Chapter 23

Twenty hours.

The surging, chaotic street instantly became empty, restoring the universe’s original silence.

The disheveled people remained frozen in their poses from moments before—running or begging—before they slowed down, sobering up. Even Ains returned to normal. She curiously examined her body and let out a sigh of relief.

“Fuck, it really came true?” Victor said in disbelief. He was still shaken, his legs giving out as he plopped down on the ground, gasping for breath.

Xu Hua shouted, “Look at the city gate!”

They all turned to look at the city gate at the same time.

The thick fog inside the city gate had vanished, replaced by a longer street—the same street, stretching even farther, endlessly far.

After observing for a moment, Horne said, “A mirror.”

The gates on both sides had turned into mirrors, infinitely extending the space they occupied.

Gao Qie couldn’t stand being there a second longer. He rushed to the city gate in a few steps. His reflection in the mirror rushed toward him too. He shouted loudly, “It’s a mirror!”

Six hours remained until the deadline. Now, they just needed to pass through the city gate, and the game would end.

But Gao Qie, who reached the mirror first, didn’t pass through it.

Horne walked up to the city gate and pressed his finger against it. It was solid—a real mirror.

In his daze, a few words appeared above the mirror out of nowhere: Who are you?

Horne looked up, a bit puzzled.

Victor said impatiently, “Fuck, what the hell is this shitty game up to? Who am I? I’m your dad!”

Horne stepped back two paces and bumped into Moroz behind him. He turned around and immediately said, “Sorry.”

Moroz smiled at him. “Big brother, you don’t need to apologize to me.”

In the end, this young man hadn’t done anything harmful to him. Horne suddenly felt a bit annoyed; he didn’t know why he felt that way.

On the other side, Han Ya had already shouted out loud, “I’m Han Ya! Thirty years old, male, role is technician.”

After he finished reciting, the mirror showed no reaction. It stood quietly at the end of the street, reflecting their bewildered expressions.

Moroz let out a scoff. Han Ya shot him a glare. “What are you laughing at, you little brat?”

Moroz didn’t hold back. “Laughing at how stupid you are.”

Han Ya took two steps forward, rolled up his sleeve to hit him, but Moroz ducked behind Horne. He grabbed Horne’s arm pitifully and said, “Big brother, this guy’s so mean. I’m a bit scared. What should I do? He’s not gonna hit me, is he?”

Han Ya forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, his mouth twitching as he sneered, “I won’t hit you, but I just noticed something.”

Moroz played along. “What?”

Han Ya stared at Moroz. “There’s this kind of drink. I thought only rich people enjoyed it, but turns out it’s pretty common in the holographic game.”

Moroz still played along. “What?”

Han Ya grinned strainedly. “Green tea.”

Horne interrupted their conversation expressionlessly. “Let’s get out of the game first.”

Twenty hours—that was enough time for him to make some temporary preparations, rest a bit, and then head to the Tower.

“Okay, big brother. Whatever big brother says.” Moroz replied obediently.

Han Ya’s expression was hard to describe. He found this little brat calling him “big brother” every other word disgusting; it reminded him of some unpleasant things.

As they spoke, Gao Qie imitated Han Ya and muttered lowly, “Gao Qie, AI expert. For the sake of fame, I caused a disaster. I bear responsibility.”

The mirror still showed no reaction.

“Fuck, are they gonna let us out or not?” Victor cursed angrily. He strode confidently to the mirror and declared loudly, “Victor, role is engineer. For promotion, I didn’t do my job properly, leading to the incident!”

Silence fell.

They exchanged glances.

Victor’s fiery temper exploded. He started cursing up a storm. “What the fuck is this crap? I say who I am, and that’s who I am! What’s wrong with what I said? Does this game know me better than I know myself?”

After he finished cursing, nothing around him budged. The planet continued its orbit, dust drifted along gravity wells—nothing stirred because of his anger.

Who are you? Such a simple question. Horne kept looking up at those three words.

For him, though, it was the hardest question. And it seemed, for everyone here, it wasn’t easy either.

The game pod connected directly to the brain, reading all consciousness and subconscious. It did know a person better than they thought they knew themselves. The self existed in every perception, but people only dared admit the parts of their personality they consciously chose.

This question was the game’s hardest phase—the reason it was rated A.

Horne hesitated. He felt his heart go ‘thump thump.’

He had been craning his neck so long it ached. When Horne realized what he was doing, his hand had already gently touched his own face.

In the quiet, Moroz smiled silently. His hand touched the mirror, and his voice rang out especially clearly in the tense atmosphere. “In the game, I’m an investor—a person who puts money above all, vanity above all. I can have little morality, but I can’t be without money. To me, everything except money is fake. So I can use others, hurt others, harm the environment. Even if posterity suffers because of me, what does it matter? Better to talk business than romance. Oh, right—sometimes I say money isn’t everything, but when I get the chance, I still secretly choose money and betray friends. I’m selfish, insidious, cunning—wanting to keep most of the benefits for myself. And I see anyone who isn’t like that as a fool.”

The others watched him. Horne watched him too, then looked at the unresponsive mirror.

Even that was a wrong answer, Horne thought, but he didn’t say it first.

Moroz wasn’t finished. After describing his game role, he added more.

