EM CH23

Chapter 23: Are There Words on It?

After a few rounds of the game, Yu An had fully mastered the basic controls.

This scenario told the story of a medieval village swept by a plague, nestled deep within a desolate valley. Its sole exit was blocked by an eerie cottage. To prevent the contagion from spilling outward, the homeowner was ordered to guard this narrow gateway, leaving the pestilence to run rampant and the villagers to fend for themselves. The survivors struggled in agony, yet could never escape this valley purgatory, dwelling generation after generation in the forgotten wilderness.

The owner of the cottage guarding the valley was the ultimate boss of the entire stage, dubbed the “Screaming Jailer.” Once the player knocked on the door to wake her and attacked the hand she extended out the door, the challenge officially began.

The Screaming Jailer possessed a massive health pool of fifty thousand hit points. In contrast, without any equipment buffs, the player had only a meager 100 hit points; a single casual slap from the Screaming Jailer could execute an instant kill.

Players had to roam the village grounds, scavenging and crafting items, venturing to the cottage to challenge the Screaming Jailer only when they deemed themselves formidable enough.

Yu An scavenged a wood-chopping cleaver from a woodpile, wielding it as a melee weapon.

Navigating the village along a disorderly path of mud and loose stone, he inadvertently arrived at the dead center of the map. A circular stone platform rose significantly above the ground, its surface carved with primitive runes. Facing directly east, the center of the altar bore a charred, withered wooden cross, upon which a blackened corpse was pinned.

A carnival of madness had only recently played out here. From time to time, the villagers would select an innocent peer, deeming them the devil and prime instigator behind all this misery, putting them to the stake to beg for God’s forgiveness.

Near the blackened corpse, Yu An scavenged a crude, improvised flintlock firearm. The item description read: “A terrifying weapon brought by an outlander; likely contaminated with bacteria.”

The firearm was loaded with two bullets, appearing quite potent, bound to deal heavy damage at close range.

An ordinary player would be overjoyed at obtaining such a handy weapon, but Yu An was not satisfied. Instead, he raised his cleaver and chopped down at the charred corpse.

Struck by the blow, a flintlock round dropped from the corpse’s ruptured abdomen.

Chopping once more, the corpse grew further mutilated, dropping another flintlock round. Yu An still was not content; bringing down a third strike, the charred corpse shattered completely, reducing to a pile of ash.

As expected, a hidden mechanic had been programmed in: hacking the charred corpse to pieces yielded two bonus rounds.

Zhao Ran had been watching from the side the entire time, propping his chin as he asked: “You play games quite a bit, don’t you? So practiced on your very first run?”

“Just testing it out,” Yu An said, focused. “If I were a villager who had never seen a gun, and had superior numbers on my side, I would shove the bullets down the gunman’s throat before burning him alive. It vents far more spite that way.”

“…The developers probably didn’t think that far ahead.” Zhao Ran twirled the ends of his hair. “Did you hear any sounds?”

“No.” Yu An was mystified. “What sounds?”

After playing for so long, he had observed no anomalies whatsoever; the knocking described by Grey Crow’s general manager had not materialized.

Zhao Ran briefly recounted Manager Chen’s commission. Yu An listened while continuing his playthrough. After a moment of silence, just when Zhao Ran assumed the information hadn’t registered in his head at all, Yu An spoke up: “Only streamers encountered this situation? Could it be that the glitch only triggers during active livestreams? We’re playing offline solo right now. Let’s try logging into a streamer’s account to play.”

That made sense; it offered a fresh line of inquiry. Zhao Ran forwarded the new idea to his subordinates, directing them to gather intel along this lead.

Yu An was kept cooped up at the interviewer’s house for the entire weekend, alternating solely between tutoring sessions and playing this game. It was actually rather comfortable. Being roused in the morning by a lazy coaxing murmur or a playful pinch at his waist was far warmer than an icy digital alarm clock. Outwardly, however, he gave himself an excuse for dropping his initial resistance: at least he didn’t have to eat takeout from his neighborhood anymore; the interviewer’s cooking was delicious.

Saturday’s tutoring focused on the combat trial. The moment he woke up, he was hoisted out of the covers by the interviewer and led up to the second floor of the villa.

