Even teleportation can go awry.

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Watermelon Shaomai found herself unable to stop refreshing that particular post. Within just one day, the update describing her being overwhelmed by pressure and having her loot stolen was spreading rapidly across various social channels. Players of "Stellar Testament" who resonated with her experience shared their own frustrating encounters during the game through her post. Outsiders who missed out on the opportunity were outraged by the injustice she faced.

"Stellar Testament" was a groundbreaking game, offering unprecedented opportunities for all game streamers. Every lucky person who secured the initial batch of qualifications was eager to seize the vacant niche first. Watermelon Shaomai’s follower count soared at an astonishing rate—just a day ago, she had only 100,000 fans; now, she was already in the 200,000 range. Without posting any edited gameplay videos, a single status update had propelled her to fame within the gaming community.

When the wind is right, even pigs can fly. Now, the wind had arrived. Before other streamers could generate any traffic buzz, she had taken the first step toward going viral. Countless people flooded into her group chat on the Penguin platform—players eager to team up with her and outsiders hoping to gain firsthand game insights from her.

Among these people, countless pairs of reddened eyes watched her with envy and jealousy, witnessing wealth and fame falling upon her like a sudden downpour. Just today, she had encountered multiple accusations claiming she had staged the entire thing herself. Fortunately, most still believed her, and the voices of doubt were quickly drowned out.

Watermelon Shaomai had just posted another update, asking everyone to "forgive" Cyber Potato and not to retaliate with violence. However, under that post, the calls for condemning Cyber Potato grew even louder. Kindness, gentleness, and tolerance appeared repeatedly in the comments. For her sake, the players decided to launch a siege against Cyber Potato. As soon as Cyber Potato dared to enter the conflict zone, a hunt would be initiated immediately.

System penalties? Each person could strike once, and a mere token punishment could be lifted by offering a sacrifice to the Statue of the Goddess of the Long Night. Even without stepping into the conflict zone, there was a way: if his whereabouts were detected, everyone would instantly transform into locusts, sweeping away nearby monsters. Life-simulation gameplay was handled by self-organized propaganda squads that ensured anything he gained could not be sold.

To establish a clean gaming environment, it was essential to expel such malicious players. Staring at the screen, Watermelon Shaomai’s vision blurred. On a midsummer noon, a chill ran down her spine, and she trembled uncontrollably. Matters had become worse than being accused of staging the event—she was being slandered and defamed.

Her loot had been stolen, and in a frustrated and unbalanced state of mind, she had angrily typed that line. It had originally been just a complaint, but events had spiraled beyond her control. Different people expressed varying opinions under her post. At this point, she could no longer delete the update. She felt no sympathy for Cyber Potato’s plight; her only fear was that the lies would be exposed.

The game’s replay feature in "Stellar Testament" required unlocking the homeland system before players could access it via the official website or mobile app. Watermelon Shaomai had originally complained with friends that this was a brainless and unreasonable game setting, but now that very feature had become her lifeline. As long as Cyber Potato hadn’t unlocked the homeland and interacted with the doll, the two-hour in-game replay could not be exported. Restoration was only possible through a request to the game company.

Time dragged on like years, and only she knew the torment inside. Constantly refreshing the comment section to check the latest posts, her sole purpose was to ensure Cyber Potato had not appeared.

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“Perhaps the online public opinion hasn’t yet fermented into the game; he might still be unaware?” She held onto hope. If she could just get through today, everything would be over. Amid the fear and anxiety, the soaring number of fans made her smile quietly. Then, with a cheerful tone, she began to warmly engage and solidify the fans who were consuming her content.

This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—not to be missed. As messages poured in, sponsorship offers also caught Watermelon Shaomai’s eye. The anxiety and fear caused by Cyber Potato’s presence gradually evolved into hatred. This was her exclusive spotlight. After today, a righteous judgment against Cyber Potato would become her first viral video in "Stellar Testament."

...

On his job search, Jiang Heyi glanced at Watermelon Shaomai’s follower count and refreshed her comment section again. Then he opened a secondary account, uploaded a pre-edited video already saved on his phone, and thoughtfully tagged Watermelon Shaomai.

Storms need time to brew; fine wine requires fermentation.

At night, on his way home, Jiang Heyi’s phone buzzed incessantly with private messages from Prison Guard Ge. Knowing he held a knockout piece of evidence, Prison Guard Ge had immediately infiltrated Watermelon Shaomai’s fan group.

“Lele lele!” Jiang Heyi could almost imagine the layers of excitement in Prison Guard Ge’s tone through the screen. From his descriptions, Jiang Heyi learned more details about Watermelon Shaomai’s sudden rise and fall.

Shortly after the video was posted, someone shared the link in the group, questioning Watermelon Shaomai. Then came the retractions and mass expulsions.

