The nine members went their separate ways.
This caused quite a stir among the fanbase.
However, fans still rallied behind the slogan, "Together we are a blazing fire; apart we are scattered stars," eagerly anticipating more works and greater success from their favorite idols.
Going solo didn’t mean disbanding.
At least, not officially.
And there was no need to disband anyway.
With the nine now pursuing individual paths, Yang Laoliu was undoubtedly heading into variety shows.
She lacked standout skills—her acting was mediocre, her singing average, and her dancing unremarkable… Well, perhaps that’s a bit harsh, given how much she’d improved over the past year and a half.
But compared to her sisters, she still fell short in professional ability.
So, variety shows were her only viable path—thankfully, she had a natural flair for entertainment and comedic timing.
The other girls either ventured into music or film and television.
Meanwhile, the upcoming Produce Camp 2019—the second season of the girl group survival show—would feature them as senior mentors and rotating team leaders.
This was the kind of schedule fans loved to see.
The second-season contestants were no pushovers, though many had connections behind the scenes.
Having the first-season group return, even just as rotating mentors rather than full-time residents, was a major promotional win for the show.
In just one short year,
the nine had carved out their own places in the industry. The confidence and aura they’d gained from their rising fame were something these new trainees couldn’t match.
A year ago, they too had been trainees, but now, their presence was commanding, as if they’d been industry veterans for years.
The moment they appeared, the new trainees erupted in screams.
For the nine, this was a triumphant homecoming.
…
By April,
Cao Cheng received some good news.
The gaming headset was finally finalized.
Three headset models were designed to fit 99.9% of head shapes, with internal sizing options (large, medium, small).
The exterior design remained unchanged.
Additionally, there was a high-performance virtual pod.
Cao Cheng immediately mobilized nearly a hundred personnel from his security and private military company, equipped them with the PUBG virtual game client,
and had them serve as the first batch of beta testers.
As each person put on the headset, the LED light strip around it flickered to life—a sign it was active.
Researchers monitored everything closely,
with large screens displaying the players’ in-game statuses in real time.
Every possible precaution was taken to prevent accidents.
Everyone was tense—
except for Cao Cheng, who remained relatively calm. He trusted the capabilities of the Core Interface Matrix.
As long as the headset hardware held up, the Core’s terminal wouldn’t fail.
For now, it was still a closed network,
so there was no risk of hacking.
Soon…
the battle began.
To outside observers, it looked like any other game—an overhead view showing all hundred players’ movements.
But inside the game, everything felt astonishingly real.
Some were digging dirt, plucking grass, climbing trees, or wading into rivers…
One even wove grass into makeshift ghillie suits, crafting camouflage on the fly.
If not for their awareness that this was a virtual space, they might’ve struggled to distinguish it from reality.
The immersion was that intense.
They could smell the earthy scent of the forest.
Running was exhausting.
Unlike traditional games, movement here was entirely free-form—players could sprint at full speed, creep silently, or move so slowly they made no sound.
No footstep indicators, no minimap markers.
Of course,
if someone bolted recklessly, nearby players could still hear them.
Whether they could pinpoint the direction depended on skill and experience.
Thankfully, none of these hundred testers were amateurs—most had seen real combat.
The security firm operated overseas, after all, handling messy situations regularly.
Over the years, anyone who hadn’t fired a gun or drawn blood would’ve been laughed at by their colleagues.
Many were bona fide veterans, seasoned with firearms.
After a brief adjustment period,
they quickly adapted to the immersive experience.
…
Meanwhile, researchers outside monitored physiological data—heart rates, blood pressure, etc.—
checking for any adverse effects.
In theory, the game shouldn’t cause drastic changes.
At most, intense moments might spike neural activity, slightly elevating heart rates.
The brain was unpredictable, though.
Even with the Core Interface Matrix’s safeguards, thorough testing was essential before commercialization.
Safety was non-negotiable.
A 100-player battle royale could literally scare someone to death if not properly designed.
Fortunately, everything remained stable.
Even during firefights, heart rates stayed between 80 and 90 BPM, rarely exceeding 100.
Data streamed in steadily.
The match lasted about an hour.
Without the encroaching "toxic zone" forcing players toward the center, triggering skirmishes, it might’ve dragged on for hours.
In real combat, campers were everywhere.
Without the zone, some would’ve stayed prone in the grass indefinitely.
Interestingly,
the toxic zone in this virtual world was actual poison gas.
Unless players found gas masks, holding their breath for a minute would be fatal.
No gradual health depletion—just instant death.
This was a true-to-life battlefield.
A single headshot from a pistol could end you.
So,
almost no one risked the gas—masks were too rare.
…
Soon,
the battle concluded.
A young man named Tang Hu claimed victory.
As prearranged, all hundred logged out.
When they regrouped, their demeanors had shifted.
There was a sharpness in the air—
real, palpable combat intensity.
Their expressions varied—some exhilarated, others pumped with adrenaline, a few frustrated or regretful.
The game fed back sensory data at about 20% intensity.
A match or two left most feeling only slightly fatigued—after all, sprinting, climbing, swimming, and digging were physically demanding, even virtually.
…
Testing wasn’t over.
They’d exited specifically to debrief with researchers, reporting sensations and potential bugs.
Each player provided detailed feedback before diving back in for another round.

