At this moment, Xie Shuangxue’s body was unconscious; he wasn’t aware of what he was holding onto. He was simply trying to sort out his chaotic memories—just a slight overflow of his inner thoughts in this disordered state.

Yu Haiqing was his mother’s favorite student, and this person frequently popped up in his mind. The current him and the past him intertwined, as if they were intricately connected from beginning to end.

But back then, because his mother had protected him and repeatedly told him that his existence couldn’t be known by anyone, he always had a certain wariness toward Yu Haiqing.

Even now, Xie Shuangxue felt the same way.

His mother had said that his existence could never be fully accepted by others; if discovered, he’d either be erased or exploited. So, whether this “Endless Sea guy” was really trustworthy… Xie Shuangxue had to be cautious and put a question mark next to his name.

He remembered these things, but they only explained part of his questions, bringing a whole set of new ones with them.

His mother had prepared so thoroughly back then, so why hadn’t the game launched in the end? And what happened to the Firefly Game Studio?

Xie Shuangxue spent a long time browsing forums. The forums didn’t just discuss Endless Sea and Gods and Demons; they also talked about other companies and games. But he hadn’t seen the name “Firefly” mentioned anywhere.

His mother had been aware of her illness for a long time and had planned much in advance for him. So why did he end up shut down for so many years, only to wake up with no memories?

The more he remembered, the more chaotic his memories became. Xie Shuangxue couldn’t recall clearly, and in the present, he wondered: did Yu Haiqing know of his existence back then?

There was no memory of that.

However, considering what Yu Haiqing had just said to him, Xie Shuangxue felt he must know something. Otherwise, there was no way to explain how quickly he had accepted Xie Shuangxue’s existence.

He couldn’t rely solely on his own fragmented thoughts—his memory was incomplete. Xie Shuangxue felt like there was something important he still hadn’t remembered.

Now that he had some names, he could use them to search. He opened up every channel he could currently access and soon found some old posts on the game forums.

Some were from years ago, while others mentioned “Old Bai” or “Firefly” as recently as three years back. The first post came from a game blogger with a small following, who mentioned it about five or six years ago:

“I recently tried out a game from a studio called Firefly Games. Honestly, I was pretty surprised. Right now, the realism in VR games is only around 60%, but this one, although it didn’t break any technical boundaries, had a few glitches here and there and would occasionally freeze. But the interactions were done really well! When an NPC talked to you, it felt super real, and their reactions were fascinating. Looking forward to it!”

Since only a handful of people had tried the demo, and the game was far from release, there weren’t many replies initially. However, after a few rounds of promotion, when the trailer finally dropped, more people started talking about it.

“The NPC interactions are pretty interesting!”

“Feels like they really leveled up technically, and most of the glitches have been fixed. This studio’s tech team might be hiding some genius talent.”

“Looking forward to it!”

Screenshots showed that the Firefly team didn’t put real names, just codenames—a common industry practice, as developers typically remained anonymous until a game’s official release. Xie Shuangxue recognized his mother’s codename, “Old Bai,” and the codename “Dead Dog” referred to Gou Yuan, while “Daily Blue” was Wei Lan. Both Gou Yuan and Wei Lan were people Yu Haiqing had known for a long time and worked with at the studio, something Xie Shuangxue was well aware of.

But the codename Yu Haiqing used made Xie Shuangxue pause.

It was simply “Fish.”

Not “Nine.”

That was… strange.

People rarely changed their codenames. Gou Yuan and Wei Lan still used theirs even now, yet Yu Haiqing’s naming habit had changed.

And now Xie Shuangxue recalled something more.

He realized why the number “9” echoed in his mind when he first fainted. It wasn’t just because of Yu Haiqing’s game ID, or at least, it wasn’t just because of him.

The number “9” was tied to Xie Shuangxue himself.

Bai Qiuyun hadn’t succeeded immediately with her AI experiments; she seemed to have been aiming for this goal, making multiple versions that all failed. Xie Shuangxue was her ninth—and final—successful model.

Thus, his original code was “009.” Bai Qiuyun called him “Zai Zai” (Little One) and occasionally “Little Nine.”

Was this just a coincidence?

Frowning, Xie Shuangxue kept reading, and sure enough, the forum’s discussions took a sharp turn.

“Is Firefly Games done for? I heard Old Bai’s gone, and then there was some internal conflict that pushed out a lot of people. Those who stayed couldn’t do much. I don’t think ‘Drawing Swords’ will ever launch.”

“Drawing Swords” was his mother’s game.

“What a pity.”

“When are we gonna see a true VR game?”

The players mourned, but they didn’t have to wait long.

Around two years later, Endless Sea was established, and soon afterward, they launched the revolutionary VR game Gods and Demons, achieving over 85% realism. After three years of updates, it broke 90%, a record that remains unchallenged.

The most recent forum mention of Firefly was from just over a year ago:

“The Sea Main Brain Chip is amazing, but does anyone remember the old Firefly 1.0 chip? The interactions were great. I feel like not even Gods and Demons measures up to that. Only Old Bai could’ve pulled it off.”

