Chapter 97: A Palm Technique Descends from the Heavens

A new day, a new morning.

Alpha Princess was still wandering within the space-time bubble, showing no sign of returning. She was no longer content with scavenging for ready-made food; instead, she had unearthed a few sets of pots, pans, and a portable gas stove from the ruins. With stirring background music playing, she now cooked for herself.

As for Ye Chao, there was nothing he could do about it. So, as usual, he got up, got tripped, and then scrolled through WeChat.

However, unlike the previous two days, today’s messages were abnormally numerous. Conversations with over ninety-nine unread messages were everywhere.

Dry, business-like requests from Guan Junyuan to purchase a helmet were there as always, as were the polite overtures from Ximen Qiong. The crucial difference lay in the others—messages inquiring about how to buy a helmet were flooding his chatboxes, nearly overwhelming them.

Why? Because it wasn’t just Guan Junyuan and Ximen Qiong who could level up anymore. Over these past two or three days, more and more people had advanced. Some were upgrading from one star to two, others from two to three, and some even from three to four—every rank imaginable.

Though it wouldn’t cause the same earthshaking commotion as a four-star upgrading to five, it was enough to create a powerful word-of-mouth effect in smaller circles.

Ultimately, it all came down to how effective the training method in the Imaginary Space was!

First, real-world training could never match this intensity. In reality, if you held back, it was useless; if you went all out, you could kill someone. No matter how you sparred or simulated combat, you were always restrained.

Second, not only was the intensity lacking, but so was the quality. The fastest way to level up was through real combat, but exercises could never reach the intensity of actual battle. Never mind the energy and effort expended—the cost of supplies and equipment alone was more than an average family could bear.

To put it plainly, the more realistic an exercise tried to be, the greater the expense!

Take the recent field exercise; on the surface, it was just an exam. But who set up and cleaned the site? Who buried the artifacts? How was logistics deployed? Where did the monsters, judges, and instructors come from? It looked like a simple outing for teachers and students, but the support staff far outnumbered the examinees, and the costs were so huge that some departments argued about it every year.

Only a family as ordinary as President Ma’s could afford it; others simply could not.

Third, not only was the quality insufficient, but the quantity also fell short. A single field exercise took immense time and resources, and only gave students one fairly realistic day and night of combat experience. How many times a year could you have such an opportunity?

Once.

And after the disaster, there was no such thing as repeating a grade—everything was a one-shot deal. So, for most, it was literally once in a lifetime.

Why was there a rule awarding extra points for breakthroughs during the exercise? Because the probability of breaking through in real combat was higher, and those who did so often showed greater potential than others.

But in the Imaginary Space, how many such opportunities were there?

Every hour! Every minute! Every second!

That’s why, when other legendary experts provided similar training environments, they always charged a hefty admission fee.

But with Ye Chao, it wasn’t a monthly pass, nor even an annual pass—a single ticket covered you for life. How could those who had experienced its effects not flock to him in droves?

After all, this wasn’t the world before the disaster, where relentless advertising could hype a useless product into a miracle cure, or a fraud into an expert, or sell graphene underwear, quantum water, and dark matter drinks to the uneducated. The post-disaster world might be inconvenient and dangerous, but it had wiped away the frothy superficiality and restlessness. Now, “good wine needs no bush” was once again true, and word of mouth spread even more fiercely.

In short, the messages exceeding ninety-nine left Ye Chao dizzy.

Moreover, as he scrolled through message after message, new ones appeared before he even finished the old ones…

Without purchasing the combat mode, no one had the right to add him as a friend and chat; but communicating with customer service—every user could do that.

There was no end to it, because… it was morning, and many people were already awake.

Ye Chao quickly realized the situation, but his hand continued to tap compulsively… He couldn’t stand the uneven number of unread messages—just like seeing a mistake on a test paper. Of course, not a mistake he made, but one the teacher did.

Unconsciously, Ye Chao found himself missing that willful and eccentric figure.

That calculating princess—when would she return? All this was supposed to be her responsibility…

He was just about to use his power to catch a glimpse of her through their remaining connection when he suddenly noticed that Gun-Gun had sent him another message.

“…Not… not… get… up…”

Since yesterday, what it seemed to be trying to say was: I’ll just lie here, I’m not getting up?

For no particular reason, Ye Chao, who was rarely emotional, felt a strange impulse arise within him.

Gun-Gun was still locked in fierce battle on the Imaginary Space battlefield.

After days of relentless, sleepless obsession, this taciturn panda had grown ever more adept, gradually finding its own fighting style—provocative and tanky.

Like a mobile fortress in a battle game, darting about with remarkable speed and resilience, able to tank or support, pressing the attack if possible, sticking to opponents until the end; if unable to win, it just ran, and few could keep up.

Its fireseed weapon had also evolved—from an imitation of Xu Tiange’s gas canister hammer, to a simple, direct high-pressure tank, handleless, resembling a short-handled sledge.

Its performance changed as well. Its attack power lessened, but its support abilities grew: spraying downward enabled massive leaps, upward for crushing blows, backward for acceleration, forward for suppressing the enemy…

With the panda’s innate combat talents paired with the training effects of the Imaginary World, a new star was shining brightly on the battlefield.

However, just as it was fighting fiercely and running rampant, all the students of Third Middle School witnessed a miraculous scene on the battlefield.

They saw a massive palm appear out of nowhere, descending from the heavens. At first, it seemed small, but by the time it landed, it spanned twenty meters long and more than ten meters wide. With a resounding smack, it flattened the lively figure below!

“Palm from the heavens…”

“Could this be the legendary Buddha’s Palm?!”

“Did the panda get so slippery even the system couldn’t stand it anymore?”

Some knowledgeable students, stunned, uttered the name of the move.

With a single slap, Gun-Gun was killed in the game. Ye Chao quickly materialized a roughly formed exoskeleton battle suit in reality, just in case he was about to be assaulted. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Sure enough, Gun-Gun removed the helmet, barking furiously, but instead of pouncing, it began gesturing wildly.

After a while, seeing Ye Chao still baffled, its beady eyes rolled within its dark circles. Clumsily, it picked up a pen from the desk and began to scrawl awkwardly.

Curious, Ye Chao leaned in to see what it was drawing.

It turned out not to be a picture, but words—though they looked as though scribbled by a child.

A horizontal, a left-falling, two vertical strokes—it was the word “not.”

Then a wavy, worm-like… “get up”?

Not getting up…

You rascal, isn’t messaging enough? Now you’ve learned to write, just so you can stay in bed?

Ye Chao was a little annoyed. Before the “get up,” Gun-Gun added another word—“sorry”?

Sorry?

Was it apologizing to him? That wasn’t necessary; it knew the gesture for “sorry,” didn’t it?

While he pondered in confusion, another word was added before “sorry”—“say.”

Say sorry?

After finishing the last word, Gun-Gun put down the pen with a sigh of relief, looking at Ye Chao full of hope.

Making me apologize? Gun-Gun, you’re getting bold…

Ye Chao’s impulse grew stronger.

But as he thought more carefully, he sensed something was wrong…

Ye Chao squinted at Gun-Gun’s gestures, his emotional intelligence—barely passing when multiplied by ten—plunged into deep thought.