Chapter 1: Prologe

What does a six-year-old child know about life? That family and the colony’s administration will always help them get back up if they fall, provide food if they’re hungry, and ensure their education. But what does a six-year-old orphan from a children’s home understand? That life is a struggle, that you have to fight for your place, strike your enemy—boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. No one will help just because. These are just pieces of knowledge, not yet shaped into a worldview or solidified in their consciousness.

Eliza Donovan, a staff psychologist at the Center for Child Psychological Development, sat in her office, pondering what to do with children who ended up in orphanages at such an early age. At the center, she was completing her internship in the field of "behavioral correction for troubled orphaned children." Once her internship was over, she would become a freelance specialist and work on her personal project.

While a child’s worldview is still forming, it can be adjusted—but only until around the age of twelve. By then, their psyche will be fully developed. After that, a specialist can only help if the child is self-aware enough to recognize their issues and deliberately seek psychological guidance to address them.

Eliza stood out from her colleagues with her unwavering optimism, cheerfulness, and openness. Her youth, attractive figure, and pleasant demeanor made her a great conversationalist in any group. In the harsh age of the cosmic era, where colonies traverse the vastness of space, men saw her as an angel from ancient myths.

Her grim thoughts about children’s psychological struggles were inspired by a group of kids from the orphanage on the 6th tier. They weren’t really a group, though—they were loners, children who didn’t fit in at the orphanages and clashed with their peers, either openly or subtly. If they couldn’t adapt to society or find their place in it, their needs for connection, recognition, and belonging to a social group could take dangerous forms: social phobia, gang affiliation, or manic disorders. In the best-case scenario, these solitary children could grow into specialists or scientists. They were used to relying only on themselves, dividing others into enemies or people they didn’t care about. For them, the concept of a "friend" didn’t exist—only a "partner." For a loner to grow into a potential specialist, they needed a psychologist to guide their behavior through direct and indirect methods.

Now, she faced an unusual case—Anzhi Ganet. The six-year-old boy had already been evaluated by three psychiatrists and two psychopathologists. All unanimously agreed that he was psychologically and physically healthy, yet he consciously refused to interact with peers or doctors. No behavior deviating from the norm had been recorded, and how he spent his free time remained unknown. He removed any items that could be used to track him in the free zone.

Over the past thirty years, the state had taken a radical, even somewhat harsh approach to solving the orphan problem. Every child over six in an orphanage was provided with a full-immersion gaming capsule, which doubled as their bed. Before that age, children used contact lenses or nanobots in their eyes with augmented reality functions to gradually adapt to the information network. At twelve, with a guardian’s permission, they could get a full gaming account with level progression. By fourteen, permission was no longer required. "18+" features became available upon reaching adulthood. After choosing a race and character name, orphaned children were mandatorily assigned a virtual family, often with siblings—all NPCs. The decision was humane: a child needs parental love, protection, and close relationships. The state couldn’t provide this directly, but it could grant access to a world where it was possible. In real life, an orphanage child had eight hours for sleep, twelve hours of free time, and four mandatory hours of education.

This month marked the launch of the Chrysalis Project—a state program by Lunar. It had been recognized by the UN and a committee of independent experts as the project of the century. Lunar, an independent state established sixty years ago on the dark side of the moon, belonged to no coalitions or alliances. A closed-off nation with a tiny population, it had declared independence sixty years prior when a single corporation broke away. Three short wars and seven attempted forceful takeovers followed, but no one succeeded in capturing the dwarf state. Even nuclear and bacteriological weapons failed. Throughout all the wars and conflicts, Lunar lost not a single life. Complete autonomy and a robotic defense system made it a paradise for scientists, accessible only to the chosen few. Technological advancement was its cornerstone, unmatched by any rival nation.

A year ago, they announced the Chrysalis Project. Six months later, for one day, the global gaming community gained free access to Chrysalis. It was a cultural shock. The game wasn’t a game in the traditional sense—it was a medieval fantasy world, but its realism was staggering. Physics, sensory authenticity, magic, skills, professions—it felt like stepping into another world.

Eliza’s excitement was justified. Today marked the start of the final beta-testing week. Anzhi Ganet, her charge, had received an invitation to the beta test—yesterday, he turned six, and by law, he was now entitled to a gaming capsule. Today, he would be transferred to the block where it was located and receive his virtual family.