Chapter Seventeen: A Game of Realism

Even three days later, Zhao Xu still hadn't recovered from what Antinoya had told him. The shock from transmigrating was nothing compared to the impact of that conversation. Crossing over was just an opportunity, but the complexity of Arthur meant Zhao Xu could hardly do anything at all. Even if he had managed to convince his parents early on to invest everything into Arthur, when players were starved for resources in those initial days, there was little chance of getting anything truly valuable.

Having just arrived in this world, Zhao Xu could only sketch out rough plans and clarify the direction he’d take in the future. That night, after reading magical tomes until he grew drowsy and logged off to sleep, he lay in bed, quietly recalling the day’s events. Only then did it hit him—he’d stumbled into another stroke of luck.

Both of Zhao Xu’s roommates had left the game before he did. The dorm leader, Zhang Qi, had chosen to play a warrior. In his previous life, the +2 Strength Belt had come from Zhang Qi, who’d half sold, half gifted it to him. When Zhao Xu logged off, Zhang Qi still hadn’t recovered from the trauma of the warrior training course. That night, all warrior players had gone through the same ordeal: a rough initiation, being struck with wooden sticks by their tutors while dodging as trainees. The non-lethal bruises left Zhang Qi thoroughly bewildered.

Zhao Xu couldn’t advise Zhang Qi to change to a stronger class or anything of the sort. In his previous life, Zhang Qi had saved his four remaining resurrection stones with painstaking care, only to use them in the Battle of Falling Star Lake two months later. That was the first large-scale battle initiated and led by the players, and its grand scale sparked the first wave of Arthur’s popularity after launch. Later, Zhang Qi tried other classes but none gave him the same thrill, so he eventually returned to playing a warrior.

Most people who logged off that night were grumbling about Arthur’s training system. Many took to the game forums to vent, accusing TC of being arrogant and pretentious for treating players this way. Arthur’s user ratings took a hit from the wave of negative reviews over those days. It wasn’t until the third day, when the first wave of players finally completed their training courses, that things began to calm down. With players able to roam freely, the backlash eased. TC, curiously silent, didn’t offer any explanation but instead started promoting their next big title, as if Arthur were just a beautiful accident, not the centerpiece of their gaming portfolio.

After the initial surge, Arthur’s popularity gradually entered a period of calm. On the second day, before the game had even been open for twenty-four hours, Zhao Xu told his parents a little white lie, persuading them to register accounts and log in just long enough to reach the character creation screen before logging out again. He certainly wasn’t about to tell them he was from ten years in the future, that the world would end in a year, and everyone would be scrambling to survive in Arthur. If he had, his parents would have driven over immediately to have him checked into a psychiatric hospital. Even if he passed the tests, he’d never be allowed to play the game again in this life.

So instead, Zhao Xu told them he believed in the game’s potential and that they should spend a little money to reserve an account as a collectible, which would be worth more in the future. Before logging in the previous night, Zhao Xu had planned to buy some test accounts, but when he realized his own was already involved with Arthur’s top organizations and a major main storyline, he chickened out. It was like how some doctors don’t want their children to become doctors—not because the profession is bad, but because they’d rather their children earn less and lead safe, uneventful lives.

Zhao Xu’s parents weren’t particularly concerned about account values, but since it was the first time their son had shown any interest in collectibles, they wholeheartedly supported him. Paying 299 to register an account, even 2,999, was nothing to them.

For the next two days, Zhao Xu immersed himself completely in Arthur, logging in at eight every morning and staying online until four in the morning, only logging off two or three times for meals. In Arthur, avatars didn’t need to eat, a detail whose consequences would only become apparent a year later, when the whole world crossed over. Zhao Xu’s manic skipping of classes startled his roommates, but as friends—not parents—they could only offer some advice and cover for him when needed.

It wasn’t that Zhao Xu was being reckless; he simply felt that the early days were urgent. Perhaps it would also affect how the Final Scroll organization judged him in the end. So, aside from eating, Zhao Xu spent every waking moment in Arthur, poring over the magical tomes Antinoya had given him by night. During the day, he occasionally attended the floating city’s magical seminars, always the ones Antinoya selected for him.

