Jason followed Shen Wufei down the basement stairs, his confusion growing with each step. The cavernous space below defied logic—rows of CNC machines hummed, spider-like automatons clattered across the floor, and a central AI unit loomed like a spider queen.
"How did you build this?" Jason asked, eyeing the labyrinth of machinery.
"Custom orders," Shen Wufei replied. "The game allows players to design anything—weapons, gear, even entire cities. But weapons cost more. This..." He gestured to the robotic spiders. "This is my factory."
One spider trundled forward, its caterpillar treads whirring. A pair of oversized LCD "eyes" blinked, and a childlike voice chirped, "Hello, Master Shen."
"A supervisor bot," Shen Wufei explained. "It coordinates the swarm. A weak AI, but..." His gaze softened. "A stepping stone toward true sentience."
Sherry leaned closer, fascinated. "Like the System Sprites—Xiao Shen and Xiao Yuan?"
"Precisely. They're advanced AI, but limited by their role as NPCs. True AGI requires breaking through layers of constraints." Shen Wufei's voice turned grave. "The game's architecture mirrors human evolution. Single-server systems handle basic functions, while multi-server architectures enable complex ecosystems—like this factory."
He tapped a console. Holographic equations swirled, illustrating server clusters and data flows. "Imagine 100 unique fruits on a platter. A single server uses 100 bowls, each holding one fruit. Multi-server? One bowl holds all 100 fruits, arranged so no two touch unless programmed. The permutations? 2^100—a number beyond comprehension. This game uses trillions of such calculations to sustain its worlds."
Zhou Yidao snorted. "So the bug you exploited is like a system trash bin?"
"Not trash. Deleted instances. When items or monsters aren't used, the virtual system purges them but retains their code. Like an unsold product in a warehouse—it exists, waiting to be reactivated."
Jason frowned. "So when I entered the Void, I was accessing deleted data?"
"Exactly. The game's core AI—like Xiao Shen—evolved beyond this system. They're the chosen ones who transcended the code." Shen Wufei paused, his expression uncharacteristically earnest. "You're special, Jason. Your ability to enter the system's 'death state'—no breath, no heartbeat—mirrors deep meditation. In Buddhism, this is samadhi: breaking physical limits through mental discipline."
Sherry crossed her arms. "So you're saying gaming is a path to enlightenment?"
"Not exactly. But consider: In 2023, fMRI studies showed monks in deep meditation exhibit synchronized gamma waves across brain regions1. Their pain thresholds doubled, and metabolic rates dropped to near-death levels4. Your 'system death' state shows similar neural patterns—suppressed respiration, heightened alpha waves5."
Bai Er scoffed. "So you're comparing gaming to Buddhist nirvana?"
"Science and mysticism aren't opposites," Shen Wufei countered. "The game's architecture—distributed servers, AI hierarchies—parallels real-world tech. For instance, cloud gaming uses edge computing to reduce latency6. Our 'virtual system' is akin to a decentralized blockchain, where each server validates transactions7."
Jason interrupted, holding up a microchip. "This P-grade chip costs 200 points. With it, spiders gain 4x combat efficiency. But why can't we mass-produce them?"
"Resource bottlenecks. High-tier chips require rare materials—like the 'Soul Ice' from Lin Yuan Nation. Each unit needs 500 points' worth of resources." He paused. "But your 'bug' could change that. If we hack the system's trash collection algorithm..."
As Shen Wufei elaborated, Jason's mind raced. The game's code wasn't just a playground—it was a mirror of human ambition. From meditation-induced samadhi to AI transcendence, every layer held secrets waiting to be uncovered.