Chapter 4: The Former "Sharpshooter of Red Star Street"

CrossFire, or CF, might be an unfamiliar name to those who don't play games, and even less familiar to people not interested in gunfights. But for those who love shooting games and spend time gaming, it is a name that needs no introduction. Even if they’ve never played it, they must have heard of it.

From the very day it was born, this game ignited a war of words with its “big brother” CS: Counter-Strike, and later with the upgraded CS:GO. Both sides claimed their own as the greatest FPS game. Amidst this endless debate, CF became a passionate memory for many born in the eighties and nineties.

Xing Xiaolong was one of them.

Back in the day, with his godly sniping skills—quick shots, flicks, blind shots—he dominated all eighteen internet cafes outside his school, defeating every opponent on Red Star Street. People called him the “God of Snipers.”

Times have changed. The title “God of Snipers” now seems a bit embarrassing, even childish, but back then, it was an honor both awesome and enviable. Just sitting down at a computer could attract swarms of admiring girls.

Later, after graduating high school but failing to get into a top university, Xing Xiaolong, filled with dreams of firearms and the cocky confidence of youth, believed that his sharpshooting skills in-game would make him a legendary sniper in the army.

Fueled by passion and self-assurance, he dove headlong into the military.

Reality, however, played a cruel joke on him.

During his five-year military career, apart from firing a few shots with an old rifle during basic training, he spent four years and nine months carrying nothing but a long-obsolete, purely decorative semi-automatic rifle, one only used for ceremony.

A sniper rifle? What sniper rifle?

Xing Xiaolong never even glimpsed one, let alone became a legendary marksman.

Why? The answer was simple. His outstanding height of 1.81 meters caught the eye of the regimental commander, who promptly assigned him to the most prestigious post in the regiment—the honor guard.

Glorious and noble.

Sacred and celebrated.

Five years of freezing in winter and baking in summer, guarding the regiment’s main gate.

Whenever he thought of this, Xing Xiaolong wanted to cry, but the tears just wouldn’t come.

It was just too damn tragic.

After being discharged, Xing Xiaolong bid farewell to his youthful dreams. The “God of Snipers” title no longer meant anything, and there was no time for gaming. He was now in his twenties; youth existed only in memory.

Now, what Xing Xiaolong needed, more than anything, was money.

To marry a wife, you need a house, a car, a dowry. To buy a house or car, you need money. To support a wife at home, you need money. To raise children in the future, you need money. When your parents grow old, you need money to care for them. And you better save some for a rainy day, lest you get sick and end up out on the street.

Money, money, money. Everything needs money.

Having entered the army right after high school, Xing Xiaolong had little to his name. He was tall, but you can’t eat height. He looked strong, but nowadays looks only help if you’re a pretty boy. His sunny, outgoing personality couldn’t be traded for cash.

In every other way, he was unremarkable.

Standing in faded camouflage on a bustling street, Xing Xiaolong felt lost and out of place, not knowing where to go. Every veteran must face this disconnection from society.

Fortunately, the once-legendary “Dragon Brother” who had dominated Red Star Street’s internet cafes and was cheered on daily by adoring girls, stumbled upon what he thought was a stroke of luck.

Ahem, allow me to brag a little. After all, what man doesn’t embellish his past? Only wimps don’t.

Back on topic: at that time, Xing Xiaolong was at the top of his game and took on a student eager to learn sniping—back then, it was trendy to take on apprentices. His student was a fierce girl from another school named Su Dayu—her mother supposedly gave birth to her during a rainstorm.

Xing Feng liked to call her “Rich Lady Su.”

Because Su Dayu always had plenty of pocket money. In 2009, an hour at the internet café cost just one yuan, and she always showed up with a hundred-yuan bill. To get Xing Xiaolong to teach her sniping, she casually put five hundred yuan onto his internet café account and covered all his lunches.

As for why she covered his lunches—anyone who’s been there would understand. Back then, grabbing a computer after class was a top priority. Who had time for lunch? If someone brought you fried noodles, that was a big deal.

For lone wolves, gaming always took precedence. Food could wait till tomorrow.

For a country boy like Xing Xiaolong, Su Dayu was a veritable tycoon. Wanting his skills to be passed down—and, truthfully, because he was broke and worried about café fees—he accepted her as his apprentice. He was secretly delighted!

It was this single “soft-hearted” moment that led to his current situation—becoming a plane crash survivor, barely escaping being eaten by wolves upon waking up.

In the end, just as he was about to die, something truly bizarre appeared—CrossFire.

Xing Xiaolong didn’t know what this thing was. He bit his tongue to check if it was a dream—he felt pain, so it couldn’t be an illusion. It was real.

He could see it and touch it.

After a few minutes of exploration, Xing Xiaolong discovered that beneath the line of text was a small input box. Tapping it summoned a keyboard, and whatever he typed appeared in the box. Beyond that, the layer beneath the screen was still unreadable. Both the box and the screen were tangible, but no matter how hard he pressed, they wouldn’t budge.

He thought maybe it was some kind of system from a web novel, and, a bit excited, he spoke at length to the screen.

Nothing happened.

He felt like a fool, talking to himself.

While probing the CF screen, Xing Xiaolong noticed that the world around him had changed in a strange way. After the screen appeared, everything he could see and sense had inexplicably frozen.

It was as if time itself had stopped.

He could move his hands, but only his hands. His body was immobile, though unlike the giant wolf, whose breath and heartbeat had also halted, he felt more like he’d been encased in a space exactly his size, unable to break free.

The world had suddenly stopped. The threat from the wolves was temporarily gone, but he couldn’t escape either—only this mysterious box remained before him.

Two paths lay before Xing Xiaolong.

Follow CF’s prompts step by step, and there would surely be a final outcome. Whether good or bad, no one could say—maybe it would help him escape danger, since in novels these things are always powerful, but often dangerous, too—sometimes even killing the host.

Or, ignore the prompt, take advantage of the frozen world, and deal with the giant wolf while waiting in stalemate with CF. That would also lead to a result, though one that could bring major trouble.

Enter a nickname? Or not?

For a moment, Xing Xiaolong was torn.