Crimson Code: Oblivion Protocol

"The first batch of closed beta testers for Crimson Chronicles is out!" "No way!" "Official announcement just dropped—check the website [image]!" "Only 10,000 spots globally? That’s insane!" Lena rubbed her eyes, still half-asleep, until the chatter in her class group chat jolted her awake. Crimson Chronicles—the name triggered a hazy memory. Ten months ago, her friends had pressured her into filling out a beta application for the game. Back then, its trailer had taken the world by storm, promising a "revolutionary holographic experience—a second reality." The game’s allure lay in its cyberpunk-meets-supernatural world: neon-drenched cities, sprawling open-world exploration, and divergent paths where players could become chrome-laced cyborgs or wield uncanny powers. It blurred reality and fantasy, offering an escape that felt eerily tangible. Yet what truly hooked Lena were the haunting lines from the game’s description: "Light breeds shadow. Beneath the city’s glittering facade lies rot and decay." "Survival and death—not wealth or power—are the eternal truths of this world." The words hinted at a darkness deeper than flashy tech or superhuman feats. Curious, she opened the beta invite screenshot circulating in her class group. Testing began tomorrow, with invites sent directly to players’ inboxes. But the odds? Astronomical. The game had hit 10 million pre-registrations in 24 hours during its initial hype. Now, with over a billion sign-ups, snagging one of 10,000 slots seemed like winning the lottery. Still, Lena’s finger hovered over her email app. A flicker of irrational hope. "You have 1 unread email." Her breath hitched. Heart pounding, she shot upright in bed. The subject line glowed: "Congratulations! You’ve been selected as a beta tester for Crimson Chronicles." Lena slumped in frustration. Her plan to profit from the beta invite had crumbled. Truthfully, she didn't care much about gaming—her ancient laptop couldn't even run a holographic helmet. She'd only filled out the application ten months ago on a whim, half-hoping to resell the beta slot if by some miracle she got chosen. Now, despite being one of 10,000 lucky global winners, she remained broke and stuck. Winning a golden ticket to a game you can't play is worse than never winning at all, she thought bitterly. Scrolling through the email, her eyes suddenly lit up. Buried in the fine print was a line: "Selected players will receive custom gaming hardware upon confirmation of participation." "Yes!" she cheered, relief flooding her. The rollercoaster of emotions ended in triumph—she could actually play. The email concluded with a questionnaire link. Lena clicked without hesitation. Question 1: If offered a chance to be reborn, would you take it? Chapter 2: The Questionnaire Obviously. Lena selected "Yes." Her current life was a dumpster fire—how much worse could a rebirth be? Question 2: Do you believe in gods? "No." She was a staunch atheist. Question 3: Do you desire supernatural powers? "Hell yes!" Being godless doesn't mean I can't want superpowers, she reasoned. A confirmation screen appeared: "Questionnaire complete. Game documents and forum access sent to your email."Lena saved the link to the anonymous beta forum. Most NDAs forbade leaks, but Crimson Chronicles seemed to encourage player interaction. With only 10,000 testers, the forum would be a ghost town—she'd be among its pioneers. Chapter 3: Ominous Warnings Instead of registering for the forum, Lena opened the legal documents. No standard confidentiality clauses—just six cryptic advisories: 1. Treat the game world as real. 2. Never reveal your player identity. 3. Never disclose game content. 4. Death is permanent. 5. Only two endings: victory or death. 6. Everything has a cost. "Seriously?" She snorted. Typical edgy marketing. Who'd believe a real game world? The document ended with a signature field. Lena scribbled her name. A pop-up flashed in blood-red text: "Confirm your entry. This is your only chance to withdraw." She clicked "Confirm" without a second thought. "Contract sealed." "Welcome to your rebirth, Lena." "Why so dramatic?" She eyed the screen, baffled, before finally navigating to the beta forum to register. The forum registration was laughably simple—just a beta code and a username. Lena typed "233," her go-to alias for every game. Creativity wasn’t her forte, and "233" never seemed to be taken. "You cannot change your username after confirmation." She clicked through without hesitation. "You are the 233rd registered player." "…Seriously?" Lena muttered. A coincidence? Or something more? The forum’s interface was stark, bathed in cold metallic hues. Only basic functions existed: post, reply, message. But in the top-right corner, a blood-red number pulsed—10,000—accompanied by a chilling label: "Survivors." Her chest tightened. Survivors? New posts erupted in multiple languages—English, Japanese, Russian, Chinese. Lena skimmed the Chinese threads: "Any Shanghai players?" "First 100 posters, assemble!" All trivial chatter. She drafted a post: "Does anyone else think the ‘Six Warnings’ are… unsettling?" But her finger hovered. The warnings echoed in her mind: "Treat the game world as real. Death is permanent." And that glaring 10,000. A shiver crawled up her spine. It’s just marketing, she told herself. Games aren’t real. Yet the unease lingered. Three sharp knocks rattled her door. No one stood outside. Peering through the peephole revealed an empty hallway. After a tense minute, she cracked the door open. A small black box lay on the floor, stamped with Crimson Chronicles. Inside gleamed a silver card etched with intricate circuitry resembling a mechanical hand. "A… collectible?" Lena flipped it over. Her breath hitched. Two lines glared back: "Designation: OBLITERATOR·LENA" "ID: 233" Her username. Her registration number. She bolted downstairs, slippers slapping against concrete. Auntie Zhang, her mahjong-obsessed neighbor, waved off Lena’s questions. "No couriers today! Just us old folks gambling." July’s humidity clung to the air, yet Lena shivered. No delivery logs. No witnesses. Back in her apartment, she stared at the card. OBLITERATOR. ID: 233. The timing was too precise. She’d signed the contract minutes ago. How did they know where I live? Reality tilted. Lena refreshed the forum. The 10,000 counter taunted her. Survivors. She traced the card’s cold edges. Is this a game… or a trap?