Chapter Forty-One: Entering the Gaia Network Once Again

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“Matrix array, interesting,” Ji Cheng murmured, glancing up at the ceiling before suddenly breaking into quiet laughter.

Last night, Zhou Ze had explained its origins over dinner, then handed the thing to him directly. According to Zhou, it was a powerful weapon—just implant it in your palm, and during combat it would generate an arc of electricity before your hand, packing quite a punch.

But as a transmigrant, Ji Cheng knew full well that this was a wasteful and misguided way to use it—akin to short-circuiting an expensive computer just to make it heat up for warmth.

In the game, specialized weapons for ability users were divided into mechanical and biological types. Biological weapons could often be used directly, though they required a certain physical constitution from the user, while mechanical weapons imposed few such restrictions but needed careful modification and calibration before they could function.

The matrix array was a textbook example of a mechanical weapon. The ability users in Southport New City barely understood such devices—they only knew the array had to be implanted in the palm and had no clue about the real method of use.

As its name suggested, it first needed to be an array. The bundle of metallic wires couldn’t be implanted carelessly; it had to be shaped according to specific geometric patterns—a process called “array setting”—bending the wires into special forms.

Ji Cheng knew of hundreds of such array patterns. Different array settings would grant the matrix array vastly different effects. Most famous was the “Death Knell” array, whose unique geometry let the matrix array emit gamma ray bursts, enough to vaporize planets. In later storylines, the original owner—Pope of the Mechagod Cult—would invent the “Baptism” array, capable of directly altering a person’s prefrontal cortex and hippocampus to rewrite memory.

Of course, the electrode matrix array in his hands, powered by bioelectricity, was far inferior in material and could only carry the simplest array patterns.

Even the simplest pattern, however, required molecular-level geometric precision. Ji Cheng couldn’t recall the exact data.

“I wonder if this location is still within the deep space black dot’s signal range.”

If it was, he could simply log onto the Gaia Network and ask that imperial woman. With the Galactic Empire’s technology, blueprints for simple arrays were practically worthless.

Ji Cheng opened a search bar and scrolled through the networks—a deluge of network names flashed past.

Highland 304 might appear desolate, but it was in fact a strategic point on Southport New City’s western defense line. The highway below was a major transport hub; trucks passed by from time to time. Layers of military navigation, fire control, and communication networks overlapped here.

In just a few seconds, he was astonished to find over five hundred networks.

“This one is... ultra-shortwave secure phone, better not touch it.”

“This should be the emergency comms system.”

“Tactical radio internet.”

“Westwind Bastion’s fire control command net.”

“Got it!” Ji Cheng exclaimed softly.

He was elated to find he could still access the garbled network representing the deep space black dot.

With a tap of his finger, he entered the encryption key. After a brief wait, a deathly silence flooded over him—the world froze, and his consciousness began to ascend.

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Galactic Empire, Weiyang Star Palace.

Within the moonlit bedchamber, the stunning Ji Ruyue sat high upon a chair, her gaze icy as she watched her maid’s every move.

The maid knelt, drenched in sweat, her elbows pressed to the ground, holding a whip made of twisted metal. “Forgive me, Your Highness, I deserve ten thousand deaths.”

Ji Ruyue’s hair was long and sleek, cascading like a black waterfall from head to toe. She wore a sumptuous, form-fitting gown whose hem swept the floor, one foot elegantly crossed over the other—her posture regal and cold, the very image of a frost-clad empress.

The maid placed the whip at Ji Ruyue’s feet, trembling as she pleaded, “Please punish me, Your Highness.”

“Take her out. One hundred lashes,” Ji Ruyue said softly.

“Spare me, Your Highness! Please have mercy! It was only a sneeze—one hundred lashes will kill me!” The maid’s face twisted in terror as she kowtowed desperately, her head thudding against the floor.

Two enhanced guards stepped forward at once, seizing the maid to drag her away. No one dared plead for her life. They knew all too well the ruthlessness of royalty—a single wrong word and this princess might turn her wrath on them.

Just then, a chime sounded in Ji Ruyue’s ear.

“It’s the Master!”

Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes sparkled with delight.

“Very well, you’re pardoned,” Ji Ruyue said, in high spirits. She ignored the maid’s thanks and dismissed everyone else from the chamber.

Buzz.

The bedchamber doors closed automatically, sealing her off from the outside world. A curtain of light shimmered on the wall.

Ji Ruyue opened her private channel—a garbled network was flashing incessantly.

Her slender fingers tapped lightly. A flicker of black light, and silence surged in.

The moment she entered the Gaia Network, her heart pounded crazily. Waves of trembling swept her body, a mix of intense tension and excitement.

The eerie sculptures and archways were the same, the torches still unlit, the mysterious council chamber unchanged—that man, or deity, still seated upon the throne, wreathed in darkness.

Ji Ruyue almost shivered as she bowed, lowering her head, which she so rarely did, obedient and docile as a kitten, hoping to leave a good impression.

Perhaps it was just her imagination, but this time the Master seemed even more unfathomable.

Though she could not see his face, she was certain a pair of cold eyes were watching her intently from within the gloom.

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Nervous to the point of helplessness, she glanced cautiously toward the throne. The instant she felt the severe gaze she’d imagined, her limbs gave way and she sank to her knees.

Ji Cheng, meanwhile, was absorbed in investigating the permissions of this virtual space.

“I really ought to bring in more people soon. In the game, the Mechagod Cult had eight branches and countless followers, but here I’m nothing more than a lone commander—not exactly dignified.”

“Huh?” Only then did he notice Ji Ruyue kneeling before him. “When did she log in? I didn’t even see.”

Clearing his throat, Ji Cheng consciously adopted his performance persona, lowering his voice to speak slowly and deeply:

“Rise.”

Though kneeling in the Gaia Network would never make one’s legs go numb, Ji Ruyue stood with hesitant, deliberate motions.

“My greetings to you,” she said, drawing a breath, her eyes full of hope. “Master, you summoned me—what are your orders?”

Ji Cheng glanced at her, satisfied with her obedient demeanor, and raised his hand.

Darkness surged; his voice seemed to echo from an abyss.

“A trifling matter.”

He paused, careful not to appear too impatient and lose his air of inscrutable mystery.

“Upload to me the full technical blueprints for the ‘Regret’ array.”

‘Regret’ was an array pattern Ji Cheng had chosen after careful consideration. Its primary means of attack was to generate a narrow, high-frequency oscillation in the air by manipulating force fields, producing a razor-sharp stream of wind. When the velocity reached a certain threshold, the cutting power was immense.

It was like wielding an invisible chainsaw—one touch, and the target was instantly severed.

Although one of the simplest array patterns, its air-cutting attack offered a huge advantage: no matter how poor the materials of your matrix array, the damage output varied little—resulting in remarkably stable performance.

In other words, a ‘Regret’ matrix made from the shoddiest metal would perform almost as well as one made from the finest alloy.

And the one in his hands, treasured by Zhou Ze and the others, was certainly among the shoddiest.