“This is my understanding of the role. Of course, if the game is asking about the real me, then I’m definitely no good person either.” He smiled and continued, “My motives and goals are all for the person I love. I want to be with him, want him to live happily without worries. Sounds noble, but it’s not—because of this, I’ve hurt a lot of people, and I think they deserved it. If there’s divine punishment, let it fall on me; I don’t care. I’m a devil, a maniac, a lunatic. Call me pervert, beast—whatever. After all, I’m a hopeless idiot too. So what? Good or evil, beautiful or ugly—I accept all of it. I love him, and that’s me.”

After he finished, the hand on the mirror stretched forward a bit. Under everyone’s gaze, it passed through the mirror.

Gasps sounded around him. Horne swallowed the words he wanted to say, his expression complicated.

He had suspected as much. A question this blatant wouldn’t just ask for a name or game role. It demanded they dissect their dark, crazy true selves—the players themselves—and accept it.

But knowing one’s true self was a painful process, not some identity passively accepted through hearsay.

Moroz took a step forward, his figure wavering in the mirror now open to him. He turned back and winked at Horne. “Big brother, I won. Waiting for you outside.”

Horne nodded lightly at him. He watched Moroz fully enter the mirror and vanish. Then the mirror solidified again.

Silence fell. Everyone quieted down.

It was as if after saying it—facing it—the Earth didn’t explode. The universe kept turning eternally.

Ains took a step forward and murmured, “My role is Algernon, a person who hates the world. I don’t want to be an experimental subject. I could resist, experience more beauty in the little time I have left, but I did nothing. I just harbored dark resentment toward the world in my heart, like a rat in the sewer. Occasionally, feeling human emotions, I showed a bit of kindness—giving the last hope to those forever trapped on this street, turned into objects. If they can guide later people to learn trust, to know themselves, they can be reborn.

“As for myself, I’m playful, dishonest. For what I want, I’ll deceive even close ones, like my father. I don’t like him. He always says I embarrass him, can’t compare to his friends’ kids, disappoint him. But I don’t want to be the obedient, rule-following good child in his eyes. I think ‘obedient’ is the most vicious adult lie. Why should I obey? Is he that successful? Obey and repeat his life? I want my own life. His expectations? I just can’t meet them. He calls me trash? Then I’m trash. So what? Others calling me trash—does that make it true?”

“And I don’t want to wear the mask anymore. I hope one day I can make everyone take theirs off, so I never have to see these disgusting faces again.”

As she spoke, the mirror rippled into arcs under her hand.

The second person left.

The rest stood silently until Gao Qie spat and said loudly, “My role is an AI guy, a bit famous in the field. Hiding flaws in my system for bigger fame—isn’t that normal? Who wants their best skill exposed as having huge defects? You never done that? Not admitting your problems—is that some unforgivable sin? Hilarious.”

He was very impatient, but to leave the game like the first few, he furrowed his brows and irritably said, “I joined the game to ease the pressure on my daughter. I can’t make money; she’s been supporting me and her brother. Seeing her so tired, I wanted to contribute too. Maybe I was harsh sometimes, demanded a lot from her, but I love her. Which parent doesn’t love their kid? Doing this is for her future to be better, her brother’s too—a family united, how great. Sure, my temper’s bad sometimes. Okay, bad toward women too. But I’m good to brothers and friends. You can’t deny me as a person just because I’m bad to women, right? Besides, if a man doesn’t look out for himself, heaven and earth will punish him.”

After he finished, the mirror didn’t react. His hand touched it—no ripple.

His face changed. Victor gloated beside him. “This thing wants the truth, huh? Saying all that sanctimonious crap for us to hear won’t fool a machine reading your brain.”

Gao Qie’s lips trembled, his voice shaking uncontrollably. With a do-or-die expression, he suddenly broke down and yelled, “That’s the truth!”

Han Ya shrugged beside him. “We don’t know if it’s true. We just know you didn’t get out.”

“Fuck your mom! You… ow!” Gao Qie was about to curse when a small pebble flew from somewhere and hit him right between the brows. He yelped in pain and whipped around, searching for the culprit.

Wen Yu’s hands were behind her back, unmoving. But Horne, standing just behind her right, had seen her entire motion.

Perfect angle and force—this woman wasn’t ordinary in reality. She was very likely the sniper he’d suspected earlier.

But with no war now, no human armies—why did a sniper like that exist? If Wen Yu’s identity was suspect, what about Han Ya’s?

As he pondered, an arm draped over Horne’s shoulder—Han Ya’s. Leaning on Horne, he smiled and said, “Wanna give it a try?”

Horne subtly stepped aside, causing the arm to slip off awkwardly. Han Ya nearly stumbled.

Horne’s expression remained cold. He didn’t like physical contact with others; it made him tense and feel invaded.

Snubbed, Han Ya backed off uninterestedly.

Gao Qie recovered from the pain, touched his forehead, and found blood. He flew into a rage.

Victor lost patience too. He said, “If you won’t say it, I will. In the game, I’m an engineer…”

Gao Qie cut him off before he finished.

“What are you in a rush for?!”

Gao Qie stood before the mirror, staring at his gaunt, stick-thin reflection. He trembled all over, eyes bloodshot.

Fail to pass this mirror, and they’d be stuck on this street forever.