4. No way, dude.

From "Not even friends" to "Holy shit, awesome."

From confusion to shock, followed by a primal scream erupting in the headphones, and then a collective roasting of the one who had doubted moments before—this back-and-forth banter between critics and supporters is part of the charm of gaming together.

When friends team up, winning isn’t everything, but chatting is a must.

Compared to the seemingly magnetic aura of the player Electric Mic, the microphone of Original Fries carried more strength.

The buzzing sound of rushing water pounding on eardrums, the muffled vibration as if ears were submerged, the bubbling noise, and the moment these three combined—everyone fell silent.

Who exactly were they talking to?

Has a water demon learned to surf the internet these days?

Suddenly, someone joked, "I’d like to tell you about our Heavenly Father and Savior, Cthulhu."

Laughter erupted, and the idea of logging into R’lyeh became a running joke. No one mentioned Original Fries’ original group name anymore.

Whether to fit this meme or simply due to lousy equipment and laziness to swap, after the water-flowing mic was mocked, Original Fries stopped using voice chat, relying mainly on typing for communication during gameplay.

Once fairly active, he quietly faded from everyone’s view for about a year and a half—probably wrestling with life itself.

Original Fries’ character was an elf: long white hair, blood-red eyes, tall and graceful—a standard aesthetic hit among the group’s tastes.

Like the other three, from the start of the game until now, his gear remained ragged and mismatched, a hodgepodge of whatever was picked up, highlighting an overly eclectic fusion.

No matter how exquisite the face customization, without a nice outfit, it was all for naught.

In the world of Proof of the Constellations, speaking didn’t require a mic; the R’lyeh login era was now history.

Original Fries likely chose the game’s synthesized voice, cold and indifferent in tone, matching his self-created elf avatar, giving off a subtle sense of distance and ambiguity.

Some players freely expressed themselves, some role-played a second self—veterans of the game were unfazed and quickly adapted to the newcomer identity presented by Original Fries.

Understanding the current situation, Original Fries immediately showed his inventory.

Hundreds of various monster drops amazed the trio; it seemed he had done nothing but roam and kill freely since the start.

Even so, he was only level six, proving how slowly the game leveled up.

Rumor had it that Proof of the Constellations planned competitive events, which made Jiang Heyi smile wryly.

Though the game’s microtransactions focused on just a monthly card without selling power-boosting items, balancing such a complex game was difficult. Even if AI was suspected to adjust and plan the game, Jiang Heyi was skeptical about its future prospects.

Reentering the magic shop, the human clerk was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a giant spider hanging silk strands from the ceiling.

Everyone but Jailkeeper jumped in surprise.

“Honored guest, what services do you require?”

“I want to...”

Hearing a female voice, Jailkeeper cut in before Jiang Heyi could speak.

“After you turned human, do you still have eight legs?”

“?”

“Why does everyone keep staring at me? Can’t I ask a question?” Jailkeeper clicked his tongue. “Don’t be so rigid. With freedom comparable to reality, you have to play some new tricks.”

“Based on your question, I need to doubt what you mean by ‘tricks,’” Jiang Heyi rubbed his forehead.

The spider clerk truthfully replied that after taking the transformation potion, she only had two legs, then immediately popped up the trading interface for Jiang Heyi.

After stacking materials one by one, Jiang Heyi received no prompt, so he asked, “Will this amount of magic stones be enough to complete the infusion?”

“Honored guest, I’m sorry, but I cannot answer that question.”

The response was completely different from the human clerk’s earlier reply. Was this a personality difference?

Realizing this, he quickly asked, “Where is the clerk from before?”

The spider clerk’s voice carried a smile. “The new employee who made the mistake is naturally undergoing retraining.”

Mistake... referring to the earlier slip about magic stone infusion?

Unconvinced, Jiang Heyi tried several other magic shops, receiving similar feedback.

Once sure Original Fries had fed the dolls in his home base, Jiang Heyi went all in, trading for two small magic stones.

The abundant magic in the stones transformed into a beam of light that pierced into the shattered starry gem.

Without any progress bar, the only visible change was the dim gem gaining a slight sheen.

“Wow, that’s all it does?” Jailkeeper was disappointed—he seemed eager to see the ghostly nun Jiang Heyi had described.

Prepared mentally, Jiang Heyi exhaled. “At least it’s a first step. Next, I need to figure out how to make some money and teleport over before this round ends.”

