The first people to notice Lin You’s video were those whose accounts had their commenting privileges revoked—people so furious they couldn’t let it go.
They logged into alternate accounts to search for Lin You again, determined to unleash another wave of curses.
Even if it meant getting their alts banned too, they had to vent their rage! But the top search result wasn’t the previous “declaration of war” video—it was a new one.
Naturally, they clicked on it, curious what fresh nonsense Lin You had cooked up this time.
Then, barely ten seconds in, their expressions turned as if they’d been struck by lightning, jaws dropping in shock.
“Holy shit! What the hell is this?! Someone explain to me—what the actual fuck is this?!”
“My brain is fried. I don’t even know what to say, but someone should go apply for cultural heritage protection.”
“It’s 2030! Why hasn’t this been protected yet?!”
“Don’t ask me, I know nothing! I’m officially an idiot now!”
“I don’t get it! But I’m completely blown away!”
“Teacher, I know this one! This is ‘the real, epoch-making, human-computer interaction technology!’”
“I’m a refined and gentle person. But for fuck’s sake, explain to me—how the hell does putting on a headband make you teleport?! Is this science or are you just mocking me for not understanding magic?!”
Perhaps because these were the internet’s most vocal critics, the earliest comments were filled with crude language.
But soon, even bystanders who had no interest in Lin You or NetDragon noticed the video, sharing it in shock with friends and asking if it was real.
Like a dam with a crack, the floodgates burst open—views skyrocketed, the video’s popularity surging uncontrollably until it became an unstoppable deluge!
Zhang Heying, NetDragon’s PR director, was driving home when she got another call.
Without hesitation, she pulled over and tried to open Lingxi to check Lin You’s post.
But—Lingxi had crashed.
The sudden, explosive surge in traffic had overwhelmed the servers.
The maintenance team, caught completely off guard, scrambled in chaos.
“What’s happening? Did some A-list celebrity get married? Cheat? Get caught in an affair? Or die unexpectedly?”
“Did a war break out?”
“It’s Lin You! He posted a new video—and it’s a bombshell!”
“What kind of bombshell?”
“Stop wasting time! If we don’t fix this, our quarterly bonuses are gone! Scale up the servers now! Hurry!”
Three minutes later, Lingxi was back online.
Lin You’s video, which had stalled at 27 million views, resumed its meteoric rise.
In the Lingxi operations office, the supervisor monitoring the data suddenly stood up and shouted, “More! More! It’s growing too fast! Move, move! If we crash again, our year-end bonuses are toast!”
Finally, Zhang Heying managed to open Lin You’s new video.
At the start, Lin You sat in a chair, holding a white headband, his desk in the background displaying a desert landscape screensaver.
Unlike his previous video, he didn’t speak excitedly to the camera.
Instead, he calmly lifted the headband, showed it to the camera, then put it on and pressed a switch.
The next moment, his eyes closed, his arms relaxed—as if he’d fallen asleep.
But then the camera focus shifted to the monitor, where the desert screensaver suddenly revealed a figure.
The video then split into a picture-in-picture view.
Lin You, eyes closed in his chair, appeared in the bottom-left corner, while the monitor’s display dominated most of the screen.
Only then did viewers realize—the desert wasn’t a screensaver. It was a running program.
Lin You, dressed identically to his real-world self, finally spoke: “By now, some of you might have guessed what I’ve done.”
“Three-meter-high, one-and-a-half-meter-wide omnidirectional treadmills—second to go.”
“Brainwave signal parsing devices with limited functionality—third to go.”
“Real-time translation of neural signals into binary code, entering the virtual world as a conscious entity—unlocking all restricted senses.”
He crouched down, leisurely scooping up a handful of sand before letting it trickle through his fingers.
“You can feel it—the fine grains compacting in your palm, the itch of wind against your nose, the tightening of calf muscles as you run, the full-body tension channeling into your fist as you punch—just like reality.”
“This is what I call—‘the real, epoch-making, human-computer interaction technology.’”
“Pro gamers wearing heavy helmets, gripping controllers, training six hours a day on omnidirectional treadmills—I respect that. But honestly? I think it’s lost sight of gaming’s original joy.”
“It’s time to shed these heavy shackles and rediscover the purest fun in games.”
As he spoke, Lin You began walking toward a sand dune.
Meanwhile, streaks of light wrapped around him, materializing into a red silk cloak and a mask covering his face.
The wind and music gradually swelled.
To the melody, he climbed the dune, then slid down effortlessly.
The scene shifted—he touched a rune, obtaining a scarf, his cloak fluttering as he took flight.
Another cut—two red-cloaked figures glided down intertwined streams of sand, passing through stone arches.
Occasionally, they flapped their wings, resonating mid-air. Against the golden sunset, the desert shimmered like liquid metal—breathtakingly beautiful!
Then—the screen went black. The video ended.
Millions of viewers stared, dumbfounded.
Too much information had hit them at once. They didn’t know what to be shocked by—or what to celebrate first.
But while casual viewers were still processing, gamers had already erupted in euphoria!
They’d never dreamed of stepping into a true virtual world, playing a fully immersive game!
“That’s it?! Where’s the release date? The price? The damn purchase link?!”
“Please don’t tell me we’ll have to wait a lifetime!”
“No way! It’s probably coming soon—didn’t you see the game’s already made?!”
“Shut up and take my money!”
“Wait, he’s just a college student, right? Had to work for tuition—what if he can’t afford production?”
“Impossible! Absolutely impossible! We’ll crowdfund it if we have to! Anyone who tries to stop this, I’m coming for them with a bulldozer tomorrow!”
“Exactly! Crowdfund it to market! Any obstacles? Just tell us—we’ll get the internet to fix it!”
“‘Get the internet to fix it’—what are YOU gonna do?”
“Sorry, I’m useless. I just have money.”
“…Damn.”
……
Leaving aside the uproar among netizens and gamers celebrating like it was New Year’s Eve—
NetDragon’s PR department, from the director down to the interns, stood frozen, utterly clueless about what to do next.
Especially Zhang Heying, who looked like he’d just lost his parents.
He didn’t even notice the traffic cop knocking on his car window.
(End of Chapter)