Cyrus was jolted awake by a ping from the Discord group.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she fumbled for her phone beneath the pillow and squinted at the screen's glow.

"The first batch of beta testers for 'Perfected Realm' has been announced!"

"For real?"

"News just dropped on the official site three minutes ago [Image]."

"Damn! Who got that lucky?"

"Only ten thousand for the first beta? That's a global draw, way too few spots released by the devs!"

Cyrus's groggy mind took a moment to catch up, sleepiness scattering as she remembered submitting an application for the game's beta on a friend's urging. It was a hasty questionnaire filled out on the official website, submitted ten months ago.

Back then, "Perfected Realm" had just released its trailer, boasting an "epoch-making holographic game, a second world that truly exists."

The trailer had seized the attention of gamers worldwide, with its promise of an open world ripe for exploration and a multitude of career paths to choose from.

It was a game that melded cyberpunk with supernatural elements: players could follow a tech path, becoming cyborgs with mechanical limbs, or awaken bizarre powers by choosing the supernatural route.

It was a game grounded in reality yet transcended it, a virtual experience with an unparalleled sense of authenticity, almost as if it bridged into the real world.

What truly captivated Cyrus, though, were the last two lines of the game's description.

"Light always breeds darkness; beneath the city's glitz lies a festering underbelly of decay."

"Beyond money and power, survival and death are the eternal questions of that world."

Could it be that "Perfected Realm," aside from its cyberpunk and supernatural allure, harbored a darker core?

Cyrus clicked on a screenshot in the class group chat. Officials would send beta invites via email to the lucky players – indeed, just ten thousand of them, with the testing set to start tomorrow.

Considering over ten million had registered on the opening day alone, swelling to over a hundred million in the ensuing months, the odds of being chosen out of the hundreds of millions were infinitesimal.

Though she harbored little hope, Cyrus opened her email.

"You have one unread message."

The notification made her heart skip; she bolted upright in bed.

"Congratulations, you've been selected for the 'Perfected Realm' beta test."

The email's subject was in eye-catching red. Cyrus's expression was one of disbelief as she cross-referenced the sender's address with the official one repeatedly.

Once she confirmed the email's authenticity, one thought surged to the forefront – she'd struck gold!

Selling this beta access could fetch a pretty penny!

A poverty-stricken euphoria washed over her.

Cyrus was no stranger to misfortune; her father had vanished after a failed investment, and her mother, remarried, sent a meager allowance of eight hundred a month. It was enough for food, but textbooks and clothes were a stretch, and her second-hand smartphone was a result of her own hard-earned money from a bubble tea job.

She lived alone in her grandparents' old house, studying tirelessly like a resilient weed, surviving against the odds.

University loomed after this summer, and while her grades had won her a spot at a prestigious institution, the tuition and living expenses were daunting.

Selling the beta access to "Perfected Realm" could have eased her financial burdens for a while.

But the next line of the email squashed that notion.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

"'Perfected Realm' beta access is non-transferable and bound to your registration info. This test is free of charge and progress will not be wiped."

Her face fell; the prospect of easy money cruelly snipped.

Truth be told, Cyrus didn't care for the game. Her gear was trash – she didn't even have a holographic headset. Filling out the questionnaire had been a whim, partly in hopes of cashing in if the beta slot was sellable.

Pondering her options, Cyrus felt just as cursed and impoverished as ever. Holding a golden ticket to the beta, yet unable to experience the game, was akin to sitting on a mountain of gold with nothing to spend it on.

With a sigh, she scrolled down.

The email was brief, with no substantial content, but a delightful discovery awaited: "Players agreeing to join will receive specialized gaming gear from the company."

Her spirits lifted; the game was now within reach!

The email concluded with a link to a player survey.

Curiously, she clicked through.

Question one: "Would you accept a chance at a new beginning?"

Without hesitation, she chose "Definitely." A fresh start was exactly what she needed given her current dire straits.

Question two: "Do you believe in gods?"

"No." Cyrus was a staunch atheist.

Question three: "Would you like to have superpowers?"

"Yes!" Desiring superpowers didn't conflict with her atheism.

"Survey complete."

"Game files and instructions have been sent to your email. Please check."

