This Time, It Upgraded Its Brain?

The afternoon sunlight was stretched long by the grayish-green spore clouds. Although noon was typically when slime mold fruiting bodies were least active, that rule reversed during the transition from winter to spring. Even under the constraint of sunlight, the milder temperatures breathed a semblance of life back into the frozen fruiting bodies, causing eerie gray gas to drift slowly from their mouths and noses. Yet perhaps because no prey had appeared, they made no superfluous movements. They simply stood quietly in the ruined streets, their vacant, lifeless eyes turned toward the direction where signs of life were strongest. It was as if they were waiting for something. Soldiers of the Alliance watched them as well, light and heavy machine guns mounted along the window sills. Now was not yet the ideal time. They, too, were waiting—waiting for the slime mold creatures to cluster in the streets. Then they would call in artillery fire to tear them to shreds before sweeping up whatever remained with machine guns... Alliance Defense Sector 06 was situated near the waist of the defensive line, which had been divided into twenty sectors. The pressure here was not as dire as in Sectors 10 and 11, nor was it as leisurely as in Sectors 1 and 20. At this moment, all was calm. On the front line's Position 1, atop the roof of a reinforced, abandoned office building, Commander Spring held a pair of binoculars, watching the north without moving a muscle. In the direction of his gaze, a four-wheeled pickup truck welded with steel bars and a front scoop rolled out of an open gate under the cover of four players, heading toward the gnawers wandering just outside the position. Aside from the driver, who was a Level 20 veteran player, the other four were all newcomers who had just entered the game. They held bolt-action rifles and carried crowbars or short swords on their backs, sporting an outfit more "fashionable" than that of marauders, their faces brimming with eager excitement. "Badass! So this is the wasteland?" "Are those zombies? They're shorter than I thought. And why aren't they wearing clothes?" "Idiot! It's been two hundred damn years! How could they still have clothes on?" "What zombies? Those things are called gnawers! They sprouted from mushrooms!" "Holy crap, mushrooms? Doesn't that make them basically Warhammer Greenskins?" "I think there's a pretty big difference..." Worried these guys would get carried away and botch the job, the veteran player in the pickup honked the horn. "Stop treating this like an outing! Eyes on your targets! I'm not kidding around—you're at the very front line now. This isn't a game." Their mission was simple. It was to clear away the nuisance gnawers in front of the position. Though these creatures had little combat ability, as cannon fodder they would waste the Alliance's machine gun ammunition. Regularly clearing them out before the Tide arrived was routine for every sector. "B-Big shot... if we die in the game... what happens in real life?" a female player wearing a football helmet asked, both nervous and thrilled, her hands gripping her rifle tightly. Hearing someone call him a big shot for the first time, the Level 20 player smiled bashfully and teased, "What happens when you wake up in the morning?" The girl blinked. "What happens...?" "You get out of bed." "Pfft." In truth, it wasn't quite that simple. He still remembered the first time he died: unable to log in for three days, his whole body itching like ants were crawling over him, lying flat in bed at night staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Still, after going through it a few times, one got used to it. It was inevitable to feel disoriented when moving from one environment to an unfamiliar one, but after a while, most people adapted to this life of switching back and forth between two worlds. During their brief exchange, the nearby gnawers had already begun converging on them, drawn by the earlier blare of the horn. The veteran player cleared his throat, putting an end to the chatter. Watching the gathering gnawers, the four rookies instantly grew tense. A Strength-type player was the first to raise his Ripper rifle, aiming at the nearest gnawer and pulling the trigger. With a loud bang, a bright flash erupted, and chips of stone and dust kicked up from a concrete block not far away. The massive recoil slammed into his shoulder, jolting his body backward. Even though the shot missed, seeing the wisp of blue smoke rising from the muzzle made the player grin like a massive, overjoyed kid, his face flushed with excitement. This handling! This was the real deal! It beat the hell out of water bead guns! Seeing his uncultured excitement, the veteran player in the pickup chuckled. He couldn't even hit a slow-moving target at thirty meters. However, he didn't mock these greenhorns, merely offering patient guidance. "Don't panic. You're a Strength-type, for crying out loud—you can definitely hold down the barrel. Remember to keep your feet apart, one forward and one back, bend your knees, and lower your center of gravity. Don't stand there like a wooden post, or if you run into a Crawler you won't even have a chance to run—what the hell? I didn't tell you to run! Why are you running?!" "I-I-I'm kiting!" an Agility-type player yelled as he retreated, working the bolt to chamber another round. The veteran in the pickup couldn't help facepalming. "It's just a few gnawers, what the hell are you kiting for?! Fix your bayonet and charge them! Stab their necks, smash their skulls with the buttstock! That's way faster than shooting!" The veteran player kept shouting orders from the truck. Amid the blaring