Since it was lunchtime, many noticed the anomaly. The frantic attempts to silence the group only encouraged people to repeatedly challenge the group moderators. In the heat of the moment, all of Watermelon Shaomai’s chat groups went into a full mute mode.

Outwardly, she claimed the video was edited to mislead, AI-generated slander, and malicious competition among peers. Inside the groups, she tearfully accused herself of unprecedented online harassment.

Yet these words failed to stem the tide of doubt. The once lively group dedicated to rallying against Cyber Potato had been shut down.

“Did you know? Today, Watermelon Shaomai landed several sponsorships. Many people saw her sudden rise as an opportunity in 'Stellar Testament' and planned to seize the first wave,” someone remarked.

“You’re ruthless with your posts. Everything she’s gained is about to be thrown away.”

“She was the typical victim, but suddenly the roles reversed. Today, the 'Stellar Testament' discussion groups everywhere are eating up this drama. It’s the fastest collapse in history.”

Jiang Heyi hadn’t expected the timing to be so perfect, detonating Watermelon Shaomai’s sponsorship deals just right. He felt no sympathy for her plight; instead, he wanted to laugh.

If the person she falsely accused was an ordinary player insensitive to the internet, who hadn’t unlocked the replay export feature at that time, how could he possibly fight such overwhelming malice?

Prove his innocence by cutting open his own belly? What a joke. Who cared how many bowls of noodles Liuzi really ate?

Now that Watermelon Shaomai was being hit back, he could only say…

“Good riddance, pop the champagne!”

Today’s meal was especially sweet.

“By the way, you and Watermelon Shaomai both visited that woodland area that day. Could she have also marked it with a Starry Jade?”

“Very likely. And she probably guessed I’d want to return there to explore again. She might do something harmful and foolish,” Jiang Heyi said. “We need to speed up.”

Jiang Heyi slept soundly, logging into the game promptly at midnight.

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Prison Guard Ge, Original Fries, and Orange Tea logged in one after another. Jiang Heyi immediately invited them into his homeland.

“Is all humanity taking off to the sky?” Orange Tea still wasn’t used to Zhong Zemo’s nickname “Squid,” so she said his full name.

“Probably some family stuff again. You’ll get used to it,” Prison Guard Ge sighed and explained.

After a long wait, Zhong Zemo appeared, apologizing profusely while rubbing the back of his head. The group tacitly avoided asking why he was late again; only Orange Tea showed concern for Zhong Zemo’s sleep issues.

It was obviously not a sleep problem.

“All present? Then, let’s go.”

Jiang Heyi took out the Starry Jade, and everyone placed their hands upon it.

A dazzling starry veil shimmered, with points of starlight casting upon each person, soaking them through.

“Crackle.”

The space before Jiang Heyi shattered with a roar, instantly forming a slender corridor stretching across the starry river.

In the blink of an eye, the corridor flickered and grew unstable, the starlit sea extending outward on both sides dimming.

“What’s happening?” Original Fries asked in his usual indifferent tone.

“Feels like the infused energy can’t support this many people passing through.”

Jiang Heyi had pulled out all his magic stones to fuel the energy. Once the infusion was complete, the corridor solidified again, but the unstable aura and the cracks around the space remained obvious.

Jiang Heyi dared not delay, leading everyone swiftly through the starry passage.

Behind them, the starry corridor collapsed, and the faint light vanished.

Reaching out, they found nothing but pitch darkness. If not for the rustling sound of the wind, they might have thought they were swallowed by the void.

Prison Guard Ge ignited a low-level illumination orb.

Though called a light orb, it appeared as a miniature jellyfish.

They hadn’t arrived at the marked location but instead found themselves inside a cave.

“This forest has a rocky attribute,” Zhong Zemo looked up, observing the dense “stalagmites”—thick stalactites hanging from the ceiling. If they all fell at once, the sight would be spectacular.

“The coordinates were off. Was it due to insufficient energy infusion?” Original Fries wondered aloud.

No one could answer. They had arrived in a special area far from where most players currently explored.

Even the teleportation had gone awry.

The main map couldn’t display their current location; the mini-map could only record data.

Looks like they had to gather information on their own and complete the map data.

“No info at all?” Prison Guard Ge complained, “But, it’s kind of interesting.”

“After all, it’s a second life. We can’t have all-seeing eyes in reality either,” Zhong Zemo said.

“The game isn’t more fun just because it’s more realistic.”

Original Fries joined the complaints, but his longsword had already materialized. His battle-ready posture was enthusiastic, his excitement betraying his indifferent tone. He didn’t seem to think the game was boring at all.

Jiang Heyi took a deep breath, his mind sharpening.

It was about to begin.

He was eager to see what else this place held besides the eerie lantern girl and the ghostly nun.