Forum

Even if Chi Bai refused to accept it at that moment, she knew she would eventually have to.

The mission demanded the clearing of nearby zombies, though the exact radius of “nearby” remained frustratingly vague.

As someone who perpetually relied on takeout, unable to cook anything beyond exceptionally good instant noodles, she recognized the imminent need for either food delivery or dining out to sate her hunger.

A far more unsettling realization then dawned on her: would she even be able to eat out anymore?

Would delivery riders still exist?

Her gaze drifted to her phone.

Wi-Fi refused to connect, and her mobile data displayed a stark ‘E’, clearly indicating a complete lack of internet access.

She pondered whether a local base station had been destroyed or if the entire global network had simply ceased to exist.

With circumstances spiraling into such disarray, accepting the mission and observing its unfolding consequences seemed to be her sole viable path forward.

Adding to her bewilderment, the system claimed she had awakened an ability, yet she remained utterly clueless as to what power she now possessed.

It was little wonder her blanket had felt oddly damp when she had just lain down; she must have developed a fever and perspired profusely during the awakening of her ability.

‘Never mind,’ she thought, ‘I’ll accept it first and see what other information this peculiar system has to offer.’

Chi Bai tapped the ‘Confirm’ button, and the pop-up window finally dissolved.

She surveyed the screen, noting its rather sparse layout: only four modules were visible—Mission, Inventory, Forum, and Personal Info.

The ‘Mission’ tab, prominently highlighted in bold yellow, practically screamed its importance, clearly conveying the developer’s intent.

While Inventory and Personal Info were straightforward enough, the inclusion of a forum feature struck her as peculiar.

Chi Bai bypassed the small red notification dot on the mission tab, her gaze drawn instead to the ‘Forum’ tab, which boasted an even greater cluster of unread alerts.

As someone utterly incapable of tolerating red notification dots, the sight of ‘99+’ on the forum filled her with an unbearable itch.

She simply had to click it first.

The screen that appeared upon clicking bore a striking resemblance to the chat interface in King’s Glory (TL Note: A popular Chinese mobile MOBA game).

It presented a secondary menu with only three options: Lobby, Private Messages, and Settings.

Driven by her compulsive need to eliminate red dots, Chi Bai instinctively clicked ‘Settings’ first.

True to her expectation, a ‘Do Not Disturb’ option materialized.

With a swift tap, she checked the box, and just like that, the bothersome red dot next to ‘Forum’ vanished, replaced by a muted bell icon with a diagonal line slashed through it.

Chi Bai exhaled a long, relieved breath, finally allowing herself to click on the ‘Lobby’ to peruse the available information.

The feed was predominantly filled with meaningless spam.

However, a detail caught Chi Bai’s attention: every speaker’s name appeared to be their real identity, followed by their province, city, and district enclosed in brackets.

Tentatively, Chi Bai typed a question mark.

The box adjacent to her own name promptly displayed [Guangdong Province, S City, XX District], confirming it was indeed her current geographical location.

The system wisely omitted detailed street addresses, likely as a rudimentary privacy measure to prevent real-world targeting, a small comfort that was better than nothing.

From Chi Bai’s observation, the majority of users were simply idly chatting, still very much in the novelty phase of interacting with this new screen.

Beyond expressions of wonder, some lamented the lack of internet and phone service, while others posted their locations, attempting to form teams.

These aspiring team leaders had sent out group chat invitations.

Chi Bai noticed an invitation for her own district but chose not to click it.

Instead, she began examining the input box, discovering that in addition to sending messages, she could also share her location, initiate group chats, and send images, videos, or files.

When she tapped ‘Initiate Group Chat’, a pop-up window appeared, revealing one option that was grayed out: ‘District Group’.

It appeared that group chats could be initiated based on country, province, city, or district.

The accompanying prompt explained that only a single group chat could be created for each respective geographical level.

While previously established groups could not be re-initiated, users were permitted to click a link and join existing ones.

Unsurprisingly, access was restricted to groups within one’s own region.

Chi Bai proceeded to click the jump links for the country, province, city, and district in sequence, entering each corresponding group.

Curiously, all joined groups were listed under ‘Private Messages,’ though Chi Bai, not one to dwell on minor incongruities, simply accepted it.

She began by examining the national group.

Within, there was only a single pinned announcement.

The name of its creator was undoubtedly one that every Chinese person would find immediately familiar.

The announcement broadly urged everyone not to succumb to panic, assuring them that the nation would implement appropriate rescue measures and advising them to pay close attention to their respective provincial groups.

Chi Bai briefly wondered why the group remained silent, only to discover the input box displayed ‘Muted,’ suggesting that only administrators possessed the ability to send messages.

At that very moment, the prominent figure sent a message, clarifying that all national group announcements would be disseminated across the lower-level groups, urging everyone to join their specific groups to ensure they didn’t miss crucial information.

Chi Bai clicked the group avatar to view the member list.

The number of members was steadily climbing.

Good heavens, the count had even switched to scientific notation for simplified display: currently 1e8, representing a staggering one hundred million people, and the figure continued to fluctuate wildly.

Scanning upwards, she confirmed the presence of administrators.

Most of their names were unfamiliar to Chi Bai, who neither followed the news nor recognized high-ranking officials; she was only aware of the identity of the supreme leader.

The group chat input box remained grayed out, and the prominent figure sent no further messages.

She then clicked into the provincial and city groups, finding them to be much the same.

However, only the provincial group was muted; the city group, conversely, still permitted messages.

Its pinned announcement urged everyone to gather at designated locations within their district groups as quickly as possible, striving to minimize personnel casualties.

A wave of shock washed over Chi Bai upon reading this.

Were people already dying?

She exited private messages and tapped on the ‘Lobby’.

There, she saw someone claiming that certain users’ avatars had turned red, and they could no longer tag those individuals.

Intrigued, she clicked ‘Members’ and discovered a clear classification: ‘Survivors’ listed at the top, and ‘Deceased’ below.

The ‘Deceased’ section already contained a number of red avatars, each emblazoned with the stark words, ‘Deceased’.

It was utterly absurd.

Most people had yet to even process the profound shift in reality, yet they were already being confronted with the chilling news of their peers’ deaths.

A heavy silence descended upon the lobby for a few agonizing seconds, only to be shattered by a frantic deluge of despairing messages.

Chi Bai ceased reading, retreating instead to her district group.

There, an administrator urged everyone to remain calm, to complete their missions, and to converge at a specified location as swiftly as they could, with the assurance that the nation would safeguard their lives.