Cat 128: System Update in Progress
by CristaeChapter 128: System Update in Progress
The Flagship Guild claimed its position as the number one guild.
Yan Jiyun and Gu Wenzhu had chosen only the top-ranked guild shops to approach. If they were making a one-time sale, then a big guild’s shop was their best bet—they could offer the largest amount of points up front.
The previous shops, ranked highly in the guild hierarchy, had all been too arrogant to negotiate. As for the last shop, they’d held out little hope, ready to try shops run by free players; but just as they turned to leave, a sharp-eyed player, superior in vision to the shop manager, appeared.
When the manager greeted them back with a smile, Yan Jiyun and Gu Wenzhu exchanged a knowing look. Gu Wenzhu understood perfectly.
Now it was the guild seeking them, not the other way around.
Their attitude adjusted accordingly, though Yan Jiyun’s self-assurance made any posturing unnecessary.
Upon returning, they met the scarred man and the bespectacled man.
The manager introduced them as senior admins from the guild’s advanced tiers.
The scarred man was Zhao Nian, the man with glasses Qi Yunchu. Both exuded a calm, mature aura.
Yan Jiyun did not know their exact responsibilities, but from their firm gazes and bearing, he could tell they were advanced-tier players—there was something about them reminiscent of Qi Feng, a sense of presence only seen in top players.
Gu Wenzhu, who had already gathered intel on the major guilds, knew who they were: both Zhao Nian and Qi Yunchu were vice-presidents of the Flagship Guild.
They were invited into a reception room within the shop.
Qi Yunchu asked, “What information do you two want to sell us?”
Gu Wenzhu took the lead, speaking with straightforward sincerity. “To be honest, we’re still in intermediate-stage instances. We’re selling info on the intermediate instance ‘Animal Madness Park’—a tool for clearing it from start to finish.”
Qi Yunchu’s gaze was piercing. “Who among you has actually been through this instance?”
Yan Jiyun smiled lightly. “I have.”
Qi Yunchu said, “How can you prove your intel is valuable?”
Yan Jiyun replied, “I ranked first in that instance.”
Unfortunately, their leaderboard setup didn’t allow others to verify this claim.
Qi Yunchu pressed, “But that alone isn’t proof to us.”
Being veteran players, they could sense whether or not these two were lying.
Yan Jiyun had another card to play. “What about being in the top 200 on the Newcomer Tipping Leaderboard?”
He remembered seeing the bounty leaderboards when Qi Feng had previously taken him shopping—the Flagship Guild had posted those rewards, but Yan Jiyun wasn’t eager to draw much attention just yet.
The affinity leaderboard was too likely to provoke hostility; another leaderboard would do.
If they still needed more proof, Yan Jiyun would call off the sale.
Qi Yunchu asked, “Your name?”
Clearly, they only cared about him.
Yan Jiyun gave his own name, hoping they wouldn’t recall it.
Indeed, they simply nodded and moved on without further thought.
Zhao Nian thought for a moment, but couldn’t place the name.
Back to business: “Animal Madness Park” info.
Yan Jiyun added, “We also have new endings from beginner instances, if you’re buying—I can bundle them together.”
Qi Yunchu nearly lost composure. “You unlocked new endings in every beginner instance?”
A newcomer unlocking alternate endings—clearly no common rookie, but someone with real potential.
“All the info I’ve brought is from new endings. If you want it, I’ll tell you everything,” said Yan Jiyun.
Zhao Nian made the call. “We’ll take it all.”
A new ending meant extra valuable data; their guild rookies would clear instances even faster.
Yan Jiyun multiplied his initial offer by three—it was only fair; these two were too direct, and after all, as newcomers they could name a price with no one to object.
Surprisingly, both agreed at once. Qi Yunchu even offered Yan Jiyun a place in their guild. “Mr. Yan, how about joining us? We need talent like yours.”
Yan Jiyun politely declined. “We’re just not suited for the guild model. We want a little more freedom. Thank you for the offer.”
Qi Yunchu persisted, “You wouldn’t have to join a sub-guild; you could enter our headquarters directly.”
Yan Jiyun continued to shake his head. “We still have others to look after—too many family and friends, too much to manage, too many handicaps to consider.”
Qi Yunchu looked at Gu Wenzhu’s leg, considered, and did not press.
