The bustling street teemed with people.

At a corner intersection, a massive screen mounted on a skyscraper flickered to life—showcasing an advertisement.

"The globally co-developed, next-gen holographic VR game: *EndlessHorizon*, launches worldwide at 12 PM on August 31st. This game—"

It was odd seeing a gaming ad on public service broadcasts. Yet no one batted an eye. In fact, careful observation revealed *EndlessHorizon* promotions plastered everywhere.

When this once-fictional holographic VR game suddenly materialized in early 2256, it sparked global uproar. Many were thrilled; others skeptical. After all, creating a true second world demanded overcoming near-impossible technological hurdles.

But as game details emerged, skepticism faded. Anticipation took its place.

Then—

"Thief!" A sharp female voice sliced through the crowd.

"Out of my way! Move it!" A red-haired man burst from the throng, shoving past people while sprinting full speed.

Advancing robotics had replaced human labor, swelling unemployment. Rising joblessness fueled crime—even with stronger law enforcement.

Intimidated by the thief’s aggression—or simply unwilling to get involved—pedestrians silently parted, clearing a path through the crowded sidewalk.

Almost everyone.

One man stood out starkly against the fleeing crowd. Mysterious strolled forward at an unhurried pace, his lazy aura clashing with the surrounding chaos. As if oblivious to the oncoming collision.

If neither changed course, they’d crash in seconds.

Spectators wondered if he was sleepwalking—until Mysterious finally reacted. Not by dodging. Not by blocking. Just a deadpan half-sentence:

"If you don’t show up now, I’ll—"

Before he finished, a white-clad figure shot from the crowd like a hawk locking onto prey. In a blur, the red-haired thief was slammed face-first onto the pavement. A handsome young man planted a foot on his back, snatched the fallen wallet, and straightened up.

Black crew cut. White hoodie. A calm smile radiating both warmth and sharp competence. His poised stance and keen eyes marked him as anything but ordinary—even without witnessing his lightning-fast takedown.

"Thief’s caught!" Courage flooded back into the crowd. They surged forward, sealing the thief in a human wall.

"Police are coming." The young man scanned the onlookers, then handed the wallet to the woman who’d shouted. "Yours. Be more careful next time. Stay for the report when officers arrive."

With that, he melted into the crowd and vanished.

Trapped by the mob, the thief could only wait for cuffs.

Minutes later, hundreds of meters away, Mysterious pushed open a café door. The white-clad man followed him inside.

Mid-morning on a weekday meant few patrons.

"You’re fast," the man remarked, sliding into the seat opposite Mysterious.

"Hate trouble," Mysterious shrugged.

"Coffee blend and orange juice," the man called to the barista—clearly a regular.

"Han Ge," Mysterious cut straight to the point. "What brings you here?"

Han Ge belonged to the Meta Ability Administration. His official duty? "Monitoring" Mysterious.

Decades ago, when meteor fragments scattered across Earth, some humans began manifesting supernatural abilities—just like in old stories. The Meta Ability Administration was formed to regulate these unaffiliated Espers.

Technically, Mysterious fell under their watch too.

*Technically*.

He wasn’t human. He was a Superbeing—a lifeform that had shattered biological limits. When his existence first leaked, organizations worldwide hunted him for research or weaponization. But after he effortlessly crushed every capture attempt, they learned: his power was untouchable.

The state eventually tolerated his presence—on paper. The Administration still assigned a token surveillance team. Symbolic. Futile if he ever turned hostile.

Han Ge’s squad drew the short straw.

To everyone’s surprise, Mysterious welcomed them. He understood their position. He caused no trouble; they handled minor nuisances for him. Like today’s thief—trivial for Mysterious, but cleaner if Han Ge intervened officially.

Mutual respect forged friendship. Han Ge became one of Mysterious’s few trusted contacts—and earned his nickname from constant "Bro Han!" greetings.

With Mysterious backing them, Han Ge’s once-marginalized team gained real influence within the Administration.

Normally, agents stayed hidden. Han Ge’s open visit meant business.