The layout of the entire second floor was unexpected: devoid of partitions and furniture, save for eight load-bearing pillars spaced evenly apart. The open floor was layered with red shock-absorbing mats. The ceiling had been omitted, replaced by an overhead steel gantry where heavy punching bags hung suspended in midair from arm-thick chains.

The second floor was neatly compartmentalized into different zones, fully equipped with gym machines alongside extensive equipment tailored for combat training.

Zhao Ran tossed him a set of training gear: “Go warm up so you don’t pull a muscle.”

Yu An took the clothing cautiously, warily surveying the surrounding gear, instantly sensing that today’s training might prove far more grueling than anticipated.

Yet with the interviewer’s combat prowess, was there really any need to build a dedicated training ground inside his own home?

He had definitely coached other students before, likely more than one.

“Cramming at the last minute? What can anyone build in a day or two?” Yu An showed little enthusiasm.

“Better than lying around doing nothing. Youngsters need to stretch their muscles and bones so their joints don’t rust.”

Still wearing casual loungewear, Zhao Ran sat upon a stack of protective mats. “The second event of the intern assessment meeting is a combat trial. Everyone is permitted to bring their regular equipment into the arena. Don’t take it lightly; you will be signing life-and-death waivers before stepping inside.”

“A free-for-all brawl?”

“Pretty much. In previous years, the combat trial wasn’t taken too seriously, but this year is different. Among your cohort of interns, aside from you, there are two exceptional youths, one male and one female. I advise you not to let your guard down.”

“I don’t want to go.” Resting his back against a punching bag, Yu An shook out the form-fitting training uniform to inspect it. “Sounds like too many people.”

“I have an exclusive scoop. Come here and listen.” Zhao Ran crooked a finger toward him mysteriously. “I think you’ll be interested.”

Biting his lip, Yu An bent down and brought his ear close to Zhao Ran’s lips.

“This person: the big boss wants him dead in the arena. You may pick any method you prefer.” Zhao Ran turned his phone screen toward Yu An, displaying a blue-backdrop resume portrait of an ordinary-looking intern.

“Why?” Yu An arched his eyebrows, his expression growing significantly livelier.

“An operative from a rival company. He captured one of our undercover agents, subjected him to eighteen hours of solitary confinement and torture, and ultimately dismembered the body to stash inside the underground sewer system. He probably came this time to probe the capabilities of our new recruits, assuming he could pull the wool over our eyes, having zero respect for Underground Railway.”

“This guy… looks rather harmless.”

“You think everyone wears ‘don’t mess with me’ across their forehead like you do?” Zhao Ran scoffed with a grin. “The big boss wants to show the rival company that any random intern of ours can eliminate their core staff.”

“…” Rare joy showed across Yu An’s face as he tilted his chin slightly.

Watching him look as eager as a pet waiting for its owner to pop open a can of food, Zhao Ran felt a wave of uncertainty inside. He had to suppress the kid’s cruel impulses as much as possible, yet simultaneously keep his claws honed and razor-sharp; calibrating that balance during guidance was extraordinarily difficult.

This time, he could not afford to ruin this playthrough again.

Take it one step at a time.

Zhao Ran usually kept his emotions locked inside, but Yu An could tell he had heavy matters on his mind. Over the subsequent hours of training, Yu An remained relatively obedient, making no deliberate moves to stoke his temper.

Throughout the hands-on sparring, Yu An faintly picked up on certain questions he had previously pondered.

The interviewer was left-handed, so his combat stances predominantly pivoted around the right side of his body, using his left side to deliver the vast majority of strikes. Furthermore, he rarely taught him to punch, relying far more on kicks. Yu An could deduce why: the interviewer’s hands were delicate treasures; he disliked subjecting them to direct impact.

Ever since his muscle memory was reawakened by reflex at Xiliu Beauty Salon, Yu An had suspected that the coach who taught him combat long ago shared identical traits.

A coincidence? Impossible.

“Spacing out again? You need to kick that habit.”

“Ah!”

After being floored one-handed by the interviewer once more, Yu An curled into a ball on the mat while clutching his aching ribs, beads of sweat pouring down his brow like an opened floodgate.

Squatting before him, Zhao Ran brushed aside the sweat-dampened bangs on his forehead with a knuckle: “Let’s rest.”