horn, the gnawers swarmed toward his vehicle. Having already reached Level 20, he naturally wasn't afraid of a few gnawers. Releasing the handbrake, he slammed on the accelerator, and the serrated scoop instantly hurled several gnawers that leaped onto the hood flying. Emboldened by the sight, the four rookies gathered their courage, drew the crowbars and short swords from their backs, and charged howling at the gnawers surrounding the pickup. With a chaotic flailing of bludgeons and blades, black fluid splattered across the ground, and soon over a dozen gnawers lay dead. The fight lasted a full half hour. Covered in blood, the rookies panted heavily, but there was no exhaustion on their faces—only mounting exhilaration. At first, when they had seen these flailing, monstrous creatures, they had been startled by how realistic the models looked. As it turned out, that was all there was to it. "Big shot, these gnawers aren't that tough after all," the Strength-type player said with a grin, wiping black blood from his face as he walked up to the pickup holding his rifle. "Are there any stronger mutants? Something a bit more thrilling?" The veteran in the truck lit a cigarette and laughed upon hearing that. "Stronger ones? Hell yeah! Give it some time, and I'll take you guys to hunt deathclaws!" Everyone's eyes lit up. "Really?!" "Of course," the veteran replied casually. "Assuming you survive the Tide, that is." Death was an inevitable milestone for every player. Since everyone had to die sooner or later, dying early had its perks. According to player reflections on the forums, most people found the turning point in their growth came after their first death. Whether it was their understanding of the game or their combat experience, both would be elevated upon reviving three days later. With the gnawer-clearing mission concluded, the group began cleaning up the battlefield. Under the veteran's direction, the four rookies hauled the gnawer corpses onto the truck with grunts of effort. The fruiting bodies of slime molds could be used to produce nutrient paste and chemical fertilizer, and could also be recycled into active substance for clone bodies. A truckload of corpses could easily fetch several dozen silver coins. A few more trips would pay for an automatic rifle. Standing on the rooftop, Commander Spring watched everything from start to finish. Carrying his rifle, Kakarot walked over and grinned. "This batch of newcomers isn't half bad." "Indeed." Lowering his binoculars, Spring smiled as well. "They've got a bit of how we were back then." Kakarot laughed. "Hahaha!" The girl who had previously asked what happened when one died in the game had looked timid, but her performance in actual combat was far calmer than she appeared. And while that Strength-type player had missed his first shot, once he got used to the Ripper rifle's recoil and ballistics, he had swiftly secured his first in-game kill using the stock. Although the Storm Corps didn't recruit rookies below Level 10, the veteran players consistently undertook "Passing the Torch" mentorship missions to help new arrivals adjust to the current version's pacing in Wasteland OL. These tender little chives might be dead weight right now, but they would eventually grow up. And when that time came, those former rookies would list the Storm Corps as their top choice. That was why he frequently gave corps members opportunities during low-stakes daily missions to take rookies out to the front lines for a taste of the action. Right then, however, an anomaly suddenly rippled through the dense grayish-green mist not far from the positions ahead. Spring's brow furrowed slightly, and he raised the binoculars he had just set down. "The spore cloud activity index is rising... The dense fog is moving toward us," Kakarot said grimly, glancing at his air monitor. Without a moment's hesitation, Spring gave the order. "Sound the alarm. Prepare for combat." "Yes, sir!" ... The grayish-green fog rolled down the streets like a flood surging from the heavens. The veteran player in the pickup immediately sensed something was wrong, and just then, a teammate's voice crackled over the comm channel: "A massive swarm of mutants is closing on your position! Fall back to the defense line immediately!" "Damn it!" Cursing under his breath, the veteran stuck his head out the window and shouted to the players still hauling corpses, "Drop them! Get in the truck!" All four froze, but seeing that their senior wasn't joking, they instantly dropped the gnawer corpses and jumped into the truck bed. The veteran spun the steering wheel into a sharp turn, stealing a glance at the console display. Air spore concentration index: 477! Good grief, it had jumped seventy points in just a few seconds! Not daring to hesitate, he slammed his foot down on the pedal, speeding down the road toward the open gate behind them. Just then, dozens of rounded chunks of flesh plummeted in an arc, trailing plumes of grayish-green smoke as they crashed down thirty meters directly ahead. With a harsh hiss, the rounded, crimson chunks of flesh instantly detonated, exploding into a thick cloud of mist that hung there like a physical wall. Having never seen such a bizarre mutant, the veteran's eyes went wide. "A Detonator?!" No— It didn't look like one! While Detonators also released spores upon bursting, they primarily killed prey through kinetic energy and heat. They never released this many spores! Freeing his left hand, he grabbed a gas mask and pulled it over his face, shouting into the comm channel: "Put on your gas masks!" As it turned out, his instincts were right. Unfortunately, he had still underestimated the thing's potency. What erupted from