The Ascension to Godhood Begins with the Blacklight Virus

Chapter 2 Under the Skin

In the early hours of the morning, Cheng Song backed his patrol car into the police station's parking space with such precision that it was as if he were playing a muscle memory test on "how to park perfectly when extremely tired." He turned off the engine, but instead of getting out of the car, he sank into the driver's seat, closed his eyes, and began the personality switching procedure of "switching from a nighttime street cleaner to a daytime auxiliary police officer."

The "extra meal" in his stomach had already completed its "indescribable assimilation process," leaving only a strange feeling of fullness, like "eating three pounds of expired industrial gelatin," and a lingering, sweet-smelling aftertaste. He pushed open the car door, and a blast of cold air hit him head-on, carrying the earthy smell of post-rain, which successfully neutralized the subtle odor in the car that suggested he had just dealt with an "abnormal creature."

Several colleagues on the second night shift were eating instant noodles around the table. When he came in, one of them looked up, his eyes still glued to the noodle container: "Brother Song, all done? How's that drunkard?"

"He couldn't be saved." Cheng Song took off his wet, reflective vest and hung it up, his tone as calm as if he were talking about what he had for breakfast. "Let's wait for the forensic doctor. He probably had some underlying health condition and got caught in the rain."

"Tsk, this weather." The person who asked the question shook his head and continued slurping his noodles.

Cheng Song walked to his locker—a locker so old it looked like a prop from a film set twenty years ago. He took out a towel, wiped his face haphazardly, then sat down and turned on the worrisomely slow computer. The fluorescent lights in the duty room diligently created a double dose of mental pollution: a stark white light and a buzzing sound. He pulled up a report template, his fingers tapping on the keyboard with a steady rhythm, as if he were typing a pre-rehearsed, fixed procedure.

"No vital signs were found... No obvious external injuries... Suspected sudden illness combined with hypothermia..." He wrote quickly, using wording that perfectly met the standards of a "grassroots report," emphasizing "standardization" and "leaving room for maneuver." Finally, he signed his name in the "responder" column and then added Xiao Chen's name in a flamboyant manner—anyway, that unfortunate kid would have to come back to submit a supplementary explanation tomorrow.

Print, sign, file. The whole process was completed, and the sky outside the window was already turning gray.

He got up and went to the washroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on his face. The icy tap water brought a brief moment of clarity. He looked up at his face in the mirror. His eyes were sunken, his beard was unkempt, and his complexion was a combination of chronic sleep deprivation and malnutrition—a sallow, ashen look. Only in his eyes, as the water droplets slid down, did a fleeting, inhuman emptiness seem to flash deep within his pupils.

He blinked, and the anomaly disappeared. The person in the mirror returned to being Cheng Song, an ordinary auxiliary police officer with a tired face and a perfunctory expression.

"Brother Song!" Xiao Chen clutched his stomach, shuffling in with a look of "severe stomach upset," his face deathly pale. "I'm so sorry, tonight we're all counting on you... this awful stomach..."

Cheng Song grabbed a tissue to wipe his face and tossed him a whole pack: "Save your energy, go back and lie down. I'll talk to Lao Zhao for you tomorrow."

Xiao Chen took the tissue, deeply moved: "Thanks, Brother Song! I'll definitely treat you to a nice meal later!"

"Let's talk after you've taken care of your own stomach." Cheng Song waved his hand, his tone conveying a familiar "I can't do anything with you" attitude.

Just then, Old Zhao strolled in from outside, a cigarette dangling from his lips. When he saw Cheng Song, he beckoned to him with the finger holding the cigarette.

Cheng Song followed Lao Zhao to the end of the corridor. Lao Zhao took a deep drag of his cigarette, slowly exhaling, the smoke swirling in the dim light. "Report: I took a look," he said, his voice low but carrying the distinctive tone of a superior. "Next time, remember, don't always try to handle things alone. Call for backup when needed; you're not made of iron."

Cheng Song looked down at the mud spots on the toes of his shoes that hadn't completely dried. "I know, Brother Zhao. I thought the situation was simple, so I just wanted to get it over with quickly."

"Simple my ass!" Old Zhao cursed, but his tone wasn't harsh. "How simple can it be for a drunkard lying under a bridge? You just want to avoid trouble and finish it yourself quickly. Don't I know your problem?" He handed over a half-smoked cigarette.

