Chapter 103: But I Remember You

Xu Nuo secured victory in this match with ease, achieving an indisputable godlike performance. Returning to the newly registered account’s homepage, she realized she hadn’t even finished the beginner tutorial. The healer character, previously played by the girl, was now adorably squatting in the upper right corner, holding up a sign with an arrow.

“Wow, as expected from our queen! Her luck is simply amazing—the beginner tutorial character is the cutest little bunny. I want a bunny too!”

“How come my dashboard guy, as a blooming young girl, is a burly muscle man? Is it too late to delete my account and start over?”

Xu Nuo followed the little healer bunny through the beginner tasks. The more she listened to the voice, the more familiar it sounded—not just to her, but to the viewers as well. It was exactly the same as the voice of the player who had just spoken on the mic.

“Was that girl just now an AI bot?”

“Really? How could the voice be so similar and the tone so natural if it was a bot?”

“There must’ve been a staff member controlling it before. If an AI bot can talk trash so fluently, that’s impressive.”

The little healer’s avatar was an exceptionally cute bunny. When anthropomorphized, it became a charming and lively girl—or even a boy, as players could customize the gender, provided they paid for it.

When the audience saw this official character design, many got excited. Xu Nuo looked at the daft little bunny and, smiling, spent some cash to unlock the gender setting, turning it into a male bunny.

A sweet little boy appeared on the screen and called out softly, “Dear master~”

“Pfft… hahahaha!” Xu Nuo couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing. That youthful, slightly electronic voice and tone—this was unmistakably 007.

She hadn’t expected to encounter the adorable 007 system again so soon.

She immediately set him as the sole dashboard boy on the account.

It had to be said: the game developer truly understood how to make money. The competitive gaming market was already saturated, but they’d found a new path. Any competitive game could offer battles, but this one also offered customization, character bonding, story exploration, and interactive communication…

Most importantly, their AI technology enabled seamless, natural conversations between virtual characters and real players, creating a deep sense of immersion and realism. Take the AI girl who trash-talked five opponents earlier—if she hadn’t revealed herself at the end, who would’ve guessed she was a bot?

On her very first day playing, thrifty Xu Nuo had already spent generously—buying skins, gear, and even a house for her dashboard boy. The level of care was akin to raising a pet, thoroughly satisfying her sponsor.

After finishing a ranked match, Xu Nuo continued exploring other entertainment modes, giving a comprehensive showcase of the game and providing great enjoyment for her viewers.

However, the audience was a bit dissatisfied that Xu Nuo didn’t show off her incredible luck by drawing the god-tier character, Gu Qianyan, in a single try.

When it was time to end the stream, the viewers were still left wanting more. Xu Nuo didn’t exit the game; instead, she clicked on Gu Qianyan’s avatar.

The entry animation landed on a deep, starry night. Clad in battle armor beneath the moonlit sky, he stood with his long sword gleaming coldly, and as if sensing someone behind him, he turned and smiled gently.

Those eyes were so familiar.

Xu Nuo’s breath caught for a moment.

“Little Seven,” she called, using the nickname she’d just set for her dashboard boy.

The cute AI character bounced into view. “Little Seven is here.”

Xu Nuo asked, “Do you remember why you became a character in this mobile game?”

“Hm?” Little Seven froze, almost imperceptibly, then put on an innocent face. “Because I’m cute?”

“Drop the act,” Xu Nuo said bluntly. “I know you’re a self-aware AI.”

Little Seven looked baffled and popped up a system-generated response: “I’m not sure about that yet, master. Please give me another chance.”

Seeing the little thing feign ignorance, seemingly unable to remember her, Xu Nuo didn’t push further. She shut down the computer and went straight to bed.

The contract she had signed with the game company stipulated streaming hours, so over the next few days, she was busy streaming this game. Most of the time, she played as Gu Qianyan—he was immensely popular, the audience loved watching, and the sponsors wanted her to feature him as much as possible.

Thanks to this game, Xu Nuo gained a surge of new followers in just a few days. During this time, other wealthy players and lucky ones had also managed to draw Gu Qianyan. The audience’s expectations for Xu Nuo, the first streamer to showcase Gu Qianyan’s perfect combos, were no longer limited to her using him in combat.

They wanted her to explore the character himself.

As the undisputed king of the cash rankings, Gu Qianyan came with lavish equipment and skins, as well as dozens of gigabytes of story animations and text, perfectly catering to players’ unbridled affection for the character.

It was the same old formula, repackaged: by progressing through the story and meeting certain conditions, players could obtain new gear and skins, unlock new voice lines, and wallpapers.

At first, Xu Nuo instinctively tried to skip any cutscenes she could, as she had in similar games. But the very first scene that played left her stunned.

Sandstorms, fog, crumbling skyscrapers, endless ruins—the scene was so reminiscent of the post-apocalyptic holo-game she used to play that no comparison was needed; it was a clear copy.

How could the art team be this lazy?

Xu Nuo took a deep breath and steadied her hands to continue. But she soon realized it wasn’t just the visuals that had been copied; even the plot was strikingly familiar.

Wasn’t this the same holo-game she’d played before? Only the name had changed, and the protagonist was now Gu Qianyan, though his experiences were nearly identical to Gu Xingze’s.

The animation didn’t delve into his past in detail; it only showed a girl with a blurred silhouette—sometimes appearing, sometimes vanishing—in his memories, and no matter how she looked at it, that girl was clearly Xu Nuo herself.

Xu Nuo had assumed that after finishing the game, all the storylines would reset, and the NPCs would return to their original states, waiting for the next player. She never expected there’d be a follow-up.

Gu Qianyan—or was it Gu Xingze?—opened a folded piece of paper, inside which was written: “Hahaha, this world is actually just a game, you know. For you and me, we’re just passing travelers. Thank you for liking me. More girls will come to like you in the future, but you won’t remember them.”

The handwriting was casual, clearly written at ease—never expecting that this note would resurface in her life in such a way.

“Damn!!” At this moment, Xu Nuo desperately wanted to take the unscrupulous game company to court for using her likeness and personal information without permission.

In short, she was furious.

On the screen, the man seemed lost in thought. “Just a game, is it?”

“But I remember you.”