“Wait.” Bracing both hands against the mat, Yu An pushed himself up with difficulty, his slender legs trembling as he stood. Pattering briskly downstairs, he returned carrying a stack of wrinkled paper strips.

Panting raggedly, he smoothed out the diary page he had preserved in his backpack, holding the upper edge before Zhao Ran’s eyes: “Interviewer, is the person written about here you?”

Astonished by his scurrying about, Zhao Ran leaned in close to inspect the diary page.

Yu An waited for his answer.

“This…” Before long, Zhao Ran stroked his chin and asked, “Are there words on this paper?”

What?

Yu An had never expected such an answer. Taking the diary back, he flipped it over repeatedly to inspect it; the black ink on white paper sat plainly right there, so how could this be?

“You can’t see it?”

“It’s blank paper.” Zhao Ran wore a look of utter incomprehension. “What does it say?”

“It says,” in his urgency Yu An wanted to read the contents aloud, but after parting his lips for a long moment, reading those first-person descriptions of kisses and embraces proved entirely impossible to voice.

“Never mind.” Yu An put the diary away and dragged his clothing downstairs.

Zhao Ran followed to the edge of the staircase, resting both hands leisurely along the wooden banister, watching the kid who refused to read the diary flee down below in flustered retreat.

“Did I really nick him back then…? Should I file them down…” Using his thumb, he tested the sharpness of his fangs, scraping back and forth against them.

Using the excuse of retrieving items from home, Yu An found an opening to slip away from the interviewer’s villa carrying the Core Storage Analyzer. Taking the subway back to the old residential complex of his home, he bounded up the stairs several steps at a time, eagerly unlocking the door. Without even pausing to swap shoes, he rushed into the living room and flipped the TV cabinet upside down.

He couldn’t hold back any longer; if he couldn’t read the diary tonight, he would never be able to sleep.

He had accumulated two spent, depleted cores: one was the white Blind Core that had dropped the Arrogant Bat, and the other was the Night Mosquito.

Yu An picked one to hold in his palm, pressing it against his lips for a moment, before carefully dropping it into the coin slot at the base of the cabinet.

A faint mechanical whir resonated inside the housing. Ejected from the slot was a rolled-up sliver of paper; carefully spreading it flat, a page of diary unfolded before his eyes.

The entry caused Yu An to hold his breath unconsciously, his throat tightening.

Weather: Windy

College life is far more tedious than I imagined. I loathe places where humans gather in large numbers. I like books, but I dislike libraries.

A week’s worth of coursework is routinely crammed overnight right before the deadline; only lab practicals are moderately interesting. In my spare time, I scavenge competitions of varying prestige, bagging minor awards just to coax him into smiling.

A shooting club opened near campus. I often head there to kill time, lingering for an entire afternoon. The club president thought my face could draw business, even offering a twenty percent discount on an annual membership, on the condition that they be permitted to snap candid photos occasionally to post on their public social account.

During what I consider off-hours, my phone is strictly set to Do Not Disturb. I hate ringtones and the chime of notifications: noisy, and indicative of being ordered around.

The university counselor is the fountainhead of noise, fond of broadcasting unreasonable demands in the class group chat and demanding universal compliance.

Passing the cafeteria back entrance today, I noticed workers hauling refuse; immense volumes of kitchen waste piled up in bins. I trailed the transport cart for a bit, discovering this waste is temporarily staged near the campus east gate before being transferred by truck, leaving a ten-minute unsupervised window in between.

The campus cafeteria serves apple juice as its Wednesday beverage, yielding massive quantities of discarded apple cores from the kitchen. Utilizing that ten-minute gap, I can harvest 0.5 kilograms of apple cores; hoarding for three weeks will be more than sufficient.

(Drawn here in meticulous pencil detail was a glass apparatus designed to extract cyanide from apple cores.)

The counselor is struggling to quit smoking and relies heavily on menthol lozenges, keeping a tin handy in both his office drawer and coat pocket, popping one into his mouth every now and then.

I uncovered the compression mold specs for the lozenges; pressing a specialized, apple-flavored menthol tablet is exceptionally easy. Yet approaching the counselor in an environment devoid of witnesses and surveillance cameras presents genuine difficulty, requiring patient waiