12. A grand stage? No, a grand stove!

On the Magic-Forbidden Stone Tablet was engraved the totem of the Clearwater organization: a droplet of water splashing into a star-shaped pattern.

Jiang Heyi reached out to touch the surface of the stone tablet. Instantly, the tablet lit up with a soft purple glow that shimmered and condensed into a golden bubble floating in midair.

“Still some experts around?” the prison guard exclaimed, “No wonder it’s you.”

Jiang Heyi sighed, “You should think of this as a reward given when unlocking the story, probably fixed.”

[Magic-Forbidden Dust]: Another possibility born at the dawn of the world, some scholars call it a “plague” within the magical system.

Sure enough, this small pouch of Magic-Forbidden Dust was bound to the recipient upon acquisition and could not be traded.

Its effect of twisting and disrupting magic made it highly probable to be used in equipment forging.

Jiang Heyi’s gaze fell on Original Fries. “You take it.”

“Isn’t squid a better choice?”

“Our current combat strength is weak; defense only leads to slow death. Your playstyle is aggressive. I decided to maximize offensive gains so that even if you die, we still have a chance to clean up.”

It was annoying to be worried about dying at any moment.

But knowing Jiang Heyi’s calculation was purely rational planning, Original Fries had no argument.

“Such a large stone tablet, and only this tiny pouch of dust? So stingy,” the prison guard grumbled.

Zhong Zemo was satisfied, “Willing to give at all is thoughtful. Some games just put key items next to you in cutscenes — you can see them but not pick them up.”

The corpse of the nun lay directly beneath the Magic-Forbidden Stone Tablet.

Her hands were chained behind her back, her scarred body curled up like a helpless infant.

Zhong Zemo’s sharp eyes noticed details missed in the spirit form: all eight fingers were pierced by slender silver spikes, and her index finger had been severed and was missing.

Considering spirits usually appeared at night, Jiang Heyi decided to return briefly to Windpod City with the prison guard using the Starry Sky Jade to replenish consumables.

The others were instructed to avoid the underground temple for now, carefully gathering information nearby.

After tirelessly slaughtering various monsters near Windpod City for an entire game day, their gains amounted to only one purple-grade material.

Had they not found the Orange Tea, they wouldn’t even afford the teleport fare.

Now, risking a wipeout to kill two werewolves, Jiang Heyi’s backpack was filled with seventeen purple materials.

High risk indeed brought high rewards.

The only downside was the painfully slow experience gain in Starry Testament, making it feel like the experience bar was welded in place despite all the effort.

Peashooter Assault Tiger: [Caliber is Justice] Guild earnestly recruiting patient PvP enthusiasts to join guild wars.

Devious Divine Chosen: [Devious’s Starry Testament Office] Recruiting experienced PvP players from various games. Guild regularly shares curated gaming information freely.

Where Are the Flying Divine Beasts: [Egg Incubation Paradise] A casual guild for relaxed players. Guild wars focus on participation and securing minimum rewards without pressure.

Throughout Windpod City, numerous guild recruitment notices sprouted like mushrooms after rain; every street corner featured different players trying to recruit.

The scene resembled freshmen dragging suitcases into college on the first day.

On his first day, Jiang Heyi had a rough understanding of the guild system, similar to most games. However, the prerequisite for establishing a guild, like the slime in the home base, involved a “feeding” process.

Though guilds had many useful functions, the considerable construction cost deterred early players.

Yet, after just one day and night outside, guilds had mushroomed exponentially.

As Jiang Heyi pondered this, he noticed the prison guard nodding repeatedly, swaying as if dancing to some tune.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, I caught sight of an ID that instantly triggered music in my mind.”

Following his gaze, Jiang Heyi saw a bulky muscle-bound man recruiting for his guild nearby.

His ID was: [A Strong Tune Begins to Play].

Damn, there really was music playing in his head...

Their eyes met, and the big guy charged forward like a kid hunting insects by the roadside, a shining exclamation mark hovering above his head.

“Brother! Brother! Got a guild yet?”

“N-no…”

“Want to consider joining ours?”

Curious about what shocking guild name it might be, Jiang Heyi asked first.

“What’s going on? Why is everyone suddenly so eager to create guilds?”

The big man blinked in surprise and mimed pulling up a holographic panel. “Didn’t you get the news?”

“News?”

Jiang Heyi and the prison guard both looked up at the holographic panel’s top right corner at a small bird that looked somewhat like a pigeon and somewhat like a seagull.

This chubby white bird, well-fed-looking, previously had an empty beak when idle; now it held a letter, its tiny eyes spinning curiously, and whenever touched, it emitted a series of cheerful “coo” sounds.

