Chapter 1
—
Late at night.
The fluorescent lights in the VORTEX Gaming Company’s Heptagonal Prayer project office still hummed dutifully, the only two employees left in the room drowned out by the mechanical whirring of computers, the scrape of a mouse, and the rhythmic clicking of keys—interspersed with the loud, unabashed snoring of a man.
Shen Wu Chuang tore his bone-dry eyes away from the computer screen, removed his blue-light-blocking glasses, and tilted his head back to squeeze in a few drops of eye drops. As he placed the bottle back, his left elbow knocked over a long-dried cup of coffee. The paper cup hit the floor with a thud, loud enough to jolt awake the sleeping concept artist beside him.
The artist jolted upright, blinking in confusion. “What time is it?”
Shen Wu Chuang bent down to pick up the cup. “Two a.m., Brother Jun.”
The man called “Brother Jun”—Zhang Jun—stretched as he stood up, his overworked belly protruding, a groggy hum escaping his lips. He had been asleep since 10:15 p.m. and had only just woken up.
He surveyed the empty office like a king inspecting his domain. “Just you left?”
“Just us two,” Shen Wu Chuang replied, his hands never stopping as he focused on revising the character design drafts.
“Ah…” Zhang Jun yawned loudly.
“I can’t take it anymore. I’m beat. Gotta go home and sleep. You? Still not leaving?”
Shen Wu Chuang shook his head. “Can’t, Brother. The phase review meeting’s at nine tomorrow. Sister Yunyun told me to bring the revised character designs to present.”
The “Sister Yunyun” he mentioned was Summer Yunyun, the lead artist for Heptagonal Prayer, the immersive holographic game the company was developing. Both he and Zhang Jun were concept artists on the project.
Zhang Jun scoffed, recalling how Summer Yunyun had assigned him tasks with an air of superiority. “She’s not even here pulling an all-nighter, but we are? She’s got a kid to tutor at home, apparently.”
Shen Wu Chuang gave a bitter smile. “Yeah.”
“Only her kid needs tutoring,” Zhang Jun sneered. “You’ve been grinding for days on this project. Take care of yourself, man. Physically and mentally. I heard someone from the rival company offed themselves from overwork. Speaking of which…”
At the mention of suicide, Shen Wu Chuang sighed. He had been glued to his desk for three straight days, surviving on nothing but black coffee. His face was gaunt, his body exhausted, his entire being radiating the aura of a doormat. Jumping, he thought, might actually be a decent way out of this endless cycle of overtime.
“What?” he asked, looking up.
Zhang Jun licked his lips, hesitating, but pushed forward anyway. “If you’re not leaving… could you help me finish the temple’s orthographic views? It’s for tomorrow’s meeting too. Just the final touches, but my brain’s mush right now…”
He walked past Shen Wu Chuang, patting his shoulder. “Thanks, buddy!”
“Brother Jun…”
Shen Wu Chuang hesitated. The sticky notes plastered below his monitor were filled with “small favors” from coworkers. He was about to refuse, but Zhang Jun cut him off with another exaggerated yawn, tilting his head back to reveal his brilliant bald spot.
Forget it, Shen Wu Chuang thought. Zhang Jun had stayed this late with him, and the man was already balding and sickly in his early thirties.
“Bye, Brother Jun.”
He tore off a sticky note, jotted down Zhang Jun’s request, and glanced at the clock. Less than seven hours until the meeting. Every second counted.
—
A few minutes later, Shen Wu Chuang’s eyelids suddenly twitched violently. He couldn’t see himself, so he didn’t notice his pupils warping into a blood-red “∞”.
At the same time, his screen began flickering erratically, the monitor and desk lamp distorting and merging into one another.
Ignoring the discomfort in his eyes, he frantically clicked “Save”, terrified of losing his painstakingly crafted designs.
A few seconds later, everything stopped abruptly.
His eyes returned to normal, the blood-red “∞” vanished, and the screen stabilized. He chalked it up to hallucinations from exhaustion, ordered another coffee, and dove back into his work…
—
Shen Wu Chuang was jolted awake by his ringing phone.
Before that, he’d had a dream.
In it, he was trying to take the elevator down three floors for the review meeting, but his body was weak as if drunk, his arms barely keeping him upright against the handrail.
He tried calling out to familiar coworkers for help, but no one so much as glanced his way as they filed out of the elevator one by one.
“Sister Yunyun?” Shen Wu Chuang answered the phone, eyes still closed.
“What are you doing?! It’s past nine! The whole team’s waiting for you! Manager Sun is here too,” Summer Yunyun hissed. “Grab all your designs and get over here NOW!”
Shen Wu Chuang bolted upright. 9:05 a.m. No wonder she was furious. He hastily gathered his drafts and rushed toward the meeting room.
The atmosphere in the conference room was suffocating. As Shen Wu Chuang pushed open the yellow-painted door, Zhang Jun stood nervously beside the newly transferred, pot-bellied Manager Sun, enduring his unprofessional criticism.
Seeing Shen Wu Chuang, Zhang Jun pointed at him like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat. “It was him! He drew the temple’s orthographic views!”
Dozens of eyes swiveled toward Shen Wu Chuang like searchlights.
He froze for a second, his heart suddenly pounding. Stepping forward, he asked, “Is there a problem with the orthographic views?”
