked his network connection, and began the stream, as he always did. Slowly, viewers started to gather, and the chat went from sparse to filled with comments. Some were commenting on his sudden return, others were concerned about his health.

“Thank you all for your concern. I did spend a few days in the hospital, but I’m fine now, don’t worry.” Huang Qi replied, instantly switching to his cheerful, professional persona. His face was sharp, but it carried a warmth that viewers loved, especially with the slight droop of his dog-like eyes. They made him incredibly photogenic and likable on camera.

“Today, I’ll be streaming with a new broadcaster. His ID is ‘Coal Black.’ For those interested, feel free to follow him!” Huang Qi said, putting on his best innocent smile and clasping his hands together. “The boss assigned me to help out this rookie.”

It was best to distance himself from this Coal Black for now, in case something went wrong and he got dragged into the mess.

“Everyone, feel free to let me know what game you want to see. I’ve been playing some really fun ones lately.” he continued.

“Not in the mood for horror? Alright, how about some FPS? CS, PUBG, Battlefield, or Rainbow Six—all of them are great fun.”

“No problem, I’m a pro. There’s no game I can’t handle.”

“Ah, Coal Black’s here. Let me connect the mic.” Huang Qi saw a message on his phone, quickly joined Coal Black’s stream, and greeted him warmly. “Hey, hey!”

For a moment, he thought the mic was malfunctioning, trying to adjust it. But it turned out that Coal Black was completely silent.

A slight awkward pause followed, and viewers began to lose their patience. Huang Qi wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, maintaining his good-natured smile to keep things going. “It’s normal to be nervous on your first stream. I was like that too. No worries! So, what kind of shooting games do you usually play?”

A long silence passed. Finally, Coal Black spoke, his voice cold and uninterested: “Anything.”

The audience erupted in cheers. It was no surprise—there was always a fascination with a soft, sultry voice, and Coal Black’s tone made his fans immediately interested.

Oh, he’s going for that “cold, aloof” persona, huh? Those types always have the shortest shelf life, Huang Qi thought with a tinge of annoyance. He decided to take a little jab at him and suggested a one-on-one battle. After all, it was just for fun.

Coal Black responded with a single word: “Okay.”

Just then, Huang Qi’s phone vibrated with a private message from Coal Black: “Should I win, or should I lose?”

Huang Qi could only laugh, the frustration building inside him. He typed back: “Just do your best. The weirder the weapon, the better. It’ll make for better content.”

Coal Black’s reply was simple: “Okay.”

Huang Qi chose a P1911 with a red dot sight—nothing too flashy for a casual match. Bringing an assault rifle would be pointless, especially since he didn’t know what kind of player Coal Black was. If he crushed the guy too easily, the viewers would lose interest, and he’d get a scolding from Manager Chen.

Still unsure, he opened another screen to watch Coal Black’s stream, wanting to monitor the rookie’s performance and make sure nothing inappropriate was captured.

Coal Black had his camera on, but it only showed his hands, long and clean, placed on the keyboard. He selected his weapon, entered the arena, and began his match.

Everything seemed fine, until Coal Black rotated his keyboard 90 degrees, placing it upright on the table.

Huang Qi’s gut churned. Something felt off about this.

Coal Black didn’t pick a gun. He was holding a grenade.

“Alright, viewers. whoever doesn’t have a weapon is to blame and will lose. I have already lost, my friends.” Coal Black said nonchalantly. He was silent after that, leaving Huang Qi to fill in the awkward silence with forced enthusiasm.

The barrage of comments exploded, a chorus of awed exclamations echoing across the screen.

The arena was set with plenty of cover—perfect for players to hide and plot their next move. In this one-on-one duel, the first to kill their opponent twenty times claimed victory. If the two players remained locked in battle for too long, the timer would expire, and the player with the higher score would win.

The game began.

Huang Qi moved with practiced precision, following his usual routine: he crept along the edges of a container, using its bulky frame for cover. His aim was steady—he was no amateur. In his past one-on-one encounters with fellow streamers, he had never faltered.

But today was different. He couldn’t find his opponent.

A moment of doubt crept in. Was Coal Black stuck outside the arena? Perhaps a mistake in the controls had sent him off course. Huang Qi glanced at his secondary monitor, his eyes locking onto Coal Black’s live stream.

On the screen, Coal Black’s avatar swung its arm, hurling a grenade into the air.

The grenade arced toward Huang Qi’s head, and before he could even react, it exploded. The screen flashed white, and Huang Qi was instantly sent to the respawn screen.

The chat exploded with laughter. The barrage of comments flooded in: “Thunder God!” “Nice catch!”

Reviving, he raced for cover, adrenaline pushing his every move. But the moment he reached safety, the unmistakable sound of another grenade echoed, and before he could blink, it was at his feet. He barely had time to react. It detonated with surgical precision, and once again, Huang Qi was dead before he could even think.

“That damn cruise missile.” he muttered under his breath, his sleeves rolled up in defiance. This newcomer—this Coal Black—was a little interesting.

Even after Huang Qi decided to take the match seriously, carefully calculating his movements, he found himself unable to outplay his opponent. He had started peeking into Coal Black’s live stream, tracking his every move, but it didn’t matter. Coal Black killed him twenty times in total, the score a lopsided 20:1.

A few curious viewers hopped between both streams, and soon came back with an amusing report: “Coal Black picked up only 21 grenades in the match. One of them bounced off the wall and blew himself up. That’s how you got your point.”

The screen was flooded with “hahaha” comments, laughter rolling through the chat like a wave. Huang Qi leaned back, stunned with his hand ruffling his hair.

*

Coal Black’s follower count shot through the roof.

Yu An released the keyboard, his hands trembling as he wiped the cold sweat off his palms. His legs shook uncontrollably, and his voice trembled ever so slightly when he spoke. The excitement of the game had left him breathless.

Finally, the match ended. Yu An quickly powered down the mic and camera. He slumped back in his chair, his fingers rubbing his palms dry against the fabric of his sweatpants. His eyes glazed over, staring into nothingness—he was disconnected, lost in the silence, like his own system had frozen.

“Well done, Coal Black.” Zhao Ran leaned back in his chair, grinning as he teased, then reached out and gently placed the back of his hand against Yu An’s cheekSurrounded by the noisy enthusiasm of the barrage, their faces were flushed, though it was hard to tell—beneath the surface, the heat was nearly sizzling.

“Enough of that. Let’s play something else.” Zhao Ran said. He slid a new USB drive toward Yu An. “Gray Crow Games sent over the latest version of Gray Crow: Toy House. It’s got a few new scenes added in.”

“Stay alert for any anomalies during the game.” he instructed softly.  “The tech and mechanics unit will begin testing the linking devices this Friday. I might try to link into the new scenes early. I’ll need you to clear the way for me.”