Rolling his eyes toward the corner, Brian Carter temporarily set aside the matter of drawing blind boxes and silently recited the administrator system in his mind.

Soon, a pale blue holographic screen was projected onto his retina.

——Administrator Log——

【Mission: Activation conditions for Shelter No. 404 have been met. The first batch of “containment items” is confirmed for delivery. Requirement: Ensure at least one player logs into the game.

Type: Main quest.

Reward: Active Matter Extractor.

】

【Mission: Prepare a generator with power greater than 10kw.

Type: Side quest.

Reward: Reward points +100.

】

What the—?

100 reward points?!

After reading the updated missions in the administrator log, Brian Carter's eyes widened in shock.

But what caught his attention even more was the reward for the main quest.

“Active Matter Extractor... what exactly is this thing used for?”

Little Henry replied.

“Active matter is the raw material for making clones. As for how to use it, there should be a manual or something like that, right?”

As an AI assistant, in fact, Little Henry didn’t know much more either.

Currently, the permissions Brian Carter holds only allow access to the B1 level of the shelter. Permissions for other floors need to be unlocked through main quests.

By the way, if you forcibly damage the shelter’s wall structure and try to illegally access other floors, it will cause the shelter’s power and air exchange systems to shut down.

This was something the “shelter system” loaded into his brain had already informed him of when he first entered the shelter.

But even without this warning, Brian Carter figured he probably wouldn’t be stupid enough to tear the place apart.

Come on.

If he wrecked this place, where would he live afterward?

Besides, a shelter “designed as the pinnacle of pre-war technology, able to withstand strategic-level nuclear strikes” probably isn’t that easy to tear down anyway.

Forget nukes—he didn’t even have a gun.

“Alright, I think I get it now.”

In other words, active matter is similar to a “revival coin”—a resource players need to consume to re-synthesize clones.

Currently, there are 100 cultivation pods stored on the B1 level, all in an activatable state. Presumably, each contains 1 unit of active matter, enough to cover the cost of synthesizing a clone for the first time.

According to the system’s “one pod, one number” rule, Brian Carter can summon up to 100 “players” at most, who will descend into this world in the form of clones.

Of course, Brian Carter also knew things weren’t as simple as they seemed.

First of all, the official website for “Wasteland OL” currently had no traffic.

For most people, when they hear about a “100% real immersive virtual reality game,” their first reaction is either it’s a scam, or it’s still a scam.

After all, this kind of technology doesn’t exist in reality. Even social media influencers couldn’t make up such nonsense.

Secondly, even if he managed to trick 11 players into making a reservation, he couldn’t be sure all 11 would listen to him.

The initiative to enter or exit the game was entirely in the players’ hands.

His only powers were to “forcibly kick out,” “ban login access,” or “revoke game qualifications” for troublemakers—he couldn’t force anyone to put on a helmet and log in to work for him.

Therefore, the selection of people to grant game access to—especially the first batch of “closed beta” players—had to be handled with extreme care.

Better to have fewer people than to let things get out of hand.

Otherwise, he’d just be making trouble for himself!

And then, most crucially—

The conditions on the wasteland side also meant that more people wasn’t necessarily better.

Every extra person meant another mouth to feed.

He was already broke as hell, barely able to support himself, let alone feed a hundred more.

Even if he had the means to activate all one hundred cultivation pods right now, he’d just be delivering food to mutants and raiders.

Other than that, there was no point.

Brian Carter sat back down in front of the computer.

He stared calmly at the screen for a long time, and his thoughts gradually became clear.

Logging back into his Penguin account, Brian Carter opened the game group called “Cattle & Horse Club” and pulled the group owner and three admins into a discussion group.

Then, he typed in the group chat:

【When you reserved the game, send me the refreshed number that appeared on the official website.】

【There are only four closed beta slots. No need to let outsiders benefit. I’ll apply to the company and see if I can get the closed beta slots and game helmets sent directly to you.】

They were all teammates he used to play PUBG with, so it didn’t seem out of place to take care of them.

Most importantly, Brian Carter couldn’t think of any real-life acquaintances he could ask for help. The only people he could rely on were these online friends he’d never met in person but had some rapport with.

Relatives?

Ever since his grandfather passed away, he hadn’t been in touch for years. If the police hadn’t notified them, they might not even know he was gone.

Landlord?

Right now, the landlord was probably scouring the world looking for him to collect rent.

Classmates?

He hadn’t contacted any since graduation.

Colleagues?

Ha.

Apparently thinking it was bad luck, Brian Carter found they’d already deleted him.