"Relax," Han Ge waved a hand. "No orders from HQ. Personal suggestion: you’re always bored. Ever tried gaming?"

Mysterious grimaced. "Bad joke."

"Dead serious." Han Ge sipped his coffee. "You look half-dead from boredom daily. *EndlessHorizon* might fix that."

"...I *am* bored. But gaming? No thanks. Tried it. Can’t sit still for it."

"Not regular games. Full-dive holographic VR. *EndlessHorizon* launches soon." Han Ge knew Mysterious ignored ads. In this info-saturated era, only he’d miss a globally hyped game.

"Tch. Holographic fighters? Boring." Mysterious scoffed—then froze. "Unless... they cracked virtual sandbox tech?"

True holographic VR existed years ago—via neural helmets or pods. Civilian brain-computer interfaces had matured, but processing limits restricted genres to fighters and FPS titles. Even now, graphics and physics neared reality, yet complex open worlds remained impossible.

MMORPGs demanded dynamic, player-driven environments. The computational load was monstrous.

Mysterious had tried existing VR games. As a Superbeing, his reflexes and cognition outclassed humans—even with identical avatars. Competition held no thrill.

After a brief stint with a holographic fighting game, Mysterious gave up. To him, it felt like bullying toddlers—no fun at all. The gap between opponents was just too vast.

If bullying the weak could give Mysterious a thrill, this Superbeing wouldn’t be sitting harmlessly in a café, sipping juice.

"It’s solved," Han Ge nodded. "They’ve cracked not just the virtual sandbox tech, but even the five senses—taste, smell, everything. A true milestone."

"Isn’t this like creation itself..." Mysterious sighed. "So tech has advanced this far now."

"Wanna try it? Today’s the 27th. Game launches on the 31st—four days left. If you play, I’ll get you a game pod... Oh right, you already have one. I’ll just grab a chip for you." Han Ge raised an eyebrow.

VR tech was everywhere now, so computers had evolved too. For convenience, all holographic games used the same login device. But their complexity meant one device couldn’t run multiple games. To play, you needed the specific game chip—and switched chips for different titles.

It sounded like those old game discs from years ago. But wasn’t tech just cycling through patterns?

As he spoke, Han Ge pulled a small booklet from his pocket and handed it to Mysterious. "Check the intro first."

Mysterious took it and flipped through—

Global launch. World’s top optical computer "Primordial Ancestor" as server. No regional splits—all players on one server. Accounts bound to real identities...

The booklet was only two or three pages, like a school recruitment ad. Concise, targeted info, with distinctive handwriting—clearly Han Ge’s handiwork.

"Oh?" Mysterious’s expression finally shifted to surprise. "Supports virtual-to-real currency exchange?"

He instantly grasped why the game was pushed globally so hard. Overpopulation and sky-high unemployment had worsened crime. Easier to dump people into the game than fix society.

But this demanded near-insane game quality. Only perfection could hook everyone. Global cooperation meant one shot at solving worldwide unemployment.

Mysterious didn’t know their secret, but he felt a flicker of interest.

"Yeah," Han Ge nodded, seeing Mysterious understood. "Interested?"

"Alright. Since you insist, I’ll check it out," Mysterious nodded.

"I’ll bring the chip tomorrow." Han Ge stood abruptly. "Time’s up. I’m off."

Officially, Han Ge monitored Mysterious. Blatant private meetings were risky. He left immediately—and paid the bill, leaving Mysterious, who’d planned to pay, slightly embarrassed.

Mysterious leisurely finished his orange juice, then left the café.

Han Ge’s words made him notice the ads. Everywhere he looked—posters, billboards, even public screens during show breaks—promoted that online game.

Streets were just the start. Online, the hype would drown everything.

Indeed, only the deaf, mute, or comatose—and ad-ignoring Mysterious—didn’t know the game’s name.

Walking on, Mysterious suddenly turned his head. "Hmm? Over there... a fight? Let’s check."

In the next instant, he vanished from the spot, unnoticed.

Just another day for a Superbeing.