"The beta forum is now open for you. Save the URL and register promptly."

Cyrus carefully saved the forum's URL, knowing that beta content is often confidential, meant to help developers catch bugs and patch leaks. The forum likely existed to facilitate tester communication.

With only ten thousand granted access, the forum would be sparse. She'd be among the first to tread its digital soil.

Instead of registering immediately, she opened her email to review the game files, typically requiring a signature – a contract with legal consequences for breaches.

As she read the first few lines, she froze.

"Six pieces of advice for 'Perfected Realm' players. Abide by them, or face the consequences alone."

"1. Treat the game world as if it were real."

"2. Never reveal your player identity."

"3. Keep the game content secret."

"4. You have only one life; death is final."

"5. If you start the game, only 'completion' or 'character death' can end your journey."

"6. Everything has its price."

Was this it? Such brevity in the game's disclaimer seemed reckless.

Cyrus was puzzled.

Playing a game shouldn't involve such cryptic, mood-setting language. The "real world" was just a marketing gimmick; everyone knew that world was fake.

She reviewed the game document, which required a signature.

Despite a thorough read, she found no confidentiality clause. Yet the "Six Pieces of Advice" explicitly forbade sharing game content.

It was bizarre, a contradiction. If secrecy was paramount, why not include a non-disclosure agreement in the legally binding document?

At the document's end was an e-signature field. Cyrus typed in her name.

No sooner had she completed it than a pop-up appeared, in bold red: "Are you sure you want to join the game? This is your only chance to opt-out."

Only one chance to opt-out?

Cyrus, unbothered, hit confirm.

The page changed, a new message appeared.

"Contract complete."

"Welcome to your new life, Cyrus."

What a bizarre game, she mused, staring at the screen.

After a moment of contemplation, she opened the forum and clicked to register.

The process was absurdly simple; her beta code was all it took.

She typed "318" as her nickname – a number she always used, lacking creativity and to avoid duplicates.

"Nickname cannot be changed once confirmed."

Cyrus didn't think twice and confirmed.

A new message popped up.

"You are the 318th registered player."

Was 318 her lucky number?

After a brief load, she faced the forum.

Its cold metallic sheen, the interface stark, the functions basic – just posting, replying, and private messaging.

But a blood-red number "10000" in the corner caught her eye, labeled "Survivors."

Her heart twitched at the sight of "Survivors," a chill running down her spine.

Dozens of new posts floated in the forum, all fresh from the just-registered players. Refreshing the page, more sprung up in English, Japanese, Russian – global players gathering in this digital space.

Cyrus could barely decipher the Russian, the rest were beyond her.

She scanned the English posts – trivial chatter, calls for meetups, boasts of being among the first hundred.

Hesitating, she started a new post: "Does anyone else find the 'Six Pieces of Advice' odd?"

Her cursor lingered on the "Post" button.

The advice to treat the game world as real, the stark warning of a single life, the grim number "10000" – it all struck a nerve.

A sudden, absurd terror gripped her.

Was it possible, as in fantasy novels, that entering this holographic game meant stepping into a real world?

Despite reassuring herself, Cyrus deleted her draft, opting to lurk and observe.

She refreshed the forum, reading every English post.

Minutes later, a new post caught her eye.

"The devs haven't mentioned shipping the gaming gear. Has anyone received a holographic headset or install package?"

At that moment, a knock sounded at her door.

She stood, peering through the peephole to see no one.

After a wait, she cracked the door open to find a black box marked "Perfected Realm."

Inside lay a silver metal card with an intricate, delicate design of a mechanical hand.

"A game memorabilia card?" she wondered, shivering.

She'd never provided an address to the official site. How had it arrived?

Fearing the worst, she checked the neighborhood's old but functional security cameras.

Her downstairs neighbor Moly, out with her dog, hadn't seen any delivery person.

Despite the July heat, Cyrus felt a chill.

No one had come up, so who had knocked? How had the "Perfected Realm" card reached her doorstep so precisely, right after she'd signed the game agreement?

She flipped the card over.

"Dispossessor - Cyrus. Number: 318."

The number she'd just chosen for her game nickname, her forum registration.

A tingle of dread ran through her.

Things were sprinting towards the uncanny.