Chapter 81 White Worm

Chapter 81: White Worm

On the other side, after savoring the delicious meal, Ji Anjue returned to the real world in high spirits. It was already late, and Ji Anzhi was undoubtedly resting, so Ji Anjue refrained from disturbing him and went straight to bed.

The next day, as soon as Ji Anzhi arrived, Ji Anjue brought up the previous day’s events.

“A dungeon challenge? With actual prizes?”

Ji Anzhi remained skeptical—not because he distrusted Anjue, but because he’d never heard of *Star War* offering tangible rewards for clearing a dungeon.

Worried that Anjue might have fallen victim to a scam, Ji Anzhi said earnestly, “You’re still young—don’t believe everything you hear online. How can you tell what’s true and what’s false? Scams are rampant these days.”

Seeing Ji Anzhi’s doubt, Ji Anjue bristled indignantly: “I’m not a toddler—I can certainly tell right from wrong! Besides, I cleared the dungeon through the official *Star War* system. The notification came only after I completed it myself, and they even asked whether I consented to having my challenge data recorded in their database—with a share of all subsequent profits!”

Hearing Ji Anjue’s tone and the details, Ji Anzhi set aside the modification draft he’d been working on, logged into his own StarNet account, activated guardian permissions, and reviewed exactly what Ji Anjue had done the day before.

Not checking would’ve been fine—but one glance left him stunned.

He’d gone to bed early the previous night and missed the message entirely. Just now, upon checking, he actually found a direct message from the official account:

> **Star War Official:**

> Hello. Player *PrettyFlower* successfully cleared the special dungeon—*Moon God Sky Control*—last evening. You may select any five prizes from the available pool. Additionally, we ask whether you consent to the official recording of your challenge data and video footage. Upon agreement, you will receive 80% of the net profits generated thereafter.

>

> **Yes / No**

Ji Anzhi’s first instinct was still that it was a scam. He clicked into the sender’s profile, confirmed it was indeed the official *Star War* account—and nearly fainted on the spot.

His gut told him this would inevitably cause trouble.

He quickly exited the profile, searched for the *Moon God Sky Control* dungeon, and opened its page. A heavy weight settled over Ji Anzhi’s chest. If he hadn’t been the one to grant Ji Anjue access to StarNet in the first place, he truly would have given him a stern lecture.

Of course, Ji Anzhi also noticed one critical detail: this dungeon had remained unclaimed for over sixty years—it was one of only three *Star War* dungeons open for more than fifty years without a single successful clear. Its difficulty was unimaginable.

And Ji Anjue had cleared it on his very first attempt—in forty-eight seconds—becoming the first person in over six decades to do so. Were Ji Anjue ever to become fully human, he would be even more formidable than he was now.

Ji Anzhi paused in thought. Ji Anjue’s strength was, in fact, advantageous for him too. With control over the main body, even if Ji Anjue attempted betrayal, he’d have to weigh the consequences carefully.

After a moment of silence, Ji Anzhi broached the subject of Ji Anjue becoming human—for the first time.

Since he’d recently warned Ji Anjue repeatedly not to casually probe his memories or thoughts, Ji Anzhi voiced the question aloud.

“Anjue, if you truly create a human body, would your starship piloting skills surpass even those you demonstrated during the dungeon clear?”

Ji Anjue replied matter-of-factly: “Of course! Once I consume the fruit, my mental strength will far exceed its current level.”

*Just as I suspected.* Ji Anzhi had no intention of hiding the truth from Ji Anjue. He laid out the potential consequences of his actions clearly, so Ji Anjue would learn greater caution.

“Anjue, *Star War* maintains a cooperative relationship with the Federation military. Given your performance, don’t you think you might attract the military’s attention?”

Ji Anjue froze at the first sentence. *Star War* and the Federation military cooperated? Wasn’t *Star War* just a game?

Ji Anjue retorted, “How do you know the Federation military and *Star War* cooperate?”

Ji Anzhi pulled up *Star War*’s public relations homepage, clicked on an article, and projected it directly into Ji Anjue’s mind for him to read.

After reading, Ji Anjue felt sick. What did “both parties will continue to maintain long-term cooperation” mean? And “specifically recording military combat data to screen for talent”?

Ji Anzhi interjected at precisely the right moment: “And this is only recent history. Though I’ve lived only nineteen years, from what I know, the *Star War* game launched around the same time as the Federation’s founding. Put plainly—the Federation military may even hold equity stakes in it.”