those fleshy spheres wasn't just spores, but countless digestive droplets less than a micrometer in diameter. Laden with organic acids and dissolving enzymes, these droplets floated in the air, forming a dense aerosol alongside the spores. Almost the moment his pickup plunged into that thick mist, exposed skin stung as though pierced by needles, followed immediately by severe ulceration. This prickling pain sat right on the threshold of triggering the pain filter, creating an agonizing itch and burn that drove a person mad. "Aaargh—!" The veteran floored the pedal, gripping the steering wheel with all his might. Yet just as the truck was about to burst out of the fog, another chunk of flesh fell from the sky, slamming down right in front of the front-left tire. The sudden explosive impact knocked the pickup violently to the right, crashing hard into a concrete barrier by the roadside. The veteran in the driver's seat was nearly knocked senseless, while the four rookies in the truck bed stumbled forward, nearly tumbling over the hood. Though the bumper had been replaced with a scoop, the people inside were not made of iron. "Holy crap, bro, can you drive or what?!" the Strength-type player muttered, shaking his dazed head as he scrambled up, still visibly shaken. "Shut up!" The veteran swore at his terrible luck. Just as he was about to shift into reverse to get back on the road, tremors shaking the ground suddenly echoed from a nearby alley mouth. His pupils shrank instantly, and by pure instinct, he snatched the assault rifle from the passenger seat and racked the bolt. At the very same moment, two monsters half-covered in crimson fleshy masses burst out of the alley, opening cavernous maws and roaring at them. "What the hell?!" What kind of monsters were these?! Not only was the veteran in the pickup stunned, but Commander Spring on the rooftop was equally taken aback. More mutants they had never seen before! The spore concentration was climbing rapidly, making it impossible to see the ground clearly with the naked eye. Fortunately, Spring reacted quickly, immediately barking orders over the comm channel: "Position 2, stand by! Target the northwest sector! Heavy machine gun squad, open fire!" "Recon team, dump the corpses in the truck bed and drag one of those big bastards back!" Mutants not found in their records had appeared outside the defense sector. They had to figure out what those things were! Two crisp responses came back over the channel: "Understood!" From the very building under Spring's feet, a long tongue of flame suddenly burst from a dark window around the tenth floor. A Strength-type player sat behind the muzzle, operating a 20mm autocannon. Thick tracers streaked toward the corner of the street. A cloud of blood instantly erupted from the chest of one slime-mold-corrupted beast, sending it staggering backward. Watching the python-thick tracer fire dance across the concrete and hearing the deafening roars overhead, the rookies scattered near the pickup felt their blood boil. Before this, they had only seen such intense, thrilling battle scenes in promotional trailers on the official website. Standing in the middle of it in person was an entirely different experience. The surging adrenaline made their bodies tremble involuntarily, every cell electrified with excitement. Except, there didn't seem to be anything for them to do. The fire support from the rear had taken care of the mutants charging their faces. Just as the Strength-type player was hesitating over whether to rush in and finish them off with a blade, the veteran crawled out of the cab and tossed him a coil of rope as thick as a thumb. "Tie this around that monster's right leg! Tie it tight!" The Strength-type player froze. "B-But the gun is still firing—" "Trust your teammates! They have eyes! Move, now!" the veteran snapped, cutting him off. Grabbing his own coil, he kept low and dashed toward the monster's left leg. Though still frightened, seeing the veteran lead the charge made the Strength-type player grit his teeth and follow. Just as their squad leader said, as they dashed forward, the stream of gunfire shifted along with their steps. The long, thick tracers acted like a protective shield, suppressing the mutants in the alley and keeping them from breaching the dense wall of fire. The Strength-type player quickly secured the knot, and seeing the veteran had already tied his side and was heading back toward the pickup, he rushed to catch up. Yet the moment he stepped back onto the road, a dark figure suddenly burst from the wall-like mist. Its silhouette vaguely resembled a crocodile, with a flat, elongated snout, hind legs thick as an ox's, and a straight tail extended behind it for balance. However, it had no scales—only a crimson flesh membrane and wrinkled, burn-like scars, its hideous skin resembling a plucked turkey. The creature moved impossibly fast. Before he could even get a clear look at it, the veteran player was sent flying. It seemed that in this game, an Awakened's life wasn't much hardier than that of an ordinary person. When disaster struck, you still went down like anyone else. Perhaps things would have been better with an exoskeleton, but unfortunately, their squad leader hadn't brought one. Without even managing a scream, the veteran had his neck snapped. The crocodile-like mutant then pounced on him, feasting ravenously. Crack! Hearing the distinct sound of bones snapping, the Strength-type player felt a chill run down his spine, his hands and feet going numb. In the span of a single breath, the big brother guiding them through their levels had been insta-killed. Was this the wasteland? At this critical juncture, however, there