“Congratulations to both of you on successfully awakening your talents.”
For the first time, the smile on Nurse Miss’s face showed a faint shift.
Like a precision instrument being fine-tuned, a nearly satisfied curve appeared.
“I know there are probably more question marks in your heads right now than bowls of rice served at the cafeteria downstairs at noon. But—”
Her eyes, devoid of warmth, swept across the empty room.
“This clearly isn’t a good place for questions and answers.”
“Uh…Nurse Sis?”
Xu Chaoyun cautiously raised his hand like an elementary school student asking a question in class.
“If we just go with you like this, what about our Head Teacher, Lao Wang? If he checks attendance and finds two live people missing, won’t he go nuts?”
Although Lao Wang nagged a lot, he was actually pretty good to them. Xu really didn’t want Lao Wang to be dragged away for tea by three “Student Health Supervisors” in black suits to write a 30,000-word reflection.
Nurse Miss didn’t stop walking, just twisted her head back at a ninety-degree angle, her neck so stiff it looked like it might snap with a “crack.”
That beautiful face still had a smile welded onto it.
“Please rest assured, Student Xu Chaoyun.”
Her voice was steady as a straight line.
“Your Head Teacher and classmates won’t notice anything unusual. As for the matters during your temporary absence, there will be professionals assigned to handle them, ensuring everything is seamless.”
Xu Chaoyun tried to struggle further.
“But…”
“Let’s go, Yunzi.”
Shi Hanfeng grabbed him by the back collar and dragged him forward like a dead dog.
“They’ve arranged everything so clearly. Why bother worrying like an old lady? Save your energy for real questions.”
“Hey, hey! My clothes! They’re new! Don’t tear them!”
The two followed behind Nurse Miss, stepping again into that corridor paved with self-illuminating material, the starry murals on both sides so deep it felt like they might suck you in.
This time, the novelty was gone, leaving only the unsettling sense of the corridor’s endless length and eerie silence.
After winding through several turns, they reached a door at the end that didn’t match the surrounding sci-fi style at all—a comfortable-looking cream-colored wooden door.
Nurse Miss pushed it open, and a warm breeze mixed with the faint scent of coffee and leather rushed out.
Inside was a cozy little room: a soft, light gray fabric sofa, a low wooden coffee table, and even a lush monstera plant with thick green leaves in the corner.
“Please, have a seat.”
Nurse Miss gestured toward the sofa and gracefully sat down herself on an armchair opposite, legs together, back straight—a posture so standard it looked like it came from an etiquette textbook.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ling Shan’er, part of the Qiming Star Comprehensive Health Examination Center Potential Guidance Department.”
This time, the template smile on her face relaxed a little, revealing a faint arc closer to “humanity.”
“If you have any questions, feel free to ask now. Oh, and don’t worry about lunch—staff will deliver it soon.”
032?
Why does that sound like a code number?
You couldn’t blame Shi Hanfeng for his imagination—the way this Nurse Miss acted was just too mechanical.
Shi Hanfeng sank into the soft sofa, adjusted his posture, and got straight to the point.
“Miss Shan’er, I have quite a few questions, let me sort them out.”
He counted on his fingers.
“First, talent—why did we awaken? What’s the difference between my ‘Player Talent’ and his ‘Sword Dao’? Second, why are the health check times different for each class?”
“Such a big operation, with a sci-fi building and a secret awakening room—just to find people like us? What about the old health checks? Were they doing this too? Third—”
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp.
“I’m curious about why there’s such strict protection for minors—those black-clothed people who protect them, those harsh moral education classes… Are these related to our sudden talent awakening? Or perhaps to your Qiming Star?”
Xu Chaoyun next to him wore a confused expression, but then realized he had the same question.
Ling Shan’er listened quietly, hands folded on her knees, posture impeccable.
“Student Shi Hanfeng’s questions are very organized.”
She offered a compliment before answering slowly.
“As for talent itself and the purpose of this health check, I can give you both a basic explanation.”
She glanced at Shi Hanfeng and Xu Chaoyun.
“As for your question about ‘minor protection’—I’m sorry, but that’s not something I can go into detail about at this time.”
“Not convenient?”
Shi Hanfeng raised an eyebrow.
“Is it because the confidentiality level is too high? Or would knowing be harmful to us?”
“Neither.”
Ling Shan’er shook her head gently.
“It’s just that the origins and connections of this matter are extremely complex and far-reaching. For those about to face their first mission, knowing such information wouldn’t provide any substantial help for your upcoming actions.”
She paused, as if searching for the right words.
“My suggestion is, after you safely complete the Newbie Task and return, if you wish to learn more, there will be more detailed materials and guides available.”
“Return?”
Xu Chaoyun caught the keyword, his earlier lunch daydream vanishing.
“We have to go somewhere? And then come back?”
Ling Shan’er raised her eyes slightly, looking at the blue sky and white clouds outside the window, divided into stripes by the blinds.
“This is also part of the explanation. It all began about fifty years ago.”
Her voice carried the calmness of reciting an ancient legend.
“A portion of young people over eighteen, at certain times, awakened abilities beyond normal logic. Then, they were ‘transmitted’ away by an invisible force.”
“Transmission?”
Shi Hanfeng’s heart jumped.
“Yes, transmission.”
Ling Shan’er nodded.
“To worlds completely different from our reality.”
“Other worlds?! Awesome!”
Xu Chaoyun’s eyes instantly lit up like twin bulbs, his fists clenched as if he might pull out a forty-meter greatsword and charge the demon lord’s castle at any moment.
