Chapter 104: Only Children Take Multiple-Choice Questions

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That familiar voice speaking the words made Xunuo’s entire spirit tremble. It felt exactly like someone was speaking to her from the aftermath, as if Gu Xingze had returned only to say that line to her.

Click.

“Yet I remember you.” Even when dawn rose on sleepless nights, Xunuo could not escape that sentence. It kept resurfacing as she woke again and again.

Ever since she watched that bit of character animation, Xunuo had never again gone out of her way to learn anything else about the character. She only fulfilled her contract-required live-stream hours and treated Gu Qianyan as nothing more than AI data, no different from the other characters.

Her evasions grew so obvious that even the fans noticed.

“Ha ha ha, of course not! I’ve just been tired lately, nothing shady.”
[You look like you’re trying to hide something.]
[My sis has secretly started dating someone, hasn’t she—playing games behind her boyfriend’s back?]
[No reward packs, no character missions, just queue matches all day. Do you realize how many viewers wanting Gu Qianyan’s backstory have moved to other streamers?]
[Do you know how many followers you’ve lost these past few days?]

Her serious fans were worried, and even the game company itself sent her a message of concern.
Xunuo gritted her teeth and laughed bitterly. “Such a shameless publisher, and they still ask how I’m doing.”

“I noticed there’s a major problem with Gu Qianyan’s story background.”

“What problem?” the studio replied, confused. Recently the game had been praised nonstop; many players even treated it as an otome romance game.

Xunuo had held her tongue for days, then blurted out the key issues one after another: “Why does my image appear there?”

“What?” they seemed even more puzzled. “It doesn’t. To improve immersion, there is no fixed player image.”

Only her silhouette had appeared, and “no fixed image” was only a weak excuse. But it did not convince her. “And the game assets—some of them are spliced from games I’ve played before.”

“What?!” Both of those questions gave the studio a headache. Afraid of being implicated in unauthorized asset theft, they hurriedly insisted, “We only use completely new original visuals and voice acting. That issue cannot happen.”

Nervous, Xunuo found her own logic thinning; it took a while before she explained the situation clearly. The studio was adamant: “Impossible. We absolutely did not use any previous holo-game materials.”

To prove their sides, they both promptly exchanged media proof.

The studio responded first. They sent internal documentation and recordings from other players. The images matched their side exactly. Only Xunuo’s screen capture looked completely different.

Good news: the studio was not so unscrupulous as to have stitched her image into other games. Bad news: only her account had this glitch, and they had no solution yet.

With an official apology, the company said data somewhere had likely gone wrong. They promised to fix what they could and compensate her losses. If other accounts began showing her image, they would try to repair and compensate those too.

There would be a period when the account could not be logged in. In that unsettled state, Xunuo reopened the game anyway.

The default character on the account home page was Gu Qianyan. He stood beneath a field of stars, his back turned, distant and desolate. A meteor streaked across the sky; its glow lit his dark eyes. He turned suddenly and smiled. “Long time no see.”

Long time? It had only been hours.
It was just a random line from the role’s dialogue table, and the role-task prompt had triggered it. Xunuo tapped the arrow, hesitated, then chose confirm.

As expected, the second chapter opened with familiar misty cloud mountains. Xunuo breathed in once, then continued watching. In first-person perspective, it recounted Gu Qianyan’s—perhaps Lu Ciyuan’s—life: born in the demon realm, fleeing it, coming to the mortal world, entering a cultivation sect. The narration offered little detail, skimming events and giving only skeletal background and past experiences.

Gu Qianyan—or rather Lu Ciyuan’s life—came to an abrupt stop when the red-robed woman who had barged into his life died, like a thread suddenly severed with no transition at all.

Compared with the complete first chapter, the second was too fragmented. Yet from these scraps, Xunuo could piece together a past she had never lived.

In battle with bloodthirsty demons for food, in bloody bouts with savage beasts, he rarely paused to breathe. Each day was survival—surviving the demons who wanted to kill him, and killing the ones who threatened his life.

In his scarce spare moments, he would wander alone beneath the abyss, only to catch those rare shafts of sunlight. The demon world had no warm sun, only endless blood and what seemed an unending procession of slaughter.

A half-bred demonling, unwanted and unprotected, had somehow survived. He grew up stumbling and bruised, then tore the demon world to shreds with his own hands before leaving the abyss for the surface.

From the first-person view, he seemed more observer than participant: few moments when emotion spilled out. He was always calm—so calm it looked cruel, even to himself.

Xunuo had read many emotional films, novels, scripts. None had moved her as much as this under-ten-minute animation.

After the woman who forced herself into his life died, where had the protagonist, Gu Qianyan, gone?
Only an immeasurable starfield remained.

The scene ended.

The reward for clearing the chapter was a full set of skins.
The War-God of the Heavens skin, God-tier quality.