But there weren’t many replies; it seemed people had already moved on. One person wrote a bit more in response: “Firefly was dropped by its investors, later restructured and renamed Blast Games, but it never managed to release a game and has long ceased to exist. Don’t dwell on it.”

Dust settles, and past events fade.

He searched further. Few knew about Yu Haiqing’s time with Firefly, and without Xie Shuangxue’s own memories, no one on the forums would know that he’d worked there for so long.

Even in a successful game, the average player wouldn’t remember all the team members behind it; knowing the boss and a few lead developers was enough. With Gods and Demons being such a massive hit, even with their real names displayed, players only needed to know to blame the “Dog Designer,” Gou Yuan, or President Yu when things went wrong. The rest didn’t matter.

And for a game that never launched, even fewer would remember. Although many players had experienced and anticipated the game’s demos, years had passed. People had forgotten.

The gaming industry is full of people who rise and fade; only a handful remembered the codename “Old Bai,” let alone Yu Haiqing, who was simply one of the tech team members under a codename, without any background at the time.

Xie Shuangxue felt a pang of sorrow. Based on his memories and what he’d uncovered, he had no choice but to refocus on Yu Haiqing.

Yu Haiqing had been working with his mother while still in school. Starting out as an intern, he left Firefly at 23 after about five or six years, and two years later, Gods and Demons was born.

Firefly must have provided him with a lot—experience, experimental data, equipment—otherwise, it would’ve been impossible to develop such a massive VR game in just two years.

But because of this, Xie Shuangxue found more grounds for suspicion. What if the Firefly conflicts had something to do with Yu Haiqing?

And why had he been asleep for three years?

Xie Shuangxue couldn’t tell if he was a “phantom data intruder” or if he was carried by a physical chip. VR technology had evolved rapidly, and Sea was continually updating, making old equipment obsolete. His activation, as an “old device,” was peculiar.

After spending time with him, Xie Shuangxue didn’t think Yu Haiqing was a bad guy. He was nice enough, though that might just be because Xie Shuangxue, as an NPC, brought him plenty of profit. Yu Haiqing wouldn’t delete him or cut off his power so easily, would he?

There were a few things Xie Shuangxue could be certain about.

His awakening was deeply connected to Sea, or he could say he was temporarily “residing” in Sea. His mother’s hopes of placing him in a VR game had come true. But now, as an NPC, he still lacked the power to break free from this world controlled by Sea.

He had become Xie Shuangxue and would remain Xie Shuangxue.

And within the game, his coma had been unusually long. In Gods and Demons’ time, Xie Shuangxue had been unconscious for several days and nights.

During this time, people from the Feather Clan had visited him, and Yun Ruowei had suppressed the demonic aura on his body. Even Chun Yao couldn’t detect anything amiss. Some players who managed to get in took a quick look.

But soon, the Feather Clan heavily guarded the area, making it harder for players to enter. The forum started buzzing with excitement, and Bai Qiuyan, as a player, sensed something was off.

This story twist wasn’t known to the players. Although the Gods and Demons department was nervous, they kept it strictly confidential. Bai Qiuyan asked around and eventually confronted Yu Haiqing in person.

Thinking back to when Xie Shuangxue crawled out and lifted his gaze in the camera’s close-up, Bai Qiuyan still found it breathtaking.

How could an NPC look so real?

Unable to shake the thought, he removed his headset and went to the Endless Sea building.

“Be honest with me, what tech or algorithm did you use on him?” Bai Qiuyan asked in Yu Haiqing’s office. “Isn’t this something Old Bai left for you? It really has her style.”

Yu Haiqing was silent for a while. Eventually, he said, “Whether or not it’s her, it has nothing to do with your family anymore. You all calculated things quite clearly back then.”

One more thought crossed his mind, though he didn’t voice it—Xie Shuangxue was his alone.

He wouldn’t let people like Bai Qiuyan know too much.

His words left Bai Qiuyan feeling uneasy, and he didn’t say anything for a moment.

After a while, he muttered as if to himself, “Yeah, our family is a mess. None of us have as much loyalty as an NPC in the game.”

People outside didn’t know Old Bai well. Most game developers worked behind the scenes; within the industry, her name was recognized, but her distinguished family background was hidden.

Old Bai, Bai Qiuyun, was, by blood, the older cousin of Bai Qiuyan and Bai Qiuheng—a fact not openly discussed within the Bai family.

The Bai family was large, built on artificial intelligence and biotechnology, where technical breakthroughs were immensely profitable. Bai Qiuyun was a rare genius in this field, surpassing all her peers combined.

Bai Qiuyan and Bai Qiuheng were young, but back then, they admired her for daring to challenge their grandfather. Privately, they got along well with her, but she eventually left to start Firefly. Bai Qiuyan even secretly supported her with his allowance, occasionally visiting her studio, where he first met Yu Haiqing.

Their family thought she’d eventually return, but when Firefly started making real progress, they grew anxious.

Everyone knew that if VR gaming succeeded, it’d be the next big thing. Old Bai’s illness also worsened at that time, sparking a fierce battle for Firefly’s ownership, exposing bitter rivalries.