Manager Sun slammed the drafts in front of him. “Didn’t I tell the lead artist that the temple’s elements needed to be unique yet rooted in Ni Xu’s traditional culture? Lead Artist, did you not relay my requirements?”
Ni Xu—the very land beneath their feet.
Summer Yunyun quickly distanced herself. “I did.”
Manager Sun’s gaze locked onto Shen Wu Chuang. Pointing at the drafts, he demanded, “Then explain to me where your innovation and fusion are! It’s been three or four days since I gave the order. Are you trying to fool me, or yourself, by bringing this outdated version?”
His voice rose sharply, startling both Shen Wu Chuang and Zhang Jun into retreat.
Shen Wu Chuang was about to explain that he wasn’t responsible for the temple’s design—he’d only helped Zhang Jun as a favor—when Zhang Jun tugged his sleeve, silently urging him to keep his mouth shut.
Manager Sun wasn’t interested in excuses. “What’s that in your hands? Let me see.”
“The… NPC design drafts.” Shen Wu Chuang handed them over.
The rustling of pages sent his heart racing. He was overwhelmed by anxiety, his brain flooded with adrenaline, sending his thoughts into a frantic spiral.
But Manager Sun’s frown only deepened as he flipped through. Suddenly, he snapped.
With a sweep of his arm, he hurled the NPC drafts into Shen Wu Chuang’s face. The sting of paper cuts jolted Shen Wu Chuang back to reality, dampening the chaotic whirlwind in his mind.
“This is your hard work?” Manager Sun launched into a tirade. “Did you even think? Your NPCs look no different from the leashed ability-users roaming the streets! At least they wear suppressant collars! Your designs are completely generic!”
Shen Wu Chuang was first stunned, then flooded with grief and rage.
The narrative of Heptagonal Prayer was built on players reliving a seven-day loop in a world nearly identical to reality, uncovering clues that tied the Seven-Day Creation Myth to Möbius geometry. To make it immersive, the characters had to look like ordinary people—not six-winged angels or Greek goddesses. The clues were hidden in clothing details and body markings, a decision made by the entire art team.
But Manager Sun dismissed his work as indistinguishable from street ability-users—as if his designs were so worthless even a junk collector would avoid them.
Due to historical factors, non-ability-users in Ni Xu City feared and despised ability-users, calling themselves “Ben Chu”—”the untainted,” free from radiation-induced mutations.
Shen Wu Chuang’s meticulously crafted work was judged without care, discarded like trash. His nerves twitched violently, blocking his already fragile train of thought.
As if the humiliation wasn’t enough, Manager Sun ordered him to pick up the scattered papers. As Shen Wu Chuang bent down, his ears rang, and Manager Sun’s lips moved like a squid spewing black ink:
“I’ve seen your resume, Shen Wu Chuang, right? Top-tier graduate. Shouldn’t a young man like you be bursting with creativity and drive?”
“You’ve been with the company nearly a year. Contract renewal’s coming up. But with this performance? I’m not sure you’re worth keeping.”
“Check out the rival company’s employee benefits. Ours are better in every way! Their game made 300 million in three days of beta testing! Or do you want their management style—driving employees to jump—before you’ll perform?”
Someone chimed in, “Yeah, Shen, at least have the right attitude!”
Shen Wu Chuang finally snapped. He scanned the room, taking in the cold, smirking faces of his coworkers—every one of whom had asked him for favors. Not a single person stood up for him; instead, they kicked him while he was down.
He slammed the drafts onto the floor and shouted, voice trembling, “ENOUGH!”
“You think this company is better than the rival firm? You think no one’s jumped here because your benefits are so great?”
He stormed past Manager Sun, marched to the sliding window, and yanked it open. A gust of crisp air rushed in, stinging his nose.
How long had it been since he’d breathed fresh air? Outside, the world was lush and alive, spring in full bloom, but he’d been trapped in this cubicle, surviving on endless coffee, drowning in work stress and toxic relationships.
“If jumping is the answer, then fine.” Living like this was no different from death.
He turned, tears streaming down his face.
“I warn you—don’t push me too far!”
Manager Sun remained seated at the head of the table, his gaze dismissive, as if certain Shen Wu Chuang lacked the guts to jump.
The coworkers whispered among themselves, like insects crawling through dry grass:
“Jump! Go on, jump!”
“Why isn’t he jumping?”
“I bet he won’t. No guts.”
Shen Wu Chuang wiped his tears. I bet I will.
He turned away, held his breath, and looked down—only for his legs to tremble. Damn it. I’m afraid of heights.
He couldn’t jump.
Rationality flooded back. He turned to face Manager Sun, muttering about letting it go, and was about to flash his usual doormat smile—
When the conference room lights flickered out.
A jolt of electricity shot through his body.
Fine. This rotten company. Even the wiring is out to get me. I’m done being the doormat!
Let someone else take the job!
A gale-force wind suddenly whipped through the room, sending papers spiraling into the air. Shen Wu Chuang pointed at Manager Sun.
“You said my NPCs were useless? Fine! Why don’t you go into the game as an NPC?”
Before he could finish—
Manager Sun shrunk and warped under his finger, his colors lingering in place while his lines peeled away, flattening onto a sheet of A4 paper that materialized out of thin air.
The buzzing in Shen Wu Chuang’s ears grew louder. His coworkers erupted in chaos:
“His—his eyes!”
“Shen Wu Chuang—he’s an ability-user!”