It was clear they wanted only Yan Jiyun, but the other would be troublesome—though they didn’t say so outright.
Letting recruitment go, they concluded the deal.
The information packages were already prepared; intel exchanged for points, all in one go.
Once the points were in hand, Yan Jiyun and Gu Wenzhu took their leave.
Zhao Nian hadn’t spoken, but as they departed, he finally asked, “What was that man’s name?”
Qi Yunchu folded his arms. “Yan Jiyun. Why?”
Zhao Nian replied, “Our guild once posted a bounty for someone who maxed out NPC affinity. That person was called Yan Jiyun as well.”
Qi Yunchu was startled. “Him?”
“Almost certainly.”
“He’s clearly not interested in joining a guild.”
“It’s true—forced partnerships bear no fruit.”
“But talent like that is one in a million.”
“Then let’s recruit all his team, bring them in as a group.”
“Let’s wait before acting. Watch who he’s making inquiries about, send someone to make contact in instances. If he’s really worth it and his terms are manageable, we’ll accommodate him.”
“It’s difficult to get into an instance with him unless we join his team.”
“Let’s leave it to fate, then.”
He was no longer just a rookie; guild reputation wouldn’t sway him. Anyone able to buy and sell information like this had to have real ability—not easy to control.
Qi Yunchu could only sigh as this rising star slipped from their grasp.
Still, so long as Yan Jiyun continued to advance, sooner or later he’d come to them for help. High-tier instances couldn’t be cleared solo, and sometimes even guilds had to cooperate; they’d cross paths again.
Back at their temporary quarters, Yan Jiyun immediately set aside fifty thousand points to purchase intelligence; the remaining 450,000 was split among the three.
Gu Wenzhu and Qiu Xi initially tried to refuse such a share, but once Yan Jiyun described the obstacles in the finals, they relented.
They’d toiled for so long in-game for points, yet Yan Jiyun could earn more in a single solo run.
Their reluctance was simple—they felt these were points Yan Jiyun had earned on his own, and so they hesitated to accept.
Their teammate was too capable: both moved and daunted, they feared only dragging him down.
But with a windfall of 500,000 points, Yan Jiyun could finally quell his anxiety.
After the finals, calculating his experience card consumption rate had been an eye-opener—hundreds of thousands of points burned through in less than two days.
Now, experience cards were a survival necessity. Without them, he felt thoroughly unsafe.
His case differed from his partners: their cards could be saved for a critical moment, perhaps used less often. For him, cards meant the difference between human and cat, with time and context and system missions all factored in. The finals had made it perfectly clear: he must hoard experience cards.
After half a day, the trio settled on an instance to enter—timed so that Yan Jiyun could rest up to the very last day.
During these days, they visited various information vendors. The higher the tier, the pricier the intel—points spent like water. Over three days, the fifty thousand earmarked for intel had vanished. Nobody minded; a tool unused was no loss, but having the right key item before entry was paramount.
At the same time, Qi Feng, after his cat ran off with her “new owner,” searched—without a trace. The cat and her “owner” had vanished into thin air. Fortunately, the system showed that Caramel was fine, not yet in an instance. Now, it was time for Qi Feng to prepare for his own next instance.
Lan Mo was surprised. “Starting a new instance so soon? You barely left the finals—aren’t you going to rest?”
Qi Feng replied, “No need to rest. Only been a day or so—not a problem. The sooner I get in, the sooner I find more intel.”
Lan Mo: “Aren’t you going to look for your cat?”
Qi Feng: “If they can spirit the cat away, they won’t let me find her.” He’d already looked for two days and turned up nothing.
Lan Mo: “It’s true—the only downside in Central City is the lack of surveillance cameras.”
The system itself was the only true all-seeing eye; it would never tolerate competition. You could never buy that sort of item in the shop.
Qi Feng was going into an instance to chase down more system secrets—his goal was always the same: to escape with Caramel and his teammates.
When the time came, he’d enter the top-tier instance. If Caramel hadn’t joined an instance, he’d planned to advance—but with Caramel still out, he was holding off.
Once someone entered the top tier, they seldom returned; he dared not risk it while waiting on Caramel.
Lan Mo and other teammates were willing to join Qi Feng in entering early.
To them, three years of unbroken play had grown monotonous—but none could escape the system’s grasp. Their every effort was geared toward one goal.
