“Then it depends on whether he’s honest.”
Fu Songcheng took a mid-grade recovery potion from his system backpack, walked up to Quan Heng, and crouched down halfway.
The man on the ground had once been imperious, styling himself a “god” who controlled their lives and deaths—now he lay at Fu Songcheng’s feet like a beaten stray dog.
Fu Songcheng expressionlessly pinched Quan Heng’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. Seeing this, Yu Huaiting immediately walked over and planted one foot on Quan Heng’s shoulder, pinning him dead to the floor.
Gulp—
Fu Songcheng roughly poured half a bottle of recovery potion down Quan Heng’s throat.
The potion took effect quickly.
Amid a violent fit of coughing, Quan Heng convulsed sharply, his previously scattered pupils gradually refocusing.
He struggled to open his eyes, gasping for breath, his lungs wheezing like a broken bellows.
The first thing that met his eyes was Fu Songcheng’s temperatureless eyes, and Yu Huaiting looking down at him from above.
He felt his hands and feet ice-cold, bound dead by rough, cold metal, his whole body sprawled on the floor in an utterly humiliating posture.
“Awake?”
Fu Songcheng’s voice was cold, neither joy nor anger discernible.
He stood up, looking down at Quan Heng from above, his tone flat as if making casual conversation. “Since you’re awake, answer a few questions for me.”
Quan Heng gritted his teeth and sneered. The sneer pulled at his wounds, making him suck in a sharp breath.
Bang!
He’d barely smiled before Yu Huaiting’s foot drove viciously into his abdomen.
The kick held nothing back. Quan Heng’s whole body slid half a meter across the floor, scraping out a grating sound against the boards.
He jerked into a curl, vomiting a large mouthful of sour fluid, and Fu Songcheng swiftly poured another bottle of mid-grade recovery potion down him.
Can’t live, can’t die—that was roughly Quan Heng’s current state.
If he weren’t a Source Star person but under Blue Star’s jurisdiction, then Blue Star’s King of Hell would probably see this man flickering in and out of life right before his eyes.
Yu Huaiting’s eyes were sinister, his tone carrying undisguised killing intent. “When he asks you something, you answer honestly.”
Fu Songcheng watched the agonized, curled-up Quan Heng, the corner of his mouth curving slightly, and posed his first question.
“We people who entered Death Party—did our bodies come in, or only our consciousness?”
Fu Songcheng’s voice was cold.
He’d glimpsed in Quan Heng’s dream that Source Star people, even when participating in instances, kept their physical bodies safely in hibernation pods, projecting only their consciousness.
But he needed to confirm what kind of situation they—players from Child Stars, treated as grass—actually faced.
Quan Heng trembled all over from the pain. He stared dead at Fu Songcheng, teeth clenched, looking as if he didn’t want to answer more.
Fu Songcheng didn’t press. He merely tilted his head slightly.
Yu Huaiting understood. He stepped forward, grabbed Quan Heng’s hair, and smashed his head viciously into the floor.
Bang!
“Talk.”
Yu Huaiting’s voice was colder than a machine.
Bang!
After a few heavy blows, Quan Heng’s forehead was streaming blood, his vision completely blurred.
He could feel his skull on the verge of shattering.
And Fu Songcheng would promptly replenish the recovery potion—so long as he didn’t answer, this torment would continue endlessly.
“Don’t… don’t hit me anymore…”
Quan Heng spoke weakly.
Fu Songcheng raised his hand, and Yu Huaiting immediately released him, stepping aside.
Quan Heng panted for a long time before spitting out the truth in broken fragments: “Everyone on the Child Stars enters the game physically.”
Though he’d had a premonition, hearing this still made Fu Songcheng’s fingertips tremble slightly.
Quan Heng’s smile was uglier than crying, carrying a broken mockery: “What did you think you were? How could they spend that much cost, for you consumables… to build hibernation pods?”
Physical entry.
Death in an instance was true death.
Every injury they’d suffered, every burning, every tearing—all of it had genuinely affected their flesh.
Fu Songcheng took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the surging fury in his chest, and signaled Yu Huaiting to hit Quan Heng a few more times to vent.
Only after Quan Heng begged for mercy until his voice went hoarse did Fu Songcheng feel appeased. “Second question.”
“Your livestreams—are they uninterrupted twenty-four hours a day? Can people outside see our every move in the instances?”
“No… no.” Quan Heng panted, trying to make his voice sound sincere. “We have dedicated risk-control personnel. The moment prohibited footage appears, or speech unfavorable to us, the risk-control staff will promptly cut the signal.”
“Is that so?”
Fu Songcheng crouched and leaned close to Quan Heng.
“Really? Then how did I see so much controversy about Death Party in your dream? If your risk-control staff were really that prompt, how did those scenes that stirred public opinion leak out?”
Quan Heng lowered his eyes, avoiding Fu Songcheng’s gaze.
Fu Songcheng stood, looking down at him coldly, his eyes full of disappointment.
“Still haven’t learned your lesson, have you.”
He said no more. He planted a foot on Quan Heng’s wrist, already deeply scored by the chains, and pressed down bit by bit.
“Ah—!!!”
A shrill scream echoed through the rest room. Quan Heng convulsed violently from the pain, tears and snot pouring out uncontrollably.
Fu Songcheng watched him nearly faint from the agony and didn’t stop—pressing harder and harder.
“I’ll ask one last time.” Fu Songcheng’s voice was like a curse from hell. “What exactly is the process for your livestreams?”
Quan Heng shook his head frantically; he’d been tortured to the brink of mental collapse.
“Urgh… I’ll talk!”
Quan Heng gasped for breath, his eyes full of terror and despair, no longer retaining the slightest dignity of a Source Star person.
“Manual cutting can’t achieve zero delay.” Quan Heng’s voice trembled.
He swallowed hard, staring dead at the floor. “The system self-checks every ten minutes. Manual intervention occasionally cuts it, with a delay of a few minutes—the self-check is when it’s actually done.”
Ten minutes.
It matched Bai Mu’s skill description.
Fu Songcheng nodded slightly.
After they’d captured Quan Heng, Fu Songcheng had rapidly pushed forward the progress of leaving the instance, almost without wasting a word.
By now, nearly ten minutes had passed.
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