"Light Evening Breeze" was the sender's name. His avatar displayed an animated character sporting a white top hat and a monocle, resembling a magician.
Appended to his name was his Sequence: K0103. The number was significantly lower than Bai Mu's K8107.
'So, the concept of a Player community really does exist.'
Receiving an email from a "Community Administrator" confirmed Bai Mu's underlying suspicions.
He did not rush to reply to Light Evening Breeze. Instead, he took a cue from the other party's avatar and community name to partially disguise his own identity.
On the interface panel, he changed his community name to "White" and set his avatar to the default panda head.
The avatar gave off a harmless first impression. Next, Bai Mu crafted a completely new persona for himself.
He fleshed out a detailed backstory and jotted the parameters down on a piece of paper.
Put simply, he concealed his ten years of survival experience in the apocalypse, simplifying his current identity into a college sophomore studying software engineering.
This was not entirely a fabrication. Ten years ago, when he first tested into university and moved far away from home, software engineering had indeed been his major.
Back then, everyone told him that the tech industry offered high salaries and lucrative prospects. For a poor kid looking to make something of himself, studying computer science was the golden ticket.
Unfortunately, before he could finish his degree, the world had undergone a cataclysmic change.
A substantial portion of his fabricated resume was entirely factual. In fact, if one simply erased the horrific and isolated decade he had endured, the person outlined on that paper was exactly who he used to be.
Ten years ago, he had been just that—a socially awkward, simple-minded country kid who barely knew how to operate a computer or a smartphone, moving to the big city for his studies.
Moving forward in his interactions with Light Evening Breeze, Bai Mu resolved to fully commit to this persona. The other party was clearly probing him. Exposing his true bottom line right out of the gate would put him at a severe disadvantage. It was far safer to wear a disguise that perfectly aligned with what the administrator expected to see.
He mentally regressed to his mindset from a decade ago, fully immersing himself in the circumstances and personality of that former self, ensuring every thought and decision mirrored that young man's logic.
'If I were a naive college student who had never experienced anything as grueling as the Deserted Island Script, there is no way I would have survived as comfortably as I actually did.'
'The torment of scrounging for food and water, combined with the crushing loneliness and helplessness of pure isolation, would have severely eroded my psychological defenses. I would be desperate for human interaction.'
'After agonizing through those thirty days, only to find myself in a cramped, oppressive little room instead of my familiar city, I would undoubtedly be overwhelmed with anxiety and terror.'
'Under those circumstances, if someone claiming to be a community administrator sent me an email, how would I reply?'
Bai Mu kept his body moving with a set of push-ups while vividly imagining himself as that frantic, insecure student.
'Since it took even me so much effort, that student would never have managed to repair the marine walkie-talkie to contact a rescue team. The sender of this email would be the absolute first person he could communicate with after thirty agonizing days.'
'He would view the other party as a lifeline, anxiously inquiring about his current situation. He might even spill his guts, recounting all the bizarre, incomprehensible things he had just experienced.'
'Between the lines, he would also need to express a deep, homesick longing for his family and his hometown.'
'However, he would avoid mentioning specific names or locations. Even in his panic, he would maintain a shred of vigilance, sending out a tentative, vague feeler to test the waters.'
'Terrified of the unknown, he wouldn't immediately step out of his room into the so-called public area. He would treat this oppressive little room as a protective shell. This would be the first safe, orderly sanctuary he had seen in a month. He wouldn't step out of it lightly, no matter how stifling it felt.'
'Yes, exactly. He would strictly communicate with other Players online at first. Only after establishing a baseline level of trust would he ever dare to step through that door and venture outside.'
Within minutes, Bai Mu had meticulously scripted out his behavioral patterns.
Standing before the mirror, he began to manipulate his facial expressions. He carefully buried the world-weary apathy that lingered between his brows. Stretching the corners of his mouth and eyes, he practiced a wider, more naive range of emotion, committing the subtle shifts of his facial muscles to memory.
To perfect the disguise, he even purchased a specific set of clothing and accessories from the store.
He ruffled his hair into a messy mop, draped a loose long-sleeved shirt over his well-built physique, and slid a goofy pair of thick black-framed glasses onto his face. In an instant, he transformed into an innocent, ivory-tower college student.
The primary reason this worked so well was that Paradise had physically de-aged his body, giving him a naturally youthful appearance that practically screamed of worldly inexperience.
Bai Mu suddenly recalled that day many years ago when he had first boarded the bus heading to the big city for university. That younger version of himself had looked almost exactly like this.
He offered a silent, self-deprecating chuckle, then sat down to draft the email.
Since the other party had initiated contact, Bai Mu now had his mailing address. The social interface of Paradise was quite refined; until Bai Mu replied, Light Evening Breeze could only send him that initial message.
Only when both parties demonstrated a willingness to communicate would a direct channel be opened between them.
"Hello, Mr. Community Administrator."
Bai Mu opened with the most polite, deferential greeting possible. When a person felt their status was inferior to the other party, they instinctively relied on honorifics. In this case, of course, the deference was entirely calculated.
"Excuse me, but what kind of place is Endless Paradise exactly?"
"I was just trapped on a completely deserted island, and then suddenly I appeared here."
"I don't know how I got here. I just really want to go home. Could you please tell me how I can go back home?"
Bai Mu kept his initial reply strictly to those few lines.
It perfectly projected his insecurity, anxiety, and ignorance—traits that would hopefully prompt the administrator to lower his guard.
If the other party replied quickly to clear up his confusion, it likely meant the man actually held certain administrative duties. In that case, Bai Mu would play along and see how much information he could extract.
On the other hand, if the other party ignored his email or waited a considerable amount of time before replying, it would point to one of two scenarios.
First, he wanted something specific from this newcomer, so he was intentionally letting Bai Mu stew to heighten his anxiety.
Second, he couldn't care less about this newcomer and was merely running through a routine, lackadaisical checklist.
Bai Mu considered anything between fifteen and thirty minutes to be a standard response window.
If it dragged on past thirty minutes, he would have to completely reassess the administrator's true motives.
Through a seemingly casual email reply, Bai Mu was already engaging the other party in a multi-layered psychological chess match.
The reply arrived far quicker than he had anticipated. Barely a minute after hitting send, a lengthy block of text dropped into his inbox from Light Evening Breeze.