“We all knew Old Bai wanted to leave Firefly entirely to you, but Uncle insisted on claiming it, causing internal strife in the studio. You only managed to take a few things,” Bai Qiuyan sighed. “I never thought it would turn out this way.”

Had Bai Qiuyun survived, Yu Haiqing, her favorite student, wouldn’t have struggled alone. VR technology demanded immense funding, yet he somehow managed to get through it.

But life has its twists and turns. His uncle fought hard for control, but the game never launched. Without the right technical team, it kept failing and couldn’t pass inspection.

Yu Haiqing left quietly with a few others, only to see Endless Sea flourish two years later, with Gods and Demons propelling the company to dominance. The Bai family still hasn’t fully entered the VR gaming industry even after all these years.

Now, Gods and Demons had been around for three years without any sign of decline. It even boosted the rise of Lin Jiao Live, a new game streaming platform, making Endless Sea’s quarterly financial report look phenomenal.

But thinking back, it seemed all thanks to the NPC, Xie Shuangxue.

For some reason, when Bai Qiuyan looked at him, he thought of Old Bai. He’d admired his tough, cool cousin growing up, thinking she could accomplish anything.

When Xie Shuangxue held his sword, he even looked just like her.

“Forget it. It’s a business secret. Don’t want to tell me? Fine.”

Bai Qiuyan sighed, reclining in his chair. His gaze drifted and landed on a whole set of Xie Shuangxue merchandise in the office!

And there were versions he didn’t have!

There was an Ah Xue in a different outfit!

“Where did you get those?” He stood up immediately, accusingly. “Are you keeping some for yourself?”

Yu Haiqing looked up from his files, giving him a look like he was a fool. “Those are the new designs. Samples for the prototypes. I’m the boss of Endless Sea. Of course, they come to me first.”

“Fine, I want a set too!”

Bai Qiuyan quickly switched moods, pointing at one of them. “What about that one? I haven’t seen that style. Is that Ah Xue in modern clothes? Cute. I want three of those.”

“Stop calling him ‘Ah Xue’ so intimately,” Yu Haiqing batted away his reaching hand with his file. “That one’s a non-sale item. Only I have it.”

Even with the merch, his version had to be unique.

Bai Qiuyan: …

Darn capitalists!

He accidentally insulted himself, too.

Nothing’s allowed, no respect for VIPs. Bai Qiuyan fumed inside while quickly settling for something else. “How about this: bring me in to see Ah Xue? The Feather Clan is guarding the place too tightly. I tried several times but couldn’t get in. You must have a way.”

Yu Haiqing: “No.”

Xie Shuangxue’s physical condition was fine. He’d already informed Bai Qiuyan and the others, but they kept going there every day. What were they even trying to accomplish?

“Yu Haiqing, I’m warning you, don’t go too far,” Bai Qiuyan stood up, frustrated, “or I’ll quit the game! I really will!”

Yu Haiqing ignored him.

They’d known each other for years. Though not exactly friends, Yu Haiqing knew the type of person Bai Qiuyan was.

Now he was threatening to quit, but when Xie Shuangxue woke up and logged in, Bai Qiuyan would be back, faster than anyone.

However, Bai Qiuyan had a point—Yu Haiqing did have a way to sneak in to check on Xie Shuangxue. He had enough authority to slip in during the quiet hours.

And that very night, just as Yu Haiqing slipped in, Xie Shuangxue awoke.

Only, he didn’t seem fully awake.

Having been unconscious for so long, he was in standby mode when he opened his eyes, confused and silent. He sat up on the bed, staring blankly, then noticed Yu Haiqing climbing through the window.

He tilted his head, blinking as he watched him approach, looking impressed. Then he reached out toward him.

“Hug.”

Xie Shuangxue’s whole body felt slightly numb—partly due to his unhealed injuries, partly due to the stabilization of his data. His instinct was to seek comfort.

How could Yu Haiqing possibly refuse?

He immediately reached out and held him close, only to be enveloped in that faint mix of tea and medicinal fragrance even more strongly.

At that moment, Xie Shuangxue was incredibly docile. He rested his head on Yu Haiqing’s shoulder, snuggling closer into his embrace, rubbing against him like a kitten.

Yu Haiqing’s heart softened as he stroked Xie Shuangxue’s hair, murmuring, “So, you’re the one the teacher talked about… I don’t know how much you remember, but I promised her I’d look after you.”

Feeling justified, he held him without a hint of hesitation, but as he was about to continue talking, Xie Shuangxue suddenly stopped moving.

The standby state had vanished.

Then Yu Haiqing felt Xie Shuangxue push him away slightly, withdrawing from his embrace with a look that had nothing to do with dependence.

He was looking at him carefully, not saying a word, but the meaning was clear—he was scrutinizing, even suspicious.

“I feel like I slept for a long time,” Xie Shuangxue said, his voice slightly hoarse. “Why are you here?”

Yu Haiqing: …

Right, so he hadn’t listened to a word before?

Xie Shuangxue was back to not recognizing anyone here.