Chapter 275: Even the Paid Commenters Were Dumbfounded
Chapter 275: Even the Paid Commenters Were Dumbfounded
Hu Xiao’s home internet was fast, so the game finished downloading quickly.
As a professional content creator, his desktop setup wasn’t bad—after all, he often edited videos and occasionally played games.
He didn’t have a controller, but this game could also be played with keyboard and mouse.
Being someone who valued a sense of ritual, Hu Xiao got up, brewed a cup of tea, took a few relaxed sips, and then entered the game.
He still wasn’t quite sure what kind of game this actually was.
But judging from the title, it seemed like something with a Buddhist vibe, right?
And since it was a game with a Chinese aesthetic—based on the official promotional art—it looked like it was about reincarnation, transcendence, and the afterlife.
Hmm… so it should be peaceful and meditative, right?
If that’s the case, then he should calm his mind and experience it sincerely.
To his surprise, Hu Xiao felt a faint sense of anticipation rising within him.
. . .
After the screen faded from black, a gentle melody began to play.
The tune was elegant and lingering, yet carried a subtle undercurrent of sorrow—all played with traditional Chinese instruments.
Then came an old woman’s voice, hoarse yet resonant, reciting slowly and mournfully:
“Lives intertwine yet never meet, the cycle turns and blood fades deep;”
“Flowers bloom unseen by fallen leaves, two souls adrift by River’s keep.”
“The journey o’er the Threefold Path is long, hearts break by the Bridge of Woe;”
“One bowl of tea ends ties of old, a trickling stream renews what flows.”
Her voice was melodic and drawn out, yet it carried a chilling sorrow—like a ghost calling out to wandering ghosts.
The words sounded like a poem, or perhaps an ancient dirge—eerily beautiful, but unsettling.
The screen lit up.
A crimson maple leaf drifted into a stream and was carried away by the current. Soon, a trail of blood followed, flowing down the same path, quickly diluted by the water.
The camera panned upward.
A withered hand suddenly slapped onto the surface of the stream with a splash, droplets scattering—then fell still.
The shot followed the arm upward, revealing tattered clothing, grotesque wounds, and wide-open eyes frozen in death.
Even in death, those eyes—staring, unblinking—radiated fear, despair, struggle… and a trace of unwillingness.
The camera continued to rise, showing several pairs of emaciated, skeletal ankles walking past.
A hairless, shriveled dog—little more than bones—drooled dark red saliva as it glared at the camera with bloodshot eyes before turning away, continuing its search for the next corpse.
It seemed these creatures had completely lost their sanity, reduced to blind engines of slaughter.
Then, the old, rasping voice spoke again:
“A man has three souls and seven spirits.”
“When one’s lifespan ends, the Black and White Impermanence guides the soul across the Yellow Springs Road, to the underworld for judgment.”
“There, the soul may be reincarnated, enter the Six Paths, or fall into the deepest hell.”
By the stream, the corpse suddenly twitched.
But the camera didn’t linger—it drifted away, gliding past the stream and desolate fields, toward a remote mountain village.
“Until one day, the Black and White Impermanence ceased to guide the dead.”
“Souls wandered the world untethered, unable to cross—turning into restless spirits adrift along the Yellow Springs Road.”
“Unable to live, unable to die.”
“Over time, these lost souls grew violent, forgetting humanity, forgetting memory.”
“And the mortal world became a purgatory.”
The scene shifted again—a group of innocent villagers were slaughtered by others wielding pitchforks and cleavers, their screams echoing in despair.
In the ruins of a temple on the city’s outskirts, faint golden Buddha light formed a barrier, blocking the spirits trying to force their way in.
Inside, an old monk sat cross-legged on a worn cushion before a crumbling statue of the Buddha, chanting sutras over and over, as the faint light flickered around him.
Not far away, a scholar stumbled out of a burning house, running frantically through the night. His hair was disheveled, his clothes scorched—he looked utterly deranged.
As he ran, he shouted and laughed, his voice hoarse and slurred:
“The fire of samsara consumes the home of mortals;”
“Drowned in the sea of suffering, none may escape.”
“There is no path to Spirit Mountain, hands joined in vain;”
“The road to the Yellow Springs is long—turn back before it’s too late.”
“Turn back before it’s too late? Hahahahahaha…”
As his hysterical laughter echoed, the screen gradually faded to black.
Then, the laughter stopped abruptly.
