Chapter 124: The Forum Erupts

Tyr’s short review post hit the Fractured forum like a thunderclap. Within minutes, the entire board boiled over. Countless players who never got a beta slot crawled out from their long dormancy to join the noise.

One user called Hesitation Is Defeat wrote, “Wait, this game’s that punishing? Can someone post a guide already? I don’t want to suffer as a newbie!”

Another with the username Ten Pull Guarantee, I Represent the Unlucky asked, “So, uh, does this game have gacha?”

Someone named You There, Let Me See sneered, “I call fake. No company could afford that many advanced AI NPCs. Even if you’re gonna hype it, at least make the lies sound possible. This is too much Second Life nonsense.”

A poster called Duruo fired back, “Kid upstairs, use your brain. Go read the research thread the Feed the Dog guild posted.”

And another, self-titled Maria’s Fanboy, asked bluntly, “Can I, you know, do things with NPCs?”

The single post had set off a tidal wave. Tyr’s simple impressions shook loose a dozen old forum ghosts who had been lurking for months. Most players were still skeptical about the Fractured because beta access was rare, and those lucky enough to play were now silent, still recovering from exhaustion that the game itself had somehow caused.

As usual, debate on the net collapsed fast into name-calling. Arguments devolved into slurs, insults, and raw noise. Keyboard warriors pounced like tentacled beasts, typing at the speed of anger until nobody could recognize their own reflection.

By contrast, another thread written by the Feed the Dog guild faced almost no mockery. Their post was a full-scale investigative report, not fanfiction or marketing. It was precise, clean, and disturbingly scientific.

Excerpts from the Feed the Dog report:

“Language Division report… The phonetic system, syntax, and dialect variations across regions follow consistent linguistic logic. No fabricated vocabulary detected. Comparative data between southern and northern accents attached.”

“Natural Sciences Division… Using the Church sundial, we confirmed measurable self-rotation and revolution periods for the world. Subgroups verified celestial movement, climate models, and incomplete continental mapping. Microscopic gravity consistency confirmed.”

“NPC Division… All observed subjects behave according to defined behavioral models.”

“Economic Analysis Division…”

“Social Structure Division…”

Every line was data, not praise. There were no claims, only records of what they had seen inside the Fractured. Even the most habitual contrarians could find nothing to attack. The post was airtight.

Old veterans of virtual MMOs scrolled through it and began to comment in disbelief. They had seen games bragging about realism before, but never one that opened with crude jokes, cheap marketing, and still delivered this level of simulation.

It wasn’t just realism. It was something that shouldn’t exist yet. Black technology. A simulation so far beyond the market that every other online world looked like a child’s toy beside it.

And the developers behind it behaved unlike any company. They ignored all player suggestions. They didn’t respond to demands or feedback. Their posture was simple: play if you want, leave if you don’t. Submit your opinions all you like; if we listen, we lose. Their official website was bare, not in a deliberate retro style, but in raw minimalism, as if they didn’t care at all about presentation.

Players begged them to open a microtransaction channel, but so far the trend looked the opposite. The Fractured seemed built to stay entirely free.

Then rumors began to spread. Supposedly, after the beta phases in CN, UN, RU, UK, and FR regions, all servers would open simultaneously to the public. The idea was almost political: a shared release, a pressure valve for the real world. Some whispered that even the CN regional defense zones had quietly moved to second-level alert.

While analysts debated intentions, ordinary players kept things simple. If there were beautiful girls, they’d pay. If gameplay was fun, they’d pay. If it was free, they’d still support it out of loyalty. As one wrote, “If I can freeload and still enjoy it, I’ll be your soldier forever.”

And then came Li Sanguang’s video thread, the graveyard of sanity for the entire forum.

Li Sanguang began his post humbly:
“To be honest, this hardcore game crushed me. I didn’t score any glorious achievements. I failed my own name. But I promise you this video, once edited and dubbed, will be good enough to compete for the next CG award.”

Thumbnail preview:

Video playback begins.

The Lord of Cinder raised his hand, and flames roared like an inferno consuming heaven itself. The human legions broke instantly. The clash between the Black-Coat commander and the Cinder Lord unfolded in desperate, beautiful violence. Viewers felt their hearts pounding. If the site had allowed live comments, every screen would be flooded with praise and curses of awe.

It was pure exhilaration. The kind that hit like cold water after a long fever. The kind of joy that made people shout at their screens without shame.

Then the music changed. The camera caught the arrival of the black-robed nun. The tone turned mournful, a hymn of courage and sorrow. She fought with twin blades against the Lord of Cinder, each movement clean and lethal. It was like watching a lone boat tossed in a storm, fragile yet defiant. Every viewer felt the pull of that struggle as two wild beasts locked jaws, trying to tear out each other’s throats.

The battle surged and faltered, twisting with brutal rhythm. When the serrated axe finally grazed the nun’s abdomen, the entire forum howled in outrage.

Don’t you dare hurt her, you monster!

So many viewers cried out that it felt like the web itself trembled.
“How could you harm her? She’s perfect!”
“She’s mine!”
“If this game lets me in, I swear I’ll hunt that bull-headed demon and rip its hide off!”

Posts filled the page faster than they could load.
“I declare the silver-haired nun is my wife!”
“Rest in peace!”
“Wife! My wife!”
“That nun outfit ended me.”
“Graveyard of the Simps ahead.”
“Which faction is she from? Is she recruitable?”
“She’s hurt! Someone heal her!”

Within hours, Li Sanguang’s video thread became an endless tide of players declaring loyalty to their new fictional bride. The Fourth Calamity, as they called themselves, multiplied in her name.

It was proof again that beauty drives everything.

One player wrote, “I used to love virtual games. Then they lost their charm. No matter how many affection meters I filled, nothing felt new. But when I saw the silver-haired nun, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t say no.”

Another replied, “This is shameless pandering to otakus! I wanted to shout that at the devs. But she’s too beautiful. I can’t resist.”

And another, “I’m logging in to tear that red-skinned demon apart!”

The thread grew until the forum itself slowed. Tens of thousands of users shouting, laughing, thirsting, and losing themselves to a digital woman.

Some called it ridiculous. Others called it the dawn of a new era. But every one of them knew the same thing: the Fractured wasn’t just a game anymore. It had touched something deeper. It blurred the line between machine and soul.

Somewhere far away, servers hummed. A world moved in silence.
And the eyes of the silver-haired nun, crimson like twin embers, seemed to watch every single one of them through the screen.