ver to a world of cultivation and returned invincible. Modern medicine is child's play compared to elixirs; technological might crumbles before true cultivation. My name is Qin Ning, Earth's sole cultivator!

saw a female celebrity tied up and stuffed in the trunk! Little did he know, countless cameras were aimed at him at this moment - this was a new type of reality show. The first randomly selected passerby was caught in less than an hour. But when Xu Moru was selected, things started to take an unexpected turn. "Damn, this isn't how the script goes. This Xu Moru is too bold, he's not following the rules at all." "Crap, is this guy taking it seriously?" "The female celebrity has been scared to tears!"

pression Bureau] Transported to a fantasy world overrun by demons and monsters, Gu Qingfeng becomes a jailer in the Demon Suppression Prison of the Great Yan Dynasty's Demon Suppression Bureau. From this point on, bizarre cases frequently occur in the Demon Suppression Prison, once known as hell on earth and infamous for its gloomy, terrifying atmosphere! Why do the demons and monsters in the prison wail miserably every night? Why has the corpse demon, capable of transforming into various beauties, donned black stockings and switched careers to become a foot massage therapist? Why has the eye demon, expert in soul-snatching and illusions, turned into a VR headset? Why is the fox spirit performing otaku dances? Are all these occurrences a twisted expression of demonic nature, or a descent into moral depravity? After peeling away layer upon layer of mystery, all clues ultimately point to a jailer named Gu Qingfeng. Gu Qingfeng: "Hehehe... My dear demons and monsters, whose card shall we flip today?"

transmigrates into the world as the sect master of the Heavenly Yan Sect, which is on the verge of being wiped out. He binds a system that grants him cultivation power based on the number of disciples he has: for each disciple, he automatically gains a year's worth of cultivation every single day! Take one disciple: every day he gains 1 year of cultivation power. While others struggle through a year of bitter training, he gets the same just by sleeping through a single night. Take ten disciples: every day he gains 10 years of cultivation power. Foundation Establishment, Core Formation, Nascent Soul—he breezes through all bottlenecks without lifting a finger. Take one hundred disciples: every day he gains 100 years of cultivation power. Even a Soul Transformation Venerable before him can’t survive a single blow. Take ten thousand disciples: every day he gains 10,000 years of cultivation power! With a wave of his hand, he topples empires. With a single step, he crushes the sacred grounds of the universe. ... While others fight tooth and nail for secret techniques, Lin Yan casually hands out Nascent Soul-level cultivation manuals as beginner textbooks. While others strain to find talented recruits, Lin Yan opens his doors to anyone—so long as they’re human. In just three short years, the Heavenly Yan Sect went from a backwater sect made up of three crumbling huts to a sacred land that every cultivator under heaven would kill to enter. ... One day, otherworldly demon gods invade, with a million demon soldiers pressing down upon the realm. Lin Yan, yawning, rises from his lounge chair and glances at the system panel: [Current Disciples: 1.28 million] [Daily Cultivation Increase: 1.28 million years] He waves his hand casually, and the countless demon soldiers are reduced to ashes in an instant. “So noisy… interrupting my fishing.”