was no time to freeze. Looking at the two ropes tied to the truck bed, he understood his mission at once. Ignoring everyone else, he dashed frantically toward the driver's seat. A piercing shriek echoed behind him, followed by a sharp scream of agony. The female player on their mission seemed to have been dragged into the dense fog by something. The other two saw this and tried to help, but before they could fire more than two shots, massive hands reached out from the mist and dragged them in as well. The supporting machine guns unleashed ferocious fire into the fog, but the tracers seemed swallowed whole, eliciting no reaction at all. Watching all this from the rooftop, Commander Spring wore a solemn expression. These slime molds seemed to have grown smarter. They were no longer charging the human defense line en masse to crush them with sheer numbers. Instead, they displayed clear division of labor and coordination. It was as though a rookie who previously only knew how to select all units and attack-move had suddenly learned micro-management. "...Did it upgrade its brain this time?" Realizing this, his expression grew even graver. He would have to share this news on the official forum later! Meanwhile, the battle on the ground raged on. Seeing his teammates wiped out, the Strength-type player didn't dare linger, scrambling frantically into the pickup's cab. Though it was his first time driving one of these vehicles, fortunately, Alliance machines didn't require masterful driving skills. Gritting his teeth, he stomped the accelerator flat. The pickup roared to life, dragging the mangled corpse of the beast toward the heart of Defense Sector 06. The tail-swishing mutant pursued for two steps, seemingly trying to stop him from taking the monster's body. Just then, however, heavy machine gun rounds rained down upon it. Failing to close the distance after circling twice, it decisively abandoned the chase, turning and vanishing into the grayish-green fog. The Strength-type player didn't dare look back, his right foot welded to the pedal. Just before the heavy gates slammed shut, he roared inside and brought the pickup to an abrupt halt by the roadside. Several exoskeleton-clad soldiers rushed over, severed the ropes on the truck bed with knives, shoved the mutilated beast corpse into a body bag, and hauled it away on a forklift. The Alliance Biological Research Institute would conduct an autopsy on this corpse. Combined with the tissue fluids smeared across the left tire and scoop, they would be able to uncover at least two hidden cards held by the broodmother. Panting in the driver's seat, the Strength-type player listened to the distant, relentless gunfire behind him, his heart pounding violently. Ten minutes ago, he had thought the game's monsters were weaklings that could be slaughtered with ease. Yet within three short minutes, he was the sole survivor of their five-man squad... This damn game was way too real! While he was catching his breath, a man in heavy exoskeleton armor approached from a distance. Recognizing the cannon-bearing shell on his back, the player identified him immediately—it was Commander Spring, leader of the Storm Corps. The man hurriedly stepped out of the truck. Looking at the battered, dented vehicle, he felt embarrassed and hung his head. "Sorry, I... I'm the only one who made it back..." "No need to apologize. You did remarkably well under those circumstances. Most people on their first battlefield are lucky if they can figure out what they're supposed to do," Spring said, patting his shoulder encouragingly rather than blaming him. With a smile, he asked, "What's your handle?" The rookie replied, "Shengdan Laoren!" Spring blinked. Santa Claus? People still used names that normal these days? Regardless, he thought highly of this fellow's potential, so he casually extended an olive branch. "Interested in joining our Storm Corps?" The rookie was taken aback. Thrilled that such an opportunity had landed in his lap, he nodded eagerly. "Yes! Of course!" Spring smiled. "Great! From now on, you're a probationary member. Once you reach Level 10, I'll officially bring you into the fold." The Strength-type rookie was overjoyed. The lingering terror from moments ago vanished without a trace, replaced by an ear-to-ear grin. First, he had snagged one of the ultra-rare closed-beta slots, and now he had received an invitation to join one of the server's top-tier corps! What kind of protagonist treatment was this?! Wait— Following standard web-novel tropes, shouldn't a protagonist coolly decline at a moment like this? Unaware of the rookie's wild fantasies, Spring merely considered him a decently promising seedling. He had courage and wit, stayed calm in a crisis, and bore a faint resemblance to Battlefield Guy back when that fellow was a rookie. He'd make a fine addition. Nodding in satisfaction, Spring prepared to head back to the defensive position. Watching Commander Spring turn to leave, Shengdan Laoren suddenly remembered something amid his daydreaming and called out: "By the way... what will happen to them?" Spring stopped and looked back at him. "Them?" Shengdan Laoren swallowed hard. "The ones dragged into the mist..." "...Hard to say." Commander Spring remained silent for a moment, then shook his head. He had been captured by slime mold during a previous Tide, but that progenitor had quickly lost interest in him and insta-killed him on the spot. He hadn't even seen clearly how he died. This was an entirely different progenitor, so he couldn't say what would happen. Still, the silver lining was that three of them had been taken this time. Once they posted on the forums, he might just find some interesting clues...