“Like a dungeon in a game? Or an isekai in an anime?”
“You can think of it that way.”
Ling Shan’er wasn’t surprised by Xu Chaoyun’s excitement.
“Since you’ve experienced media and games, it’ll be easier to understand. These ‘worlds’ people are transmitted to vary in form.”
“Some are similar to reality—time flows naturally, and the environment can change over time. Others are like fixed dungeons, with stable rules and events, where each entry is almost the same script.”
“What about the missions?”
Shi Hanfeng pressed on.
“We’re not just going there to sightsee, right?”
“Of course not.”
Ling Shan’er gave him a look that said ‘you’re getting it.’
“After entering these worlds, you’ll receive ‘missions.’ The goals might be survival, exploration, combat, or even altering key events. Upon successful completion and return, you’re awarded a special reward called ‘Destiny Points.’”
“Destiny Points?”
Shi Hanfeng immediately thought of the [Player Store] on his talent panel.
“What can they be exchanged for?”
“They can be used to obtain items, skills, knowledge, or even fragments of special creatures or abilities that you encountered or even just became aware of in the mission world.”
Ling Shan’er explained.
“The place for exchange is called the ‘Destiny Shop.’ Destiny Points are the currency within it.”
Shi Hanfeng and Xu Chaoyun exchanged glances, seeing the shock in each other’s eyes.
Isn’t this the classic setup of an infinite flow story?
So all along, this wasn’t an ability urban novel, but a loop world (crossed out)…an otherworld mission specialist?
“So, this health check and awakening—”
Shi Hanfeng quickly connected the dots, pointing to himself and his rebellious friend next to him.
“—are to let us know about our talents and basic rules in advance, so we don’t get thrown into other worlds as clueless as the ‘predecessors’ fifty years ago, maximizing rookie survival rates?”
“An accurate deduction.”
Ling Shan’er nodded.
“Knowing in advance and not panicking greatly increases a newbie’s survival and adaptability in initial missions. After all, although Newbie Tasks are usually kept at low difficulty levels…”
“Wait, you said ‘usually’?”
Shi Hanfeng caught the word.
“So there’s danger? People could die?”
The formulaic smile faded slightly from Ling Shan’er’s face, her expression turning serious.
“Student Shi, any act of exploring the unknown and facing challenges comes with risk. Newbie Tasks are relatively safe, and the mortality rate is kept extremely low. But ‘extremely low’ does not mean zero.”
Her gaze swept across them both.
“Every year, there are always a few talent holders who fail, either through carelessness or by completely ignoring the mission. So, please treat it with caution and don’t be careless.”
The atmosphere in the room instantly grew heavier.
“But don’t worry—normal people can basically pass Newbie Tasks, especially now that nationwide fitness is popularized.”
Ling Shan’er’s tone softened.
“While the arrangement of destiny carries unknown risks, it is not entirely cold or merciless. It grants everyone the power of choice. If someone fears adventure and wants a peaceful life…”
She spread her hands.
“They can simply stay in the lowest-difficulty newbie world every month, complete the basic task, and earn the minimum Destiny Points. It’s like a special kind of welfare with no penalty mechanism. How you choose is entirely up to your own will.”
Shi Hanfeng was silent for several seconds, digesting the vast and bizarre information.
He glanced at the stable, pale blue talent panel deep in his consciousness: [Noble Fourth Calamity], [Task Reward Change], [Player Store], [Backpack Space].
Aren’t these abilities cheat tools tailor-made for running missions in other worlds?
That damned computer explosion—was it just to send me here as a “pro gamer”?
“Last question,”
Shi Hanfeng looked up, locking eyes with Ling Shan’er.
“How long until we’re transmitted?”
At that moment, there was a knock at the door.
A staff member in a white uniform, identical to Ling Shan’er, entered with a meal cart, placing two fragrant lunch sets on the coffee table.
Along with them, two neatly stacked, tough-looking dark gray field suits and matching boots were set down.
Ling Shan’er pointed to the hearty lunch and equipment.
“Perfect timing. Generally, transmission activates about two hours after talent awakening. Please enjoy your lunch and change into the action gear afterward. There’s plenty of time to rest and prepare.”
She stood up, her face returning to that perfect professional smile, and bowed slightly.
“Then, toward the stars and the abyss, I wish you both a safe journey.”
I get it—looks like some predecessor has already been to that world.
The aroma of food temporarily drove away the heaviness and doubts.
Shi Hanfeng and Xu Chaoyun weren’t ones to make things hard for themselves—they immediately dug in.
Nutritious chicken steak, fresh vegetable salad, steaming hot rice—the taste was surprisingly good.
“Fengzi, do you think people really die in this?”
Xu Chaoyun gnawed on his chicken steak, his voice muffled, eyes unfocused.
“My parents only have me… I haven’t even left an heir for the Xu family yet…”
“Pa!”
Shi Hanfeng rapped his chopsticks against Xu’s forehead.
“Think of something auspicious! Didn’t Ling Shan’er say the death rate for Newbie Tasks is extremely low? She’s practically a robot—there’s no need for her to lie about numbers. Besides, is your Sword Dao talent just for show? Just hack away when the time comes.”
He patted his own chest.
“And you’ve got me! With the Player Talent, just wait for Daddy to carry you to victory!”
Xu Chaoyun rubbed his head where he’d been hit.
Thinking about it, the tension faded, and his bold nature returned.
“Heh, true! When the time comes, Brother’s sword will shine across nineteen continents! Fengzi, just stand behind me and yell 666!”
“Screw off, we’ll see who’s hiding behind who!”