Speaking of money, one must mention the game’s basic universal currency: Star Sand Grains.

They were obtained from specific scenario monsters and special events; drops from events could be traded with NPCs for Star Sand Grains.

Proof of the Constellations was a game with no official guides or tutorials—everything had to be discovered independently. So far, no one knew what those specific scenarios or monsters were, or where to find them.

Indeed, as a basic currency, none had been held by any player even three days into the game.

Within the game, characters traded by barter; players also traded items directly.

As a history teacher, Zhong Zemo found this poetic.

Before the formal release of Star Sand Grains, with players’ growing activity, some item would inevitably become a price anchor for barter, gaining currency-like status.

Astute players had already begun planning and investing, completing their initial accumulation.

This involved outside-the-game trading.

The game’s hype had lasted over six months; logically, profit-driven third-party platforms should have swarmed like sharks smelling blood.

Yet none had launched related trading services, and the reasons were unknown.

No major third-party platform didn’t mean no one was doing this business—where there’s demand, supply follows.

According to Jiang Heyi, some early qualified streamers were acting as intermediaries to facilitate player-to-player trades.

The market was taking shape.

At this moment, in their neighborhood, there were people posting related information.

[West Ice Cellar Bone Setter]: Buying large quantities of materials, price negotiable, reliable guarantor.

[I Want Hot Dogs]: “DM for Proof of the Constellations group chat number.”

The four stood conspicuously in front of the shop, quickly attracting inquiries offering “help.”

Jiang Heyi answered immediately, “I’m just here to play the game.”

Original Fries also coldly declined, “Not interested.”

It was rare now to have a game everyone could play undisturbed and online steadily—why spoil that fun by dealing outside?

Zhong Zemo and Jailkeeper shared the same view; almost simultaneously, the four tacitly agreed to firmly avoid outside trades.

...

...

South of Windpod City, in the Quiet Forest.

The dense trees’ branches intertwined, layer upon layer, blocking the sunlight. Even in daytime, it felt like night, pitch-black and impenetrable.

Silence was the norm here, but that moment, four uninvited guests shattered the stillness.

“Help help help!” Jailkeeper waved his staff frantically, chopping off two writhing vines, but more thick roots surged from beneath, coiling around his thighs.

As vines bound his arms, Jailkeeper bit down in desperation.

The roots tugged hard; Jailkeeper rolled rapidly on the ground like a spinning washing machine drum.

Thankfully, this was only a game—otherwise, this alone might have cost his life.

Jiang Heyi wanted to help but was already overwhelmed.

The enemies were too many.

To gather more money-exchangeable materials, they followed Original Fries’s path, pillaging monsters like locusts along the way.

Until they encountered the Quiet Tree Spirit Chieftain lurking in darkness.

If they floated above, illuminated by their light orbs, they would see one-meter-tall tree spirits emerging from all directions.

These jet-black, grotesque-faced beings blended perfectly with their environment through natural camouflage and now all awakened, rising from the ground, making Jiang Heyi feel as if the whole forest was hostile.

Unlucky Jailkeeper, just as tendrils snatched him away, unleashed a wood-element shield on his companions.

The four basic attributes in Proof of the Constellations were Magic, Strength, Agility, and Faith.

There was no tanking by stacking health; once the shield was gone, every hit dealt real damage. Armor offered little protection—death could come in an instant.

Jailkeeper gave his all, thinking he might as well die. Weakness meant a one-hour prison stint—a routine he was no stranger to.

But he couldn’t let Jiang Heyi and the others join him in jail.

His calm acceptance of death vanished when he saw the tendrils’ ends in the shadows.

On a three-meter-tall tree trunk, a human face bulged, aged and creased bark making it look ancient, its fierce features chilling to the bone.

The Tree Spirit Chieftain opened its bloody maw, dark green sap swirling within the foul breath it exhaled.

Driven by primal survival instinct, Jailkeeper shouted, “It’s going to eat someone! It’s going to eat someone!”

“Boom!”

Jailkeeper saw Jiang Heyi and Original Fries retreating from the frontlines of chopping down the tree spirit, moved deeply inside.

No one understands the feeling of a full-team teleport rescue like this.

“Good teammates.”

But seeing them crash headlong, falling and clutching their heads in sync, performing a sort of couple’s ritual...

“Come on, man!”