Reading carefully, Jiang Heyi suddenly understood.

The official Starry Testament announced that at the 60th in-game day — roughly one month in real time — they would hold the “Battle of the Stars.”

Simply put, it was a guild war event with teams capped at ten players.

But that alone wouldn’t excite players so much.

The official guild campfire announced they had negotiated with regional operators to turn the Battle of the Stars into an esports event.

No kidding — they were serious.

Previously, there had been rumors about Starry Testament’s esports plans, but here it was, all authentic and confirmed.

The prison guard had earlier doubted how the game could be esports-ready.

After all, esports players usually hold phones and tap screens consciously.

Starry Testament took place entirely in dreams, with time lags. They couldn’t just send players into official esports pods for spectators to watch them sleep, right?

“Who knows? Maybe it’s exactly like those rumors say: real-world broadcasts of recorded gameplay with players watching up close inside the game,” the big guy shrugged.

Jiang Heyi nodded, “So these folks want to be the first professional players?”

It sounded absurd, but reality often lacked logic, so he accepted it easily.

“You could say that. A new path, everyone starting fresh. What if you succeed?” the big man smiled. “Using official balance mode, everyone starts on equal footing. Isn’t that better than real-world competition?”

“But not everyone dreams of PvP; some join just for guild war participation rewards.”

Jiang Heyi quickly tapped on the seagull again.

Ignoring the highest real-world cash prize tier, the lowest tier offered universal material fragments, avatar shards, Starry Sky Jade, and more.

Having finished shopping, Jiang Heyi returned laden with supplies just as dusk settled over the Clearwater Underground Temple area.

The setting sun bathed the land in a fiery orange glow, the scattered clouds flickering like flames atop the treetops.

Birds calling as they returned to roost, mingling with the curling smoke from Zhong Zemo’s temporary campfire, gave Jiang Heyi a fleeting sense of childhood countryside.

Under the darkening sky, exhausted from play, they turned and laughed as they ran home, accompanied by the scent of wood smoke that urged his steps.

Having grown used to living alone, Jiang Heyi hadn’t savored the feeling of someone waiting for him to eat in a long time.

Original Fries and Orange Tea shifted seats by the campfire to make room for the two newcomers.

Starry Testament incorporated hunger mechanics: players who didn’t eat for long entered hunger status, reducing skill power and stamina, which slowly recovered after eating.

Cooking was one of the game’s life skills.

Some players just ate anything to avoid hunger, while others explored different food combinations for effects.

Without guides or data unpacked by veterans, cooking felt like opening blind boxes—fresh and exciting.

Zhong Zemo was the designated cook, having been the family chef back home.

A few wild rabbits, recently alive and kicking, were skinned, gutted, and skewered.

Jiang Heyi and the prison guard arrived just in time; their first proper meal in this world was about to be served.

“Where did the honey water come from?”

“I swapped some basic materials for it earlier. I have other seasonings too,” Zhong Zemo smiled. “Not sure what effects it’ll have.”

They inhaled the alluring aroma of the meat.

“Smells great.”

One bite revealed crispy skin, tender meat still juicy and salty.

Even though it was all happening in a dream and the brain was being tricked, they couldn’t help but praise it.

“Delicious! Zhong Zemo, you’re made for this!” the prison guard was already gnawing on a rabbit head.

“Is cooking Zhong Zemo’s main job?” Orange Tea asked curiously, tearing meat into her mouth.

“No, I’m a teacher—a history teacher.”

Original Fries said, “Good enough to open a restaurant.”

It was Jiang Heyi’s first time tasting Zhong Zemo’s cooking. Though he could cook too, Zhong’s skills were on another level.

“You’ve enjoyed a delicious meal; your body and mind are soothed.”

“For three hours, you’ll be resistant to fatigue.”

The seagull on the game panel offered this system message.

“Oh?” Zhong Zemo added, “I think I unlocked the recipe for Honey-Roasted Rabbit. If I cook it well, I can consistently get this buff.”

The prison guard, busy cracking the rabbit’s skull, laughed.

“The team has decided—you’re the cook!”

Zhong Zemo was momentarily stunned. He wasn’t being modest but wondered how a history teacher became the squad’s chef.

Yet, hearing everyone’s praise, he was first touched, then laughed heartily.

“Looks like besides wielding the shield, I’ll also be the field cook.”

“Then we fight up front, and you cook emergency meals behind us—that scene’s not impossible,” Jiang Heyi joked.

“The stage is big,” Original Fries said leisurely, continuing to eat.

“The stage?” the prison guard cheered, “The stove is huge!”