This was the muscle memory he’d forged through life-and-death combat with Yu Huaiting in instances. Even though this body now had no attribute bonuses, his mastery of the human body’s weak points and his grasp of timing had long been carved into his soul.
At top speed, he stripped off the engineer’s blue work uniform and put it on, hung the high-authorization employee card around his neck, then stuffed the unconscious engineer into a corner of the corridor, disguising him as someone doing maintenance.
Taking a deep breath, Fu Songcheng swiped open the door to the internal server core room.
Buzz—
The instant he pushed the door open, a powerful airflow mixed with a deafening low-frequency hum rushed at him.
Before him was a cold-toned space so vast it was breathtaking, black server racks stretching to the end of his vision.
Countless red-and-blue indicator lights flashed madly, showing that an extremely massive data throughput was underway here.
Fortunately, the physical structure here was extremely similar to Blue Star’s supercomputer centers—the fundamentals never changed. No matter how high the data dimension, the hardware’s load-bearing and heat-dissipation principles were interconnected.
Fu Songcheng walked quickly to the server room’s central control console and swiped his card to log into the hardware management system.
The current server operating status immediately popped up on the screen, the update progress bar conspicuously displayed: [26/100].
The time left to him was probably less than fifteen minutes.
Fu Songcheng’s gaze swept rapidly across the screen, searching for the key to breaking the deadlock.
Violent destruction wouldn’t work.
The server racks here were built from high-strength titanium alloy, and once any server went offline, the system would immediately switch to a backup node—completely unable to stop the update.
He had to destroy them in bulk.
Fu Songcheng’s gaze locked onto the server’s power supply system and liquid-cooling circulation system.
Because servers perform data computation and throughput year-round, they generate massive heat. Part of it used water circulation, combined with special coolant that absorbed heat extremely fast, for heat dissipation.
This design was protected by temperature sensors in normal times, extremely safe—but what if all the protection mechanisms failed at the same time?
Fu Songcheng’s fingers became a blur on the keyboard, typing madly.
Using the engineer’s high-level authorization, he directly bypassed the software layer’s firewall and entered the hardware’s underlying control attribute interface.
He changed all the server room’s temperature probe alarm thresholds from the normal 80 degrees directly to 5,000 degrees—a temperature that could never be reached.
Even if the servers burned into red-hot iron blocks, the system wouldn’t recognize any overheating danger, much less trigger automatic power-off protection.
Then he shut down the cooling. He found the main circulation pump’s control node and input a segment of infinite-loop code, forcibly stopping the main pump, while closing all backup physical pressure-relief valves.
The coolant would no longer flow, and the massive heat would begin to accumulate madly in the sealed pipes.
Overheating alone wasn’t enough. He needed instantaneous deflagration.
Fu Songcheng left the console, dug an insulated plier out of the toolbox, and walked to the main power distribution line behind the main control cabinet.
The voltage here was terrifyingly high—even through the insulation layer, the static electricity in the air could be felt.
He crouched and carefully peeled back the outer skin of a power cable, exposing the metal copper core inside. Then he peeled back another high-voltage power line directly connected to the high-frequency data bus.
After that, he found a tube of conductive silicone grease from the toolbox, used for motherboard repair.
This stuff was semi-insulating at room temperature, but when the temperature exceeded 150 degrees, its molecular structure would change, turning it into a conductor.
Fu Songcheng spread the tube of conductive silicone grease thickly between the two exposed wire cores.
A perfect delayed ignition device, complete.
By now, with the cooling circulation stopped, the temperature inside the server room was climbing in a straight line at a terrifying speed.
The server room that had once howled with cold air was now like a massive steaming basket being heated.
Fu Songcheng glanced at the console.
Update progress: [28/100].
With all computing power concentrated, data transmission speed was growing faster and faster.
Those data buses carrying terrifying computing power began radiating astonishing heat.
The spot coated with conductive silicone grease had already approached 120 degrees.
The grease was beginning to smoke faintly, its color gradually darkening.
In three more minutes at most, the grease would become fully conductive, and the high-voltage electricity would instantly pierce through the circulation pump’s control line.
That extremely flammable coolant, in the high-temperature, high-pressure sealed pipes—the moment it met a single spark…
It would be an explosion and sea of fire no one could stop.
The data center of this building would be utterly paralyzed.
Fu Songcheng stood. The room’s temperature was rising higher and higher; fine beads of sweat had already seeped onto his forehead. He took one last look at the rapidly jumping progress bar, then quickly left the server room.
“Hope nothing goes wrong.”
He murmured low, swiped open the door, and disappeared at the end of the corridor.
Meanwhile, inside the Death Party instance.
The battle continued.
Boom—!!!
Yu Huaiting flitted through the crowd like a phantom, every strike accompanied by players’ screams.
He couldn’t control his longing for Fu Songcheng, and his killing motions didn’t stop either—one slash after another, cutting into others.
With the addition of dozens of high-level players, they’d thoroughly stabilized their position. No longer purely on the defensive, they’d even begun to counterattack.
Chen Ke stood at a high point, continuously posting video clips recorded on Blue Star to the public screen. In the prison, how those locked-up Source Star players cursed, belittled, and disdained all humans.
Even now, there were still Source Star players trapped in Blue Star’s prison, madly pounding the walls, cursing Blue Star players as lowly mongrels.
[Chen Ke: See clearly now?! This is the truth! Dawn’s higher-ups are Source Star players too! Stop being blindly loyal!]
[Chen Ke: We’ve already captured some Source Star players! If any players have positioning, teleportation, or time-stop skills, please contact me as soon as possible!]
Those ordinary players originally driven forward by Source Star looked at the scenes playing on the public screen, looked at their companions beside them being slaughtered like grass—and their movements slowed.
More and more people laid down their weapons. Some even began turning their guns, launching attacks on Dawn’s supervisory squads.
“They’ve defected! Kill these traitors!”
Several Dawn mid-levels and squad leaders began directing their subordinates to attack the hesitant players.
“To hell with you!”
An ordinary Blue Star man’s eyes were red. “My motherland would never raise its blade against ordinary citizens!”
The battlefield shifted from a one-sided encirclement to a war within Blue Star players—to a revolution.
“Dawn” had come from the people, and because it violated the people’s will, it was abandoned by the people.
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