Xunuo closed the page, fingers trembling slightly.
Back on the homepage, Gu Qianyan had already defaulted to the Warlike God skin—flowing hair, jade crown, iridescent battle armor, long sword gleaming with merciless cold—yet the whole figure still felt more demonic than divine.

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After several cups of tea, Xunuo still could not calm herself, so she simply equipped the newest, most dazzling skin and jumped into a match.

The new skin nearly blinded her teammates the moment she entered.

“What kind of whale rolled this?”
“First time I’ve seen this. Must be collector’s quality.”
“Top-tier player, where did that skin come from?”
“Did you pull from blind boxes? How much did it cost?”

The game launched a welfare event: the reward pool included lots of gear and skins. Drawing there was often worth it compared with buying directly in store; many lucky whales and wealthy spenders had pulled high-tier skins.

But this one was unheard of. Not even the studio had advertised it. “Too cheap on kindness,” they complained. “Have they forgotten how to make money?”

Xunuo answered honestly, “It wasn’t from a pool. It came from clearing the story quest.”

“What quest? As far as I know, Gu Qianyan only has three story chapters open, and no such skin is awarded there.”

“It’s not exactly free; it’s still a draw. You clear the story and earn points, then use those points to draw skin and gear for that chapter’s lore.”

“When those bonus points run out, you still have to recharge. The odds are terrifyingly low; people mostly get duplicates and scraps. Many players assume it’s free because that’s how it feels.”

“This player’s luck is incredible.”

“That’s exactly what’s sad,” another laughed. “I spent a thousand and didn’t get Gu Qianyan, while other people pulled a God-tier Gu Qianyan skin.”

Xunuo had never imagined even luck could matter this much. She was the only one across the platform with this account issue, and in a way, perhaps that itself was luck’s strange form.

The match went surprisingly smoothly. Most teammates and opponents were too busy admiring Gu Qianyan’s new skin and gear; they wanted to ride her supposed luck and then finish the battle quickly to pull a few rounds themselves.

Watching her character become easier to command under her control, Xunuo cleared the game and immediately queued the next one.
Second match, third, fourth…

Gradually she found her joy in the game again, and for a while forgot her earlier anxieties about Gu Qianyan.

Before she knew it, it was late at night.
Her account had leapt up several ranks. A new function unlocked: AI Simulated Battle. Players could train a character, then send it into combat to fight independently.

Xunuo chose Gu Qianyan as her first trained character, loaded in all his past battle data, and fine-tuned him slowly.

“Little Seven.”

The cute rabbit appeared at once.
“Here.”

Xunuo blurted suddenly: “Are Gu Qianyan and Gu Xingze the same person?”

“Huh?” Little Seven sounded stunned. “Who is Gu Xingze?”

“An in-game character.”

Little Seven asked, “Are their data the same?”

Xunuo answered, “I don’t know. But they look very similar. If I train Gu Qianyan with Gu Xingze’s personality, and they already look alike, their personalities would likely converge.”

“Mm…” Little Seven thought for a moment. “They are both emotionless, consciousnessless datasets. For example, a fan-made drawing may be very different from the official artwork, yet if fans accept it as the character, no one can really object.”

Xunuo added, “In truth, neither Gu Qianyan nor Gu Xingze exists as a real person. They’re both imagined virtual characters. As long as I believe he exists, he can exist in any form.”

“Then which do you want—Gu Xingze or Gu Qianyan?”

When she grasped the core of it, Xunuo suddenly smiled wide. “Only a child is forced to choose. I want both.”

She quickly messaged the publisher: please don’t touch the bad data for now. It was deep night, and no reply came. She rolled up her sleeves, ready to charge ahead.

Though she rarely spent much, she had spent a lot for Gu Qianyan, pulling every skin and piece of equipment available so far. She switched among different looks and gear and played several ranked matches in a row.

In half a night she climbed from the lowest tier to the mid-high tier. As the sun rose she was still wildly exhilarated and started a stream.

Viewers entered with puzzled faces and stacks of question marks. Where was she usually live at this hour? What made her start this early?
Then they saw her stream. Every frame was a blaze of expensive effects and lavish style. Money itself seemed to have texture in the air.

Of course it was Gu Qianyan—the game’s most popular character, now dressed in a show-stopping, dazzlingly handsome look. Xunuo had no deeper purpose in streaming so early except one thing: a crude, straightforward show of skins, letting everyone see how stunning she made him.

There was one silver-white divine-tier war-armor skin she had not shown. The reckless bloodrush of the previous night had passed; she had already informed the studio. It was likely a data glitch that had leaked unreleased material, so she was waiting for a response before making it a bigger fuss.

Even without her showing it, the teammates from matches had already uploaded clips the night before. Information spreads at lightning speed online, and the videos carried no blurred IDs. Xunuo, a million-follower streamer, was easy to recognize.

[My sis, don’t be stingy—where’s that God-tier skin?]
[In the end, we’re just not worthy enough, huh?]