However, Antinoya never allowed him to access spell models or learn how to cast spells. Zhao Xu realized she was training him in the same way native Arthurian mages were trained—no mass, force-fed teaching, no patchwork system for spellcasting as was common for current players. Most of the magical lectures were far too advanced for Zhao Xu. Even those focused on pure theory, handpicked by Antinoya, left him feeling lost.

Still, he dared not slack off, for several of the lecturers’ names were ones he’d seen in the annals of magical history. It was entirely possible that one of those giving a seminar was the current leader of the Final Scroll. When his roommates asked which class he’d picked, Zhao Xu didn’t lie; he told them he’d been teleported to Mystra, then paraphrased some mage tutorials he’d read in his previous life. The only response he got was a pair of “so mages have it tough, too” looks, but at least his friends understood why he spent all his time in-game except for deep sleep. It was all about pride.

Faced with such a difficult game, some people gave up immediately. Others endured, only to turn around and complain about how bad the game was. There was no right or wrong—just different choices. Even Zhao Xu didn’t know when he’d finish reading all those magical tomes. All he could do was be patient and keep a close eye on the forum chatter.

For melee-oriented players, those who stayed online continuously could finish their training and reach level-one basic classes within three days. Warriors and barbarians even saw a spike in numbers that day, with players in every town completing their training. But to their disappointment, there were no beginner NPCs handing out quests—no “Aunt Wang at the village gate needs you to kill a weasel” tasks.

It was as if Arthur ignored the players’ existence, or, more accurately, treated them the same as any native. The fact that players weren’t special was starting to dawn on people. Some self-styled strategists on the forums began analyzing this as a new concept from TC, certain it hinted at some future trend. But for someone who knew the future like Zhao Xu, such grand theorizing was laughable. Without proving themselves, earning a reputation, or finding special channels, why should players expect a flood of quests in safe towns? Six months later, when players had made a name for themselves, that would no longer be a problem.

Zhao Xu never wasted a minute, always scrolling through the forums while eating. Arthur did have places where newspapers were printed, but forums were faster. As he finished his last serving of homestyle stir-fried pork and was about to toss the takeout box and log in, he noticed a new thread had shot to the top of the hot list—posted less than twenty minutes earlier. He clicked on it immediately.

The thread’s title was already highlighted and bolded: “Be careful taking quests—there is no beginner’s area in this game.”

“My roommates and I are all melee players. We’d just finished our training, so we decided to go hunting together. We heard the sounds of fighting in the wild, and when a quest fell into our laps, of course we rushed over.”

“We ran into ten goblins—six with spiked clubs and four with javelins—attacking a merchant caravan. Following the principle that players and monsters can’t coexist, we charged right in.”

“After much effort, the four of us and the caravan guards managed to take down five goblins.”

“Then, out of nowhere, more than a hundred goblins appeared—some even riding wolves—flooding down the hills toward us.”

“The merchants we’d helped didn’t hesitate a second; they just ran without a word, not even bothering to warn us.”

“The worst part? There’s a hundred monsters right outside the starter town. How are players supposed to level up? At this rate, we’ll have to gather a hundred people just to leave town safely.”

Zhao Xu read the post in silence. Someone had already asked what happened to them in the end—but the answer was obvious: they had to use resurrection stones.

Some players still believed the game had a beginner’s village. Three days in, and they were still holding on to that illusion. As for the natives, it was nothing unusual for them to flee in battle, betray you, or even withhold promised quest rewards. After all, evil factions existed in this game. It would take another week of hard lessons before the players reached a consensus about this. That was why, later on, everyone preferred to take quests from reputable guilds or trusted NPCs with the right alignment and class.

Still, many players commented below that the game was incredibly realistic. Zhao Xu could only smile bitterly; in his previous life, the realism had cost him everything, so he knew just how real it could get.

But after scanning that thread, Zhao Xu noticed another had also risen to the top: “Help! I killed an NPC and got locked up. After deleting my character and making a new one, I was automatically marked as chaotic evil and can’t play as a druid anymore. What do I do?”