With such blunt words, Ji Anjue instantly grasped the gravity—and belatedly realized he’d apparently done something monumentally foolish…

Ji Anjue was nearly in tears, frantically asking Ji Anzhi what to do: “Anzhi… does that mean the military will target us? What should we do? I didn’t think it through at the time—I just assumed winning meant prizes, and that we could save a lot of money… I’m sorry… I truly didn’t mean to…”

His voice grew increasingly remorseful toward the end. He’d only wanted to help shoulder Anzhi’s burden—but instead made things worse…

Seeing Ji Anjue’s sincere contrition—and knowing his character well—he likely hadn’t considered the deep ties between the military and *Star War*, nor imagined that clearing a single dungeon could trigger such massive repercussions.

Gently stroking Ji Anjue’s leaves, Ji Anzhi spoke in a relaxed tone: “It’s alright. Just be more careful next time. Thinking independently is commendable—but remember: there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Always prioritize caution.”

“Mm… I understand. I’m sorry—I truly didn’t mean to…”

Knowing Ji Anjue was already overwhelmed with guilt, Ji Anzhi said no more. Instead, he asked whether anything important remained on Ji Anjue’s account that needed backing up—he planned to fabricate evidence of a hack and then abandon the account entirely.

Ji Anjue had nothing critical stored there and told Ji Anzhi to handle it as he saw fit, his tone listless.

Worried Ji Anjue might be too embarrassed to speak up, Ji Anzhi deployed Version 4 of the self-destruct protocol, securely backed up all data, and then severed the minor guardian system’s link.

To avoid raising alarms, Ji Anzhi deliberately preserved the account—leaving it as a decoy to draw attention away, lest investigators grow desperate and dig into the StarNet backend.

Once finished, Ji Anzhi informed Ji Anjue the matter was resolved and that he’d create a new account for him later—this time, urging greater prudence and forethought before acting.

Ji Anjue asked in surprise: “You… aren’t afraid I’ll cause trouble again?”

As Ji Anzhi opened the new account, he resumed reviewing the draft, replying casually, “If you truly want a human identity, you must learn independent judgment—knowing what can and cannot be done.”

Ji Anjue immediately seized the key point: “A human identity? You plan to adopt me?”

Ji Anzhi nodded.

At that, Ji Anjue’s guilt and caution evaporated—half of it, anyway—his excitement impossible to conceal: “Really? Really?!”

Ji Anzhi sighed helplessly: “Really.”

Had Ji Anjue possessed a human form, he’d surely be leaping for joy, over the moon. A deafening chorus of cheers echoed inside his mind, giving Ji Anzhi a splitting headache.

“Quiet down. When the time comes, keep the fruit safe. I’ll see if I can ‘accidentally’ discover you in front of others—you cling tightly to me, and then, moved by compassion, I’ll decide to adopt you.”

“We might also leverage Qi Yanshen. He’s Commander Qi’s son. His parents are almost certainly aware of his attitude toward me. If he’s willing to assist, your adoption will proceed smoothly.”

As he spoke, Ji Anzhi calmly flipped through the draft, even making several improvements along the way—utterly unfazed by how heartless his words sounded.

But what did that matter to him? He wasn’t the one suffering, after all.

Ji Anjue happily accepted the new account and prepared to log on. Remembering it likely held no funds, he asked Ji Anzhi for money to buy food. After receiving it, he gleefully plunged into the StarNet for some well-earned fun.

Once Ji Anjue logged on, Ji Anzhi entered *Star War* to briefly scan the trending discussions. Everyone was buzzing about the *Moon God Sky Control* dungeon’s first clear—by a minor. Shock mingled with widespread disbelief.

*Star War* couldn’t disclose player information. Even though the official account explicitly confirmed the player’s minority status, nearly half the community still refused to believe it. Combined with the absence of a replay, suspicion only deepened.

For now, the situation remained relatively favorable for Ji Anzhi—he hoped they wouldn’t be traced.

Further monitoring wouldn’t help. Ji Anzhi resumed refining the *Star Eagle*. As for online trends, any intervention risked exposure. Better to observe silently—and respond to change by remaining unchanged.

------------------------------------------------------------------

…

**First Legion** **Zerg Defense Line**

As the Commander of the First Legion, Dai Mo had just seen off the two formidable figures, Lin Dusheng and Levin, and hadn't had much downtime before receiving an urgent report from the front lines, forcing her to rush to the bug front.

On the way to the command room, Dai Mo listened attentively to her adjutant's briefing.

"According to data comparisons from previous years, the number of bugs in the first half-month of the defense line is almost negligible, and they are all low-level ones. The detection department believes these low-level bugs seem more like scouts gathering intel rather than launching attacks."

"Whether they obtained the intel they wanted a few days ago or failed to get it, it led to a mass assault, with a scale equivalent to half of a small Bug Swarm."

"The amount of bug resistance at the Black Abyss defense line over the past nine days is on par with a small Bug Swarm, with frequent harassment and energy supply issues due to embezzlement. The matter is currently being handled..."

The adjutant had just finished reporting as they approached the command room door.