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[Let the kids get a peek already, it’s too adorable! ]
[I’ve been a fan for ten years, let me be first.]

Before long, screenshots of the God-tier skin flooded the online gaming world, with Xunuo’s game ID circulating alongside them.
The studio responded quickly, and it was almost exactly what Xunuo had guessed: the skin had not yet reached its release time; a bug had leaked it early. Even though the chapter’s draw odds were minuscule, she still got it.

The bug is still being fixed. Though the official insistence remains that there is no pity system and the chance is extremely low, that did nothing to stop many whale players from spending thousands for one glorious skin.

To pull skins, players still had to enter the chapter quest, and first they had to own Gu Qianyan. So a new card-drawing craze flared up overnight.

Yet while some players did pull Gu Qianyan, only Xunuo herself pulled the God-tier skin from chapter two.

Xunuo checked other players’ situations: their chapter-two content was indeed different from hers—same xianxia setting, different plot configuration. The studio still had no explanation for why this had happened.

After a day of frenzy, the bug was fixed; Xunuo still had the only wearable God-tier Gu Qianyan skin.

As the only player to own it, her stream traffic multiplied. Followers surged by tens of thousands in a single stretch, and the game trended repeatedly because of the incident.

That only fueled conspiracy whispers: the streamer and studio had staged it together, didn’t they? How else could she have such luck, pulling the hottest role and skin so fast?

This round, Xunuo gained attention and views; the studio gained money and exposure. In truth they had unintentionally revealed a God-tier skin too early, and somehow everyone profited handsomely.

When faced with comments accusing her of colluding in publicity, Xunuo could only laugh at the absurdity and feel weary. It was pure coincidence; there was no way to convince the doubters. She even tried telling herself it was luck, but she couldn’t convince even herself.

“My luck is usually awful,” she said, to soothe the lemon-like sourness in the chat, “so I guess it all went into Gu Qianyan.”

For Xunuo, the result was never in doubt—either duplicate pulls or junk. This was exactly why she usually hated paid draws; her luck was too bad.

Watching her pour in thousands only to waste them, the audience finally calmed a little.

Most viewers did not realize she had already spent a lot over several rounds to complete Gu Qianyan’s full set of skins and gear. Of course any new pulls would have a frighteningly high duplicate rate, and with her habit of bad luck giving mainly junk, the outcome was no surprise.

[Sis, show us that God-tier skin again.]
[We’ve been longtime fans for years—aren’t we worthy of it?]
[Get him out and show Gu Shen’s beauty now.]
[They say saving one life is worth seven merits and I swear we’ll have to grind if we don’t see him today.]

The fans were so warm-faced and expectant that to keep it to herself any longer would be rude. Xunuo switched Gu Qianyan into the God-tier skin, and the chat exploded into a howl.

Unlike the blurry game clips, Xunuo chose the clearest frame rate, a large screen. Every detail was crisp: fabric texture looked magnificently rich, metallic parts naturally glowed as he moved. The modeling was outstandingly delicate—you could see skin grain, breathing rise and fall, subtle muscular shifts between movements. A figure as heavenly and dreamlike as a deity, yet somehow utterly natural, as if he might step right off the screen. Compared with other mobile games, it was a true dimensional leap.

Compared to the other characters in this game, the model quality was absolutely crushing.

For Xunuo, who had already gone through a holo-game and survived the shock of beauty, she had a sort of immunity. For ordinary players, it was a knockout strike—zero defense.

It was insanely cool.

After that shock, the comments turned into loud wails of obsession:
[Expose that crappy planner and face us!]
[All the teasing and no commit! If you can leak it, you can launch it!]
[If it’s already exposed, why are we still waiting? Release it now, we’re begging!]
[My wallet is starved for this.]

Her stream could not contain the viewers’ enthusiasm. The publisher’s own comment section was quickly overwhelmed with people demanding the God-tier Gu Qianyan skin.

What was shown on stream pushed the incident to its peak. Many passersby who did not even follow the game were stunned by the modeling.

Some conspiracy thinkers still insisted it was a flawless marketing stunt. It was such a successful stunt, so perfect, that their only issue was that no one could get the skin in time. They were left with nothing but expectation.

Neither Xunuo nor the studio had expected this outcome. This was not pre-planned. For all kinds of practical reasons, the studio had not intended to launch the skin immediately. To soothe players, they instead released other skin promotions early and threw in discount coupons.

They launched five new skins at once, including a limited-time Gu Qianyan skin of solid quality at an attractive price. During the event, buying it was almost like getting it for free.

Xunuo, naturally, bought it without hesitation.
Her assistant, amazed, remarked, “Xunuo, you used to be so frugal.”

Xunuo had always been strict about separating work from play; she did not spend in a game unless it affected her performance. The assistant had never seen her so devoted to a character—spending on gear and skins, spending an hour dressing him up without complaint. Even she seemed to care more than herself.