Cheng Song took it, but didn't pull it out; he just held it between his fingers. "I won't do it again next time."

Old Zhao stared at him for a few seconds, as if confirming something, then sighed: "Get lost, go back and get some sleep. You look terrible."

"Why."

Cheng Song responded and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Old Zhao added from behind, "Oh, by the way, your mom called the station yesterday at noon, asking if you were coming home for dinner tonight. I told her you were on duty and would come back the next morning. Tomorrow's Friday, so you can rest at home and catch your breath."

Cheng Song paused for 0.1 seconds, but didn't turn around. He simply raised his hand and waved to indicate that he understood.

At 7:30 in the morning, Cheng Song rode his bicycle—a rickety bicycle that rattled everywhere except for the bell—back home. The stairwell was filled with a mixture of cooking fumes and the smell of some unknown Chinese herbal medicine. He took out his key, but before he could even put it in the lock, the door opened automatically.

His mother, Liu Xiuying, wearing an apron and holding a spatula, immediately started nagging when she saw him: "Oh dear, you're all wet! Come in quickly! You're working the night shift, why don't you wear more clothes? What if you catch a cold? Go change your clothes! Breakfast will be ready soon!" Cheng Song responded with "uh-huh" and squeezed through the door, leaving his muddy shoes outside.

Cheng Jianguo, the father, was sitting on the living room sofa watching the morning news, the volume low. Seeing him come in, he glanced up and said, "I'm back."

"Um."

"There seemed to be some commotion in the west, around Wenchang Bridge last night," Cheng Jianguo suddenly said, his eyes still fixed on the television screen, which was showing an unimportant local news report.

Cheng Song's heart skipped a beat, but his face remained unchanged. As he walked towards his room, he casually replied, "Yeah, a drunkard collapsed under a bridge, so we went to take care of him."

"All you ever think about is dealing with things!" Liu Xiuying's voice chased after him from the kitchen, filled with dissatisfaction. "Don't you care about your health? You've been up all night, and your face is all green! I've told your dad so many times to talk to Old Zhao and get you a less demanding job! But you just won't listen! Look at Aunt Wang's son, he works in an office..."

Cheng Song closed the door, shutting out the nagging. He leaned against the door and took a deep breath. The room was in typical "male-only" condition, a familiar chaos. This was his safe zone.

He changed out of his damp police uniform and into his loungewear, the soft old cotton fabric offering a touch of comfort. He walked to the window, opened it a crack, and let the cool morning breeze in. Downstairs, elderly men and women were practicing Tai Chi, accompanied by the soft strains of traditional opera—the whole scene was filled with the tranquility of everyday life.

"Xiaosong! Come out and eat! What are you dawdling for!" his mother called from outside the door.

He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the fatigue and numbness, and put on his usual submissive expression, tinged with impatience, before opening the door.

Breakfast was already laid out on the table. The congee with preserved egg and lean pork was steaming hot, the pan-fried dumplings were golden brown, and there was a small dish of pickled cucumbers.

"Eat quickly, and then go lie down and rest." Liu Xiuying served him a bowl of porridge that was overflowing with porridge.

Cheng Jianguo also moved to the dining table, picked up a steamed bun, and asked, "Has the schedule for this weekend been released yet? Your mother has arranged something for you, Saturday afternoon."

Cheng Songgang had just picked up the bowl when he heard this and paused slightly.

"Have you arranged anything?" He looked up.

"The girl Aunt Wang introduced!" Liu Xiuying's voice immediately rose, her eyes shining. "She's a primary school teacher, a respectable job, and quite pretty! I've seen her picture, she's nice! I finally managed to arrange it with her, Saturday afternoon at 2 pm, at that Starbucks in the central square. You're not allowed to make excuses this time!"

Cheng Song lowered his head and stirred the porridge in his bowl with a spoon. White rice grains, brown shredded meat, green scallions, and translucent pieces of preserved egg. Steam rose, blurring his vision. For a moment, the porridge in front of him seemed no longer to be simple food, but rather some kind of… loosely structured organic mixture.

Deep inside my stomach, that cold, other-level "appetite" stirred very slightly.

He abruptly closed his eyes, then opened them again, scooped up a large spoonful, and stuffed it into his mouth. The scalding hot porridge brought a real burning sensation. The soft texture of the rice grains, the savory aroma of the shredded meat, the unique flavor of the preserved egg, and the spiciness of his mother's slightly damp, leftover pepper powder—all mixed together into a brutal sensory torrent, forcefully dispelling that strange feeling.