Dai Mo walked to the entrance, where the system automatically opened the door upon recognizing her identity. Inside the command room, it was a hive of activity.

The defense line commander, who should've been a calming presence to steady the troops, was now shouting with a flushed face, visibly agitated and irritable.

In this emergency, no one had time to salute Dai Mo, and she didn't mind—there was no time for formalities in critical moments.

Finding the commander's adjutant, a B-grade male Alpha—a typical desk jockey and poster child for the physically weak in the military—Dai Mo grabbed him and asked, "Is there a list of suspects involved in the embezzlement?"

The adjutant, having been busy for several days straight, was momentarily stunned to see his superior's superior. It took him a moment to process when Dai Mo repeated the question a second time, hurriedly fishing out a stack of files from the pile in his hands.

Speaking rapidly, he said, "These are the lists of military personnel involved in corruption and bribery. Due to the urgency, we only managed to gather evidence for these main culprits. There's no time to investigate the others now. We need you to handle this, Commander Dai."

Dai Mo took the list, and the adjutant quickly ran off to report something to the commander. The commander glanced at Dai Mo before continuing to issue commands.

After a brief glance at the names on the list—none of which she recognized, numbering around a few hundred, each involved in embezzling millions of energy units—it was clear that the Federal Military Department hadn't had a shake-up in too long, causing these people to forget their duties.

Handing the list to her own adjutant, she stated matter-of-factly, "Find these people, turn on the recording device, carry out the executions personally, and then post the footage on the legion's internal bulletin as a warning."

The adjutant took the list, replied with a firm "Understood," and promptly left the command room.

Dai Mo's main purpose here was to stabilize morale. This year's Bug Swarm cycle was chaotic, and the emergence of the Queen Insect posed a fatal threat, making the mid-level officers jittery. At such times, her being here as the legion commander was crucial.

Additionally, as an S-grade omega with SS-grade psychic energy, she could easily calm everyone's nerves. Moreover, if any abnormal psychic energy fluctuations occurred, she could sound the alarm immediately to take precautions and avert the scenario Levin warned about.

It worked: the people's heads in the command room cleared a bit, and the commander's emotions stabilized slightly, no longer roaring in anger.

During this time, a communication came through—it was Qi Lan. Dai Mo answered.

Qi Lan's calm voice came through: "Has the First Legion encountered a Bug Swarm?"

"Yes, why? Is something the matter?"

"A new type of bug has been discovered on the Third Legion's defense line, giving off psychic energy waves."

Dai Mo, who had been calm and even smiling slightly, now saw her expression turn serious as she asked, "Are you sure?"

Qi Lan replied, "Our best omega military doctor has confirmed it multiple times. The intelligence is accurate."

Dai Mo opened the military emergency communication channel and said, "Do you have any images? Send them over."

The next second, an image appeared on Dai Mo's encrypted military datapad. Opening it, she saw a chubby, snow-white worm—still alive—inside a metal cage.

It had two small antennae on its head, a vibrant green color. Compared to the fanged, ugly, and repulsive bugs, it was almost cute.

However, she'd rather it were ugly, as long as it didn't emit psychic energy.

While observing, Dai Mo asked, "Just one?"

"We've only caught one so far."

Only one caught meant they couldn't be sure if there were other White Worms, unable to determine whether this was an isolated case or there were more of them. The former would be best; the latter...

Dai Mo frowned, hoping it was just an isolated case. There weren't many omegas in the military district capable of fighting on the front lines.

"What do you plan to do with this worm? Send it to the Military Academy Research Institute?"

"Yes, the Military Academy Research Institute is more likely to produce results quickly. Besides, Levin will probably return to the military academy with Lin Dusheng. With Levin there, it's less likely for anything to go wrong."

Dai Mo thought the same and replied, "Thanks for the heads-up. I'll have our legion members keep their eyes peeled. Do the other legions know?"

"No, they haven't been notified yet. Your legion is closest to the bug nest, and with the sudden bug attack, you're the first I've informed."

Hearing Qi Lan's words, Dai Mo couldn't help but tease, "Huai Feng always says you're as quiet as a mouse, but you're quite talkative, aren't you?"

Qi Lan didn't respond, simply stating that she would send a few elites back to the military academy to assist before promptly hanging up.

Dai Mo issued an emergency notice with this information, ensuring everyone received it, then casually found a seat to consider which personnel would be suitable to send.

The best candidates would undoubtedly have to go to the military academy to help. This was no time to be reluctant.

If they hesitated now and something went wrong, the defense line might collapse inexplicably one day.

Thinking of this, Dai Mo suddenly remembered the kid from the Qi family and that beta from the Star Chart Department this year. Why didn't those five bugs attack them back then?

...Never mind.

Levin is returning to the military academy. Let Levin ask.