Ch. 28 - One, Two, Three, Four, Five… 

The darkness stirred, yielding to the slow approach of a rabbit—a towering figure with only one ear. Its stark red eyes glowed menacingly, and its pristine white fur was marred by dried blood, clumped and filthy, evidence of a human victim.

It sneered, its voice oozing malice. "Dear player, did you manage to find 21 sheep as I requested? Hehehe..."

The rabbit, known only as Red-Eye, let out a chilling laugh, its tone dripping with sinister certainty. "I doubt you've completed the task. Looks like I'll have to deal with you myself and reunite you with your little girlfriend down below."

It paused, assessing Wang Guangfei with a predatory gaze. "Since she lost her legs first, why don't I start with your arms?"

As the threat hung in the air, Red-Eye released a crushing wave of oppressive energy, bearing down on Wang Guangfei.

Yet, to its surprise, the man stood unmoved, his pallor and deadened expression betraying only the weight of grief.

"What?! How is this possible?" Red-Eye froze, its confidence shaken.

It crawled toward the sheep pen, beginning to count frantically, "One, two, three, four, five…"

The count abruptly stopped. It had noticed something horrifying: the ground inside the pen was covered with a neatly spread sheepskin rug.

The trap had been revealed. The task was complete. No further counting was necessary.

Red-Eye growled, its frustration mounting. The oppressive aura it emitted had no effect—confirmation that the player was still protected within the game's system.

"Well, well... Isn't this just fantastic?" it spat bitterly.

The rabbit's record was shattered. Of the five players in this dungeon, four had survived—an unprecedented number for Red-Eye, a self-proclaimed butcher of newcomers. 

To let so many escape was an embarrassment, certain to draw ridicule from both colleagues and spectators alike.

Commentary from the spectators filled the air.

[Four survivors? I thought maybe one or two at best!]

[Same here. I even considered a total wipe. But hey, it's just a first-level dungeon. Even if it's on the Heavenly Tower, the game wouldn't let Red-Eye go completely rogue. Still, four survivors? That's insane.]

[Probably because they're running multiple dungeons at once. Over in No Escape, the carnage was fantastic—guts on the ceiling! Hilarious!]

[Game balance aside, this batch of players is something else. Those twin sisters maxed out two attributes before challenging the ladder. Nothing short of overkill.]

[Lame. Other than a live recording of someone getting eaten, this run's been a bore. At least the countdown for the Great Purge is live on the official site. Can't wait to see that!]

[What?! It's happening this soon?]

[Why so surprised? Low-level worlds breed like pigs, churning out players by the dozens. Populations are exploding. Of course, it's time for a cleanup.]

[Relax. The countdown still has two weeks. You act like it's tomorrow.]

…

The Great Purge?

Zuo Chengan barely caught a glimpse of this ominous term. It had flashed past in the barrage of comments, quickly replaced by discussions of gruesome player deaths. 

Making a mental note of it, he decided to investigate later, either by catching another thread or asking around once the dungeon ended.

While details on the Great Purge eluded him, one recurring observation stood out: most players only maxed out a single attribute before daring to challenge the Tower of Ascension.

This wasn't news to him. Yu Le had mentioned the mechanics before. Players' dungeon records were meticulously tracked. The more times a specific level of dungeon was cleared, the less lucrative its rewards became.

For instance, the first clear of a Level 1 dungeon might yield 40 credits and 2 Attribute Points. By the seventh or eighth attempt, even with the same performance, the rewards could dwindle to a meager 5 credits and no attribute gains at all.

This system effectively forced players to make every dungeon attempt count, compelling them to continuously challenge harder, more dangerous levels.

Yet for most, even ten dungeon runs weren't enough to max out more than one attribute. Those who managed to reach two were considered exceptional.

If the system allowed it, everyone would prefer to fully max out all three attributes before tackling the Tower of Ascension. But the game offered no such luxury.

Seven or eight runs—that was it. Whatever points a player earned in those few attempts were all they'd have to work with.

And if, after those runs, a player failed to max even a single attribute?

They were left with two choices: gamble on completing achievements to compensate, or resign themselves to a life of mediocrity.

The latter group—players who treated every dungeon run as a desperate attempt to stay alive—lived week to week, carefully toeing the game's seven-day deadline to complete just one more task.

In the safety zones, this cautious lifestyle was the norm among ordinary folk. Most aimed for one goal: reach the first ascension of the Heavenly Tower, unlock their stat limits, and settle into a quiet existence.

From there, they could farm low-level dungeons endlessly, battling weaker enemies with attributes capped between 1 and 15.

Even if they earned just 2 credits per run, it was enough for a steady income. Many opened small food stalls or other side businesses to supplement their lives.

Marriage, children, a simple life in the safety zone—it was enough for them.

Take Zone 7, for example. Out of a population of 100,000, only 20,000 were players who had not ascended.

The vast majority—50,000—were 1st Heavenly Ascension players, their average attributes ranging between 13 and 16.

By sticking to Level 1 and 2 dungeons, a player could only earn up to 16 Attribute Points before the system stopped granting further rewards. From there, they faced a choice: join large groups to attempt Level 3 dungeons or resign themselves to stagnation.

That's why every early dungeon run mattered so much.

For those unwilling to settle for mediocrity, preparation became everything. Some spent hundreds of credits simply to stay in the safety zone, honing their condition to peak readiness before entering a dungeon.

But for all their caution, many players made the mistake of sticking to old, over-farmed dungeons. The rewards for such safe routes were pitiful.

If a Level 1 dungeon had 500 potential Attribute Points to distribute, earlier players would have claimed the lion's share. Those who came late might find nothing left but scraps.

Running old dungeons with detailed guides was safe, yes, but it offered no attribute growth. And by the time players realized how critical those points were, it was often too late to recover.

…

Back at the farm, Red-Eye simmered in silent rage, regretting how swiftly it had killed the female player earlier. It would have been far more satisfying to torment her longer. But regrets were futile.

Finally, through gritted teeth, it growled, "Congratulations, player, on clearing the dungeon."

The dungeon should have ended there.

Wang Guangfei was free to leave, and Zuo Chengan, seeing the situation resolved, prepared to exit as well. After all, he had a newly rented apartment he hadn't even spent a night in.

But Wang Guangfei, silent until now, erupted in a roar of defiance. His bloodshot eyes, more frenzied than Red-Eye itself, betrayed the depth of his grief.

With a sudden motion, he pulled a scissor-like tool from his inventory and lunged at Red-Eye in a suicidal charge.

The rabbit's remaining ear twitched, and a malevolent grin spread across its face. "Oh, angry now? Are you angry? How delightful!"

For the first time, it dropped its pretense of calling him a player. "You foolish, lowly swine. Let me show you the gulf between us!"

Red-Eye unleashed a suffocating aura, locking onto Wang Guangfei with deadly precision.

The heat of Wang Guangfei's rage evaporated in an instant, replaced by a bone-chilling dread. His blood felt like it had frozen, and a crimson message flashed before his eyes:

[Warning! You are attempting to engage the Dungeon Boss. Do you wish to initiate a Boss Battle?]

A sharp crack echoed—whether it was a protective shield breaking or a rule shattering, Wang Guangfei couldn't tell. Only one thing was certain: this fight would change everything.

The balance of the game was tilted in an irreversible direction.

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