With Moonlit West River fielding Nana Toki and Nan Jin—two blades sharp enough to cut thunder—their boss runs went smooth as a flood-tide washing reeds flat.

Protagonist Lord’s Langya squad had just felled one boss, while Moonlit West River was already breathing down the neck of their second, like twin lanterns ahead in the fog.

The gap was plain as a cliff at high noon, sheer and merciless.

Players cried bug abuse, their reports loosed like arrows into a storm.

It hit the devs fast, like sparks licking dry grass. In his office, Zhao Qian—HR’s general manager—was puzzling how to make Chen Cheng scrap the new event menu when the flood of report emails slammed in, and he went off like oil on flame.

Players didn’t know the girl shadowing Nana Toki. But Zhao Qian—who’d run open beta back then—knew Nan Jin, as if seeing an old scar under fresh skin.

She was the only one who had muscled through Hundred Ghosts Reincarnation on a bug-riddled build by skill alone, like threading needles in a typhoon.

Her strength needed no preface, like a naked sword on the table.

And she knew the company’s buried research, the bones beneath the flesh, clear as x‑ray.

If that surfaced, it wouldn’t just drown him; Aotuo Games would topple like a temple struck by lightning.

Only… one thing chilled him like night wind through paper screens: hadn’t that girl dropped dead three years ago from malnutrition and overplay? How was she suddenly inside the game again, a ghost flickering in glass?

Feeling the road bend into mist, Zhao Qian went straight to Chen Cheng, the chief planner on his side, like a man seeking another oar in rough water.

He wanted to scheme together, two players over a cold chessboard.

But overconfident Chen hadn’t expected that the open-beta server he’d left running hadn’t caged the bug-tier Treasure Imp; instead it poked a wasp nest and woke a bigger beast. He stared at the tablet in Zhao’s hands, tongue stuck like ice.

“What now? This mess is yours,” Zhao snapped, eyes like knives on wet stone. “The Treasure Imp isn’t handled, and now Nan Jin—who’s supposed to be dead—shows up. Chen Cheng, how many tricks are you still hiding?”

“How would I know?” Chen shot back, pacing like a wolf in a penned yard. “Upstairs says Nan Jin died three years ago. How could she just stroll back into players’ sight?” He raked his hair, frustration like grit in his teeth. “I sent someone to the backend. We found her game data. Same problem as the Treasure Imp—can’t delete it.”

“If we could kill it, that’d be something,” he added, voice low, like rain behind shutters. “We might claw back ground.”

“What do you mean?” Zhao felt a cold hook under his ribs, emotion first, thought second, like a fish tugging deep water. “Why only by killing Nan Jin do we get a way back?”

“Look.” Chen tapped a black button on the desk. A virtual screen bloomed behind Zhao like a pale moon in smoke, lines of Nan Jin’s data scrolling.

“Our people checked all her identifiers. From ID code to the registry database, her samples match every other player’s, down to the grain,” Chen said, a thin smile like a paper cut. “No exaggeration—she’s a modern human artificially planted into the game, able to live on here under a player’s tag.”

“How do we remove her, then?” Zhao’s gaze was a winter blade.

“Easy. Hear me out.” Chen’s grin widened, a fox under lantern light. “Nan Jin’s code looks like a player’s, but there’s one crack—no respawn routine. If she dies in-game, that strand of code stops. Nan Jin vanishes, clean, from both virtual and real.”

“If it’s like that, we still can’t act openly,” Zhao said, eyes skimming the screen like crows over snow. “She wears a player tag. If we send killers, how do we tidy the aftermath? A sudden powerhouse gets axed by the officials and never logs in again—anyone can smell that rot.”

“What if we make players kill Nan Jin?”

Chen killed the screen and met Zhao’s gaze, steady as a nail in wood. “The final mission of this version event isn’t public yet. We nudge it a hair, and the sky’s veiled while we cross the sea.”

“…”

“Think it through,” Zhao said after a long beat, voice flat as cold iron. “That’s premeditated murder wearing a mask. If it blows, you won’t wriggle free.”

“Same to you,” Chen shrugged, palms up like he’d tossed dice. “Compared to the ‘see-and-do-nothing’ three years ago, it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

“You’re a madman,” Zhao growled, like thunder bottled.