They set the entry for three days later. Before then, Lan Mo came back with some news.
“Feng-ge, did anything strange happen during the finals?”
Qi Feng thought: aside from Caramel being an unusual player, the game was about the same level of difficulty as always—maybe a bit more fun, thanks to the dragon ride with the newcomer.
He shook his head. “Nothing special. Why?”
Lan Mo said, “I heard the system ran an update just before the finals—not for us, but for intermediate-stage instances. Maybe the higher levels will update soon too.”
Qi Feng: “Before the finals, you mean?”
Lan Mo: “Also after. Someone entered a three-day instance, but only made it out on the fourth day. Weird, right? Should we wait?”
Qi Feng’s black eyes sharpened. “If a bug really showed up, isn’t that exactly what we’re after?”
Lan Mo was instantly persuaded. “True that.”
After all, routine instances brought them nothing new.
Three days passed in a flash.
Qi Feng and Lan Mo’s party assembled at their temporary HQ, ready to enter the instance.
Lan Mo asked, “Why are we entering in the afternoon?”
Qi Feng replied coolly, “The fortune-teller said this was my lucky time.” Of course, he didn’t mention this was when Caramel’s rest would end; once her instance was over, he could search for her again.
A teammate patted Lan Mo on the back. “No need to ask. I calculated too—today’s afternoon departure is auspicious!”
Qi Feng, as team captain, formed the group and chose an advanced instance.
Once matched, five entered their various instance prep rooms.
Strangely, the system did not respond right away.
Five seconds later, a notice finally popped up.
[Mechanical system voice]: “Game is under maintenance and update. Please wait patiently.”
Qi Feng asked: “Why update now instead of before we came in?”
System: “For confidential reasons, update timing is random but will not impact your instance. Please wait sixty seconds.”
Qi Feng: “Are you updating the instance or the system overall?”
System: “Content of update unavailable to players.”
Qi Feng didn’t pursue it further, but Lan Mo’s rumor was true: the system had been updating far more often, lately.
If Qi Feng’s guess was right, the finals had triggered all this.
He recalled that after the Dragon Gate side-instance, all players were ejected at once. Was that why?
But if the system had a serious problem, how could the game continue?
Precisely—the Dragon Gate instance had not continued.
Normally, the third segment’s “final battle” would include more than one round—this time, it was oddly brief, as if the system was eager to clear players out. It seemed possible that the bug had manifested then, affecting the subsequent progression, thus all players were hurriedly removed from the finals.
Recalling similar events, finals like these usually kept players for three or five days at least.
His decision to enter early had paid off—one more pivotal clue.
When an instance’s protagonist disappears, the system itself is affected—but how to make that happen?
Some instances revolve around hunting for the protagonist.
But in all these years, any loophole—no matter how small—was progress.
[Mechanical system voice]: “Update complete. You may now choose items for the instance.”
After that, it was routine—Qi Feng focused on his equipment.
With the three-minute prep complete, Qi Feng and his teammates were drawn into the instance.
At the same time, Yan Jiyun, Gu Wenzhu, and Qiu Xi were preparing for their next instance.
Just as before, once in the ready room, they awaited the game’s start.
Last time, a sudden update had struck “Animal Madness Park”; this time, the entire game was down for maintenance. Yan Jiyun was used to it by now.
He asked the youth-sounding system: “Will this update change the instance?”
System: “Rest assured, the update will not affect content.”
Yan Jiyun nodded—that at least meant their hard-bought intelligence hadn’t been for nothing.
Still, he was curious. “Why update now?”
System: “Regular bug-fixing maintenance. Just like games in the real world.”
Yan Jiyun pressed, “What kind of bugs? In reality, it’s always a coding issue.”
System: “Details unavailable to players.”
So the system was hiding the truth again. What was the real bug?
He changed tactics: “If the protagonist of an instance disappears, does that count as a bug?”
System: “It does, but such cases are basically nonexistent.”
Yan Jiyun’s lips curled. “If it did happen, would that be a minor or major bug?”
The system did not reply immediately.
After three seconds, it answered, “This question is beyond my response permissions.”
As expected—the system always hid the most critical information.
The update took about a minute, then proceeded with standard item selection.
[Instance “Mermaid”—begins with fifty players.]
[Players filled. Instance locked.]
[“Mermaid” allows up to twenty items per player.]