"Eat slowly! It's hot! Nobody's going to take it from you!" Liu Xiuying scolded playfully, but her eyes were full of laughter.

Cheng Song didn't speak, he just nodded and continued to eat voraciously. He ate very quickly, almost wolfing down his food, as if he wanted to use the presence of this everyday food to forcibly suppress some deeper dissatisfaction within him.

After finishing his meal, he washed the dishes and then returned to his room at his mother's urging, "Go and rest." He lay down, drew the curtains, and darkness enveloped him. His body was sending signals of extreme exhaustion, yet his mind was unusually clear. The dark red lines beneath the skin of his right arm felt slightly warm.

The fragmented memories of the man under the bridge—the dimly lit basement, the distorted symbols, the fanatical figure, the green slime—replayed uncontrollably in his mind.

"The one who sows..." he repeated the word silently, turned over and buried his face in the pillow, trying to force himself to fall asleep.

Consciousness sank into darkness, only to be immediately transported into a chaotic dream. Fragmented images flashed back at high speed: the roar of a monster, the feel of icy rain, the mother's nagging mouth, the father's silent profile, the jar of swaying, ominous green, viscous liquid… Finally, all the images collapsed into a writhing, dark red shadow—

Cheng Song suddenly opened his eyes, waking up from a nightmare.

The room was dimly lit, with only a sliver of light filtering through the curtains. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. He checked his phone; it was only 10 a.m., meaning he had slept for less than three hours.

But I couldn't fall asleep anymore.

He got up, took a cold shower, and changed into dark casual clothes—a black hoodie and dark jeans. He looked in the mirror; the bloodshot eyes hadn't faded, but that usual air of颓废懒 and languor had returned to his face. He adjusted his expression, letting that mix of "not enough sleep" and "don't mess with me" aura dominate.

Before leaving, he glanced at his parents' bedroom—the door was closed, and his parents were out. He quietly opened the door and slipped out.

Instead of riding a bicycle, he walked through several streets into a desolate area slated for demolition. Here, ruins stood everywhere, and weeds grew rampant. He turned into an abandoned office building that was now just a skeleton, climbed the creaking stairs, and finally stopped in front of a weathered cement wall.

The wall was covered in messy graffiti. He stretched out his hand and placed his palm on an inconspicuous spiral pattern on the wall that resembled natural cracks.

A strange sensation stirred beneath the skin, and a wisp of inhuman aura emerged.

The wall rippled silently, the center of the ripples collapsing inward to form a rotating, hazy, misty vortex.

Cheng Song stepped inside.

After a slight feeling of weightlessness and stickiness, the environment completely changes.

Spirit Street.

Beneath my feet lay a wet, bluestone path that wound its way into the depths of a perpetually dark, greyish-purple mist. The sky hung low, starless and moonless, save for a dim, self-illuminating light.

The air was thick with a complex olfactory mix: aged incense, the rust of metal, the strange sweetness and tang of herbs, the smoky aroma of unidentified roasted meat, and the lingering smell of ozone. The auditory cacophony was even more deafening, like a jumble of market recordings from ten different eras: haggling, mysterious whispers, incomprehensible chanting, blacksmithing, inhuman screams, synthesized electronic music…

The shops lining the street were a chaotic mess. To the left stood a traditional Chinese wooden building with ornate beams and painted rafters, yet two futuristic holographic stone lions guarded its entrance. Beneath the plaque reading "Divine Machines Refined," flying swords, talismans, and miniature mechs were displayed side-by-side in the shop window. To the right was a grotesque shack haphazardly pieced together from writhing flesh and metal pipes. Beneath a sign made of glowing fungi that read "Breedland of Flesh and Blood," several still-pulsating biological hearts served as wind chimes.

A diverse array of people moved through the mist and shadows. A burly man in tattered plate armor, carrying a large sword, was fiercely sparring with a slender figure shrouded in flowing data light and shadow; several hooded figures, their faces obscured except for their chins, were engaged in a suspicious transaction in a corner; a humanoid creature composed of countless books, floating in mid-air, was making a rustling sound as it turned the pages…

This is "Spirit Street," an alternate dimension accessible through a specific entrance from each player's city after the arrival of the Spirit Realm game. The system rules here are relatively vague; permanent damage and large-scale destruction are prohibited, but deception, theft, and the survival of the fittest are the default laws. It functions like a massive, spontaneous black market and information exchange center, connecting countless instances with reality.

