Beginning

Time slipped by, minute by minute, second by second. Wu Qi stood anxiously in the long line outside Starting Point Game Company, waiting to receive his account credentials and virtual reality helmet. Though a seasoned professional and a die-hard gamer, moments like this still stirred a flicker of excitement within him. Today marked the official launch of “Starting Point,” and though early to arrive, he had only managed to secure a place midway through the serpentine queue. For a gamer whose livelihood depended on spotting trends, the ability to sense a game's potential popularity was paramount. Only games that attracted a critical mass of players gave rise to a thriving virtual economy—where real profits could be reaped. For most, gaming was a money sink rather than a money-maker, which explained the relentless enthusiasm of game companies to roll out new titles. Starting Point was developed by a subsidiary of the globally renowned Chinese conglomerate Taiyi Group, known for its ventures in immersive virtual reality. With deep pockets and top-tier talent, they had poured billions of yuan—now a global reserve currency on par with the dollar—into the development of this fantasy epic steeped in Eastern martial legends and supernatural lore. Dedicated teams numbering in the thousands worked on content design, props, character outfits, and AI systems. Uniquely, the game required a proprietary helmet (distributed free of charge) that offered a staggering 95% sensory realism—nearly indistinguishable from the physical world, a claim that had gamers practically drooling. Most existing games barely reached 50%. Security was also a highlight—anti-cheat systems, single-account authentication, and mechanisms to prevent automation tools. Beyond exploration and leveling, players could even operate businesses—purchasing land and paying development fees to Starting Point Company. The helmet came equipped with a bank card interface to facilitate currency exchange between real and virtual economies. For Wu Qi, these features hinted at a high-potential, commercially viable game. But the final verdict would be determined by experience. Though the blazing sun bore down, the crowd remained fervent. Groups of friends chatted in low voices while security personnel maintained order. The chaos was, at least, controlled. Wu Qi wasn’t exactly sociable, but he had a few blood-brothers met through years of shared battles in popular games. Despite mostly staying in touch over the phone, their bonds remained strong. Though alone today, he didn’t feel lonely—just reflective. He had lived this life for eight, maybe nine years—rushing to every new game release, staking his claim during public testing phases, sometimes even traveling across the country for the chance. Gaming was both joy and livelihood. He had managed to save a bit over the years, yet uncertainty clouded his heart. Would this be his entire life? He had considered marriage, but given his lifestyle, he doubted any woman would take him seriously. A commotion rippled through the crowd—distribution had begun. Wu Qi’s anticipation mounted. Would this game truly live up to the hype? Experience taught him to temper expectations by about 20%. As the line crawled forward, even Wu Qi’s steady nerves tightened. Watching those ahead leave beaming with helmets in hand, he wondered whether luck would favor him today. Only 100,000 public test slots were available, distributed across multiple major cities. His phone chimed. “Hello?” “It’s me, Xiaobao! Boss, I got the public test slot for Starting Point! It’s incredible—way better than the ads. This is it—we can make a living from this!” His longtime comrade from the game Dominion was practically shouting. “I’m still in line,” Wu Qi replied. “We’ll talk later. Hey, what’s your name in-game?” “Heh, not telling you—actually, forget it, there is no name. Right, no character names. Hard to explain—you’ll see for yourself.” “…Damn.” Wu Qi hung up, watching the line ahead shrink. At this rate, he’d make it. He couldn’t wait to see what kind of game had even jaded players like Xiaobao raving. At last, helmet in hand, Wu Qi dashed home. His apartment—typical of a bachelor—was a mess. He kicked off his shoes, shuffled into the bedroom, and tore open the packaging. The helmet was sleek and sophisticated, with a slot that must be the bank card interface. The slim instruction booklet offered only the basics: character setup, class types, and gameplay features. The game’s setting was steeped in Eastern mythology. Skimming through the familiar details, a few phrases caught his eye: “You will receive a pet egg upon entering the game, which will hatch and serve as your companion and guide.” “Your character’s appearance and stats will be calibrated via a biometric scan.” “Your body will enter a shallow sleep state—please maintain a comfortable posture for health and safety.” “You may monitor your real-world vitals and exit the game at any time.” The pet egg was particularly intriguing. Wu Qi’s curiosity swelled. He tossed his slippers aside, sank into his bed, and donned the helmet. Darkness enveloped him (of course—it was a full-enclosure design). He pressed a small button atop the device. Distant starlight shimmered, forming the ID: “User No. 011111.” A soft chime followed. Wu Qi now found himself in a modest room. Beside him, a faintly glowing egg pulsed with white light. So there was no character creation? He had simply dropped into the world. Touching his face, the sensation felt real. He pinched his arm—ouch, it hurt. If getting PK’d felt like that… yikes. Before he could finish the thought, the egg flared. He turned away instinctively. When he looked again, a small winged figure hovered midair, fluttering. An angel? Wu Qi grinned. But on closer inspection—it was… a glittering caterpillar? “Master, master…” the caterpillar spoke. Or rather, its voice echoed directly in his mind. Of course—it was the pet mentioned in the manual. A more fainthearted player might’ve screamed. The caterpillar flapped its wings and flew before his face. “I am your companion. Please give me a name. I shall accompany you in life and battle. If you need help understanding anything, just ask!” Several interface panels unfolded before him: Pet: Flying Insect Level: 1 Attack: 1–2 Defense: 1–2 Element: Wind Special Abilities: None Player: User 011111 Class: Civilian Level: 1 Distributable Stat Points: 18 Strength: 6 Endurance: 6 Intelligence: 12 Agility: 12 Charisma: 11 (+10% bonus) Comprehension: Hidden Luck: Hidden Reputation: 0 Real-World Status: Normal (with live monitoring feed) Game Manual Friend List: None Forum Perception Mode: Full Sensory Wu Qi chuckled. Everything was laid out neatly. But what was that +10% bonus? He tried to touch the panels, but his fingers passed through them like mist. The caterpillar—apparently named nothing yet—transmitted another message: “Master, we can communicate mentally. These panels are visible only to you. You can summon or dismiss them anytime. If your real-world body encounters issues—say, sudden cramps or… urgent bathroom needs—I will alert you.” Wu Qi rolled his eyes. What kind of twisted mind designed this system? “You’ll be called Mao Mao,” he said. “Confirmed.” Certainly a strange one. But in time, Wu Qi would come to understand—this creature was no ordinary pet. “Please allocate your stat points,” Mao Mao prompted. Wu Qi decided to hold off. Better to explore first, read the manual thoroughly, and strategize. A true professional didn’t make hasty choices—poor planning now could affect leveling, loot rates, and ultimately, his earnings.