[All players will be drawn into the instance in three minutes.]
Yan Jiyun had already converted all his 1.5 million finals points into experience cards.
That jackpot from the finals was unexpected—but easy to explain: both the large viewership and his high-profile streaming, boosted by Qi Feng and Chu Mo’s audiences, had pulled in a lot.
Their preparations for this new instance were thorough; hopefully, no further mishaps would arise.
[Instance prep ends—five seconds until transfer begins.]
[Five, four, three, two, one—loading instance…]
[Game start imminent. Life and death by your own hand. Good luck!]
After the update, everything functioned perfectly—smooth as silk, nothing amiss.
A dizzying whirl, then Yan Jiyun landed in the new world.
[Instance Name: Mermaid]
[Instance Duration: 7 days]
[Instance Difficulty: Level 4—Hard]
[Instance Mode: Role-Playing]
[Note: Please remain in character at all times—do not break immersion.]
[Main Quest: Find the mermaid with the most beautiful voice. Protect their singing voice, and help them enter the national singing competition.]
[Player Lives Remaining: 100/100]
Wait—
Last time, “Animal Madness Park” had only been a Level 2. Why did it jump straight to Level 4?
As he remembered—and as most players had found—intermediate-stage instances were typically difficulty level two, with rare exceptions spanning 2.1 to 2.9. Level 3 would mean a mid-tier instance; above that, high-level. So why had he just landed in a Level 4 hard mode?
Was the system broken?
So the service system’s assurances were worthless. The content hadn’t “changed”—but the difficulty had doubled!
They were just intermediate players, fresh off a basic instance, and now they were being thrown into a Level 4, seven-day instance—the longest one yet.
Yan Jiyun frowned, pondering, when a clamorous noise erupted around him.
Not the random conversation of passersby, but the thunderous voice of a schoolteacher lecturing in class.
He lay slumped over a desk, and lifted his head abruptly.
It had been years since he’d heard that tone—yet this class was unfamiliar, far from the standard lineup of Lit, Math, English or Science.
What was that scrawled across the blackboard?
Could this be a music-themed instance?
If so, it really was a Level 4 challenge—he’d never had any formal music training.
Everyone around him was a high school student. He hadn’t thought of high school in years, and now, looking at the youthful faces of the student NPCs, nostalgia rose up in him.
But this instance gave few clues.
On his desk lay both textbooks for core subjects and a basic music theory primer.
He guessed this was a pre-college arts class; ordinary exam-track students would never find a music text in their syllabus.
Moreover, every classmate was a good-looking boy or girl, all with fragile, delicate features. Arts students really did seem to starve themselves—all to keep their figures presentable for auditions.
High schoolers, art students, music students, mermaids.
How did the first three relate to the last?
He knew that, in legend, the “mermaid” was known as “mermaid” in the West; the Eastern equivalent was the jiao-ren—a being found in countless tales, myth, and folklore.
Usually gifted with great beauty, these creatures could enchant the minds of mortals, their singing both bewitching and deceitful.
Tales of mermaids were always beautiful yet cruel, accompanied by hopeless love.
Yet the main quest here was to celebrate none of that—only the beauty of the mermaid’s song.
Then again, system quests always twisted inward—layer upon layer, never what they first seemed.
He glanced around; no sign of Gu Wenzhu or Qiu Xi in his art class. Who knew what classrooms they’d spawned in?
The “Mermaid” instance had set the player count at fifty, yet now showed a hundred online—all present. Since he was a student, it was another role-play scenario.
Wait a minute—the original prompt was fifty, now it was a hundred. Had the player count increased?
He double-checked the instance briefing—not only that, but a new “friendly tip” stood out.
“Please remain in character at all times. Do not break immersion or behave in ways inconsistent with your role.”
The more restrictions, the higher the difficulty.
Would the system really force him to sing even though he was tone-deaf?
Yan Jiyun was feeling personally picked on by the world when the class bell rang.
Just as he’d hoped for a break, the teacher announced in ringing tones, “Next period is a test. Take a ten-minute break now, and then we’ll distribute the music theory quizzes.”
[Side Quest: Achieve a passing score on the upcoming music theory test.]
Yan Jiyun: “…”
Damn it, to hell with your Level 4 hard mode!
Making a tone-deaf player take a music theory exam—was the system just looking for an excuse to eliminate him right off the bat?