Cheng Song pulled down the hood of his hoodie, hiding his face in the shadows. His "scent"—that unique aura of the Blacklight Virus prototype mixed with the chaotic smell of recently consumed "inferior" substances—wasn't particularly strong here; Spirit Street was filled with strange energy fluctuations and the stench of blood. But he remained cautious, avoiding those who were clearly dangerous, those in groups, or those with overly greedy eyes.

He skillfully turned into a relatively quiet side street. The shops here were more old and secluded. Finally, he stopped in front of a shop.

The shop is small, a pure, ancient wooden and stone structure, devoid of any high-tech or supernatural decorations. Above the entrance hangs an old wooden plaque with peeling paint, bearing the three characters "Rongqi Zhai" in rounded, rustic script. Next to it is a line of smaller characters: "Grocery Recycling, Information Consultation." The two ebony doors are tightly shut; there are no neon lights, no holographic projections, no bizarre signs. In this world of dazzling lights and shadows, its simplicity is almost eerie, and its profoundness unsettling.

Cheng Song pushed open the door.

The door hinges turned with a long, creaking sound; there were no wind chimes. A dry scent, a mixture of old paper, strange herbs, and a cool sandalwood fragrance, wafted out, instantly dispelling the damp mist outside.

The shop was slightly larger than it appeared from the outside, but still not by much. Light came from a few old bronze oil lamps on the walls, their flames burning steadily and casting flickering shadows. Against the wall were ebony shelves that reached the ceiling, filled with strange and unusual objects: a miniature storm encased in crystal, a bead that seemed to contain a nebula slowly rotating within it, a potted black plant whose leaves moved without wind, several scrolls made of unknown leather… There were no labels, and no blatant energy fluctuations, yet each item exuded an aura of age and mystery.

The counter was also made of heavy, dark wood, polished to a smooth, mirror-like finish. However, behind the counter...it seemed there was no one there?

No, Cheng Song's gaze shifted downwards.

Behind the counter, a little girl sat curled up on a raised armchair covered with soft embroidered cushions.

She looked no more than eleven or twelve years old, dressed in an oversized, dark Hanfu embroidered with intricate silver threads, the sleeves and hem almost dragging on the ground. Her long, black hair was styled into two delicate buns, tied with red ribbons, each adorned with a small, fluttering silver butterfly hairpin. Her face was small, her skin almost translucent white, her lips a natural, deep red. At this moment, she was engrossed in a thick book, larger than her face, with a cover made of some kind of animal hide, her two small legs, encased in white cloth socks, dangling from the edge of the chair, swinging idly.

Seemingly sensing someone enter, the little girl—or rather, the shop owner—slowly raised her head.

She revealed a delicate face, as exquisite as a porcelain doll. Her eyebrows were curved, her nose was straight and elegant, and most striking were her eyes, with pupils of an extremely rare, clear, glassy gold that shimmered with an inorganic luster under the lamplight. A small, crimson beauty mark under the corner of her left eye added a strange, eerie quality to her otherwise perfect face.

She looked at Cheng Song, blinked her crystal-clear golden eyes, and then, with a slight pout from her cherry-red lips, uttered words that carried a tone completely different from her appearance—old-fashioned and extremely sarcastic:

"Hey, isn't this our diligent city scavenger? Where did you go rummaging through garbage dumps today? The smell on you... ugh, it's like the stench of swill from under a bridge mixed with expired, fermented 'cheap royal jelly,' enough to wake up a homeless person three blocks away. Last night's 'midnight snack' must have been pretty shabby, right?"

Cheng Song had developed a resistance to this barrage of sarcastic remarks. He lazily yawned and said to the counter, "Two servings of Cleansing Incense, the deluxe version that can quell the 'overly greasy meal last night caused indigestion'." He then expelled nine spirit crystals.

Rong Shou slammed the large book in her hand shut and tossed it aside. She rested her chin on her hand, tilted her head, and sized up Cheng Song, her golden eyes filled with undisguised disdain.

"Purifying incense? With the concentration of 'walking biochemical pollutants' on you right now, two packets of ordinary purifying incense? Are you planning to use it to repel mosquitoes, or are you just fooling yourself?" She scoffed, her voice crisp but her tone sarcastic. "Let me tell you, the 'junk food' you eat has dangerously high levels of additives. Ordinary purifying incense can't cleanse those deep-seated 'toxins' and 'impurities'."