The talk ended like a door slamming in wind.

Zhao moved fast, cutting power to the game servers like snuffing candles in a hall. Players were forced offline again, white lights winking out one by one like snowflakes sublimating. Only Nana Toki and Nan Jin remained in the game’s night, two lamps in an empty street.

“Where’d everyone go?” Nan Jin asked, careful as a cat on wet tiles, eyes on the fading glow around them.

“No clue,” Nana said, casual as a yawn behind a fan. “Maybe their mom called them for dinner.”

“…”

So perfunctory, like tossing a pebble into a well and not waiting for the splash.

They found a flat patch nearby and sat, like travelers under a bare tree. Nana pulled from her pack the weapon that should’ve been Protagonist Lord’s, and she studied it, gaze like frost etching glass.

The updates were coming faster and faster, like drumbeats quickening before a charge. Even without the backstage story, she smelled something fishy under still water.

Maybe the main plot was about to crest the horizon like a red sun.

“Huh, Yuzu, you’ve got one like mine?” Nan Jin leaned in, curiosity bright as a firefly, eyes on the dagger in Nana’s hand. “Where’d you get it?”

“Ah… it’s always been on me,” Nana said, truth plain as a clean blade. When she slipped into the Treasure Imp’s body, the dagger was there, like an old friend waiting.

“Wanna see?”

She caught Nan Jin’s stare on the white-jade dagger and handed it over, open-handed as passing a teacup. “Go on, take a look.”

It was just data in the end, a ripple on a screen.

“Really?” Nan Jin’s face lit up, joy popping like a spark. “Then take mine too, Yuzu. A fair trade.”

Like offering treasure, Nan Jin drew the black dagger at her waist and gave it to Nana.

“Mm, suit yourself,” Nana said, cool as shade. She took the black dagger and flicked open its stat panel, eyes keen as hawks.

She wanted to see if this airheaded ghost’s absurd numbers came from the blade.

Then—

Weapon Name: Thornspike

Attack: 0

Crit Rate: 0

Agility: 0

…

Description: Just an ordinary dagger you can find anywhere.

“?”

Nana almost swore, the word biting her tongue like pepper. This Thornspike looked every inch the twin of her own Thorn—mirrors facing mirrors—and you tell me it’s ordinary?

Zero across the board?

Is that even possible?

“Yuzu, your weapon’s weird,” Nan Jin said at the same time, puzzlement fluttering like a moth. “All the stats on it are zero. Totally different from mine.”

“…”

“Yours shows zeros too?” They swapped back, steel and jade crossing like swallows. Nana weighed Thorn in her palm.

“Yeah, and it says it’s just an ordinary dagger,” Nan Jin murmured, brain buzzing like a hive.

“No way.” Last time Nana checked, Thorn had ridiculous growth, a vine climbing a tower. How could it be zero?

She didn’t buy it. She popped Thorn’s panel again.

Weapon Name: Thorn

Attack: 0

Crit Rate: 0

Agility: 0

…

Description: Just an ordinary dagger you can find anywhere.

So it really was like that. Her eyes went wide, shock crisp as cold water.

She glanced from the dumb panel to Nan Jin, whose look was just as lost, like a deer in snowfall. “Yuzu, my weapon stats are gone…”

“Can’t be.” Nana opened Nan Jin’s character panel, hands moving like a dealer cutting cards. Attack and agility still sat above six thousand, towering like pines—unchanged.

If weapon stats dropped to zero, they should drag character stats down, like a tide pulling boats.

Unless…

A jolt ran through Nana’s mind, a spark catching tinder. Emotion first—a prickle of thrill—then thought clicked into place.

She flicked her own panel open with a snap.

Name: Treasure Imp (???)

Background: ???

Race: ?

Level: 100

HP: 26100/26100

MP: 6100/6100

Attack: 5210 (5210+0)

Defense: 3010 (3000+0)

Spirit: 2100 (2090+0)

Agility: 2220 (2200+0)

Just as she’d guessed, the truth lay there like ink drying.

The weapon’s numbers hadn’t turned to zero; the weapon’s soul had melted into the wielder, all its stats poured straight into the character, like river water joining the sea.