The old, rasping voice returned one last time:
“Wandering ghosts roam the mortal realm; the Six Paths collapse—the gates of the underworld open…”
After a prolonged black screen—
Thud
Thud
Two dull sounds echoed, and a faint ray of light pierced the darkness.
The camera shifted, this was a first-person view from inside a coffin.
Moments later, the perspective moved outward.
It revealed a desolate mass graveyard. Broken tombstones lay crooked and toppled, some half-buried in brittle yellow grass.
Many coffins were open—thin, low-quality wooden boxes rotted and falling apart.
Some still contained incomplete remains, gnawed upon by starving beasts; others were empty, filled only with dirt washed in by the rain.
Corpses were scattered across the field, limbs missing, heads severed—discarded without care.
Suddenly, one of the coffin lids was punched through from within—two holes splintered open. A withered hand, still clinging to traces of flesh, pushed up weakly until the lid slid aside.
Then, a pale corpse sat upright from the grave.
. . .
Hu Xiao looked down at his cup of tea, then back at the distinctly unfriendly opening cinematic.
Something was clearly wrong.
This… this doesn’t look like a meditative, Zen-style game at all.
Something was seriously off.
He was tempted to quit—after all, the game had just been downloaded; he could refund it anytime.
But after a moment’s thought, he decided to keep going.
Maybe it’s actually fun?
“Huh? You can even write your own epitaph?”
“What kind of weird feature is this? Whatever, skip.”
He tried to skip the segment instinctively—but found he couldn’t. It forced him to type something in before proceeding.
Originally, he thought about just entering a few ellipses, but that seemed odd. After thinking for a second, he typed two casual characters: ‘Heh’—a light chuckle.
He didn’t think much of it—just typed the first thing that came to mind.
After confirming, the game began in earnest.
Hu Xiao took control of his character and charged straight toward the small monsters ahead.
Three seconds later—
His character let out a miserable scream and collapsed. The screen turned gray, displaying two huge characters across it: “Heh.”
Hu Xiao: “???”
He blinked, confused.
Wait, what just happened?
He had a full health bar just moments ago—how did he die in two hits from a random mob?
Is this a bug?
Unwilling to accept defeat, he respawned, crawled out of the grave again, and charged the monster.
“Heh.”
“Heh.”
“Heh.”
Each time, death came instantly, and his own epitaph—“Heh”—flashed mockingly across the screen.
After several rounds, Hu Xiao froze.
He stared at the screen in silence for several minutes, then pushed his keyboard and mouse forward, slumping back into his chair.
His mind was blank.
What is going on?
Why is my character as fragile as tissue paper? One touch and I die?!
Am I playing it wrong?
Or is this game just… built like this?
Still confused, Hu Xiao opened the group chat for the paid reviewers to ask how everyone else was doing.
But to his surprise, the others were just as baffled as he was.
“Has anyone finished downloading Turn Back Before It’s Too Late yet? My PC’s too laggy—it froze for a second and then I just… died.”
“Same here. My computer lagged and I died out of nowhere.”
“Man, this game’s system requirements are crazy. It’s running like a slideshow on my rig.”
“Heh, my computer runs it fine. Honestly, you guys didn’t die because of lag.”
“WTF kind of game is this? The first monster one-shots you?”
“How are you supposed to even play like this?”
“No idea. I already refunded it. The boss didn’t say we had to leave good reviews anyway, right? I’m just giving it one star.”
“One star? Isn’t that a bit harsh? No second chances?”
“My laptop can’t handle it. I’ll try again later at an internet café.”
“The client’s paying pretty well, you know. Isn’t giving it a one-star review a little ungrateful? I mean, they told us to rate it based on our first impression.”
“Yeah, and my first impression is that the game sucks.”
“Or maybe it’s just your computer’s problem?”
Before long, the chat turned into a heated argument.
Hu Xiao scratched his head, starting to feel dizzy.
This was the first time he’d ever seen the paid reviewers’ group get so serious about something.
Usually, the group operated like a well-trained army—one command and everyone would move in sync: like, repost, spam an account, or flood a comment section—all in perfect order and lightning fast.
But today, the chatroom felt more like a chaotic marketplace.
Everyone was voicing their own opinion, all talking over each other.
Some had already decided to give the game a terrible review after playing for a few minutes.
Others felt bad about being so harsh—the client had been pretty generous with the payment—and insisted they should at least give the game a fair try before judging.
As he watched the argument spiral out of control, Hu Xiao just sat there, completely stunned.
What do you even do when the paid reviewers start fighting each other?
Asking for advice online. It’s urgent.
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