"Okay, okay, you're right." Cheng Song raised his hands in surrender, his tone tinged with the helplessness of "I've been scolded again." "Then could you recommend a high-end product that can do deep cleaning?"

She reached into her wide sleeves and pulled out a palm-sized, completely black, dull wooden box. As if throwing away something unclean, she tossed it with a clatter next to the spirit crystal in front of Cheng Song.

"Soul-Cleansing Incense, premium version. Perfect for idiots like you who eat whatever they want and get indigestion." She pointed her slender index finger at the wooden box, then at the pitiful few spirit crystals. "With your meager allowance, you can't even afford a lid. Eight hundred spirit crystals, no discounts, no credit. Or…"

She leaned forward, resting her head on the counter, her large, bright eyes blinking, radiating an innocent charm. But what she said made Cheng Song's eyes twitch: "...Tell me, what interesting seasonings did you taste in those junk foods? Or, who was so tasteless as to mix 'industrial saccharin' into those knock-offs?"

Cheng Song recalled the fragmented memories that flooded in during the devouring—the dimly lit basement, the distorted symbols, the fanatical figures, the green slime—flashing through his mind again. Especially the blurry figures and the word "hatching farm" in the black-robed man's memory. He paused for two seconds, then stroked his chin: "The clues… are probably something like 'An elite monster has appeared in the starting village, suspected to be a prerequisite for a quest chain, with extremely low-quality drops but inflicting a mental pollution debuff'? Oh right, there's also a fragment of coordinates for 'hatching farm,' which looks like the entrance to a small dungeon."

He reached out and covered the black wooden box, as well as the spirit crystals.

"However, I still choose to pay to avoid trouble." He took out his "key"—that old cell phone—and pointed it at the talisman in the corner of the counter.

A flash of light, and most of the account balance was wiped out.

"Tsk, miser, tight-lipped." Rong Shou curled her lips, seemingly unsurprised by his choice, but also a little annoyed at not digging up any new gossip. She shrank back into the armchair, then took out a neatly cut piece of yellow animal skin paper from her sleeve. Using a small silver brush, thinner than her finger, she dipped it in an unknown silver ink and quickly wrote two lines. Then, holding it between two fingers, she handed it to Cheng Song like she was giving a beggar a handing.

First line: Western suburbs, former site of Shuguang Primary School.

Second line: Tonight at midnight.

"Here, the bonus 'garbage disposal point' forecast. Next time you 'hunt for food,' remember to be picky and choose carefully. Don't always pick up things that pollute the environment and lower the average quality of the 'garbage' on the whole street." She swung her legs lazily. "The guy who planted this seed has terrible taste, clumsy techniques, and the 'seed' he used is a cheap knock-off of 'Seed of Corruption.' He's been fooling idiots in the real world lately. The side effects... well, you'll probably turn into the kind of non-recyclable garbage you just ate."

Cheng Song picked up the wooden box and the note; they were icy cold to the touch.

"Oh, by the way," Rong Shou's crisp, sharp voice rang out again as he turned around. She pulled out a small, exquisite, jet-black miniature coffin model from somewhere, twirling it between her fingers. "A clearance item from 'Wang Sheng Zhai' on East Street, pieced together from scraps of jujube wood struck by lightning. I don't know if it'll ward off evil, but it's cheap, perfect for someone like you who's radiating 'bad luck.' Want to pre-order one? As a regular customer, I can have them carve 'died in the line of duty' on your tombstone, and there's a 20% discount on express service."

Cheng Song had already opened the door. Upon hearing this, he waved his hand without turning his head and said, "Thanks, but I think I'm tough and won't need it for now. When I really need to reopen, I'll definitely come back to you to order a deluxe version." Then his figure disappeared into the eternal night fog and noise outside the door.

The ebony door closed silently behind him.

The little girl on the armchair withdrew her gaze, picked up the thick book again, and her golden eyes gleamed with an unfathomable light under the oil lamp.

"The smell of Blacklight... is still so strong." She muttered to herself, her voice deep and slightly annoyed, which didn't match her appearance. "This time it's mixed with 'corrupted' knockoffs again... It's getting worse and worse. I hope I don't get sick from eating it and turn into a large, non-combustible piece of trash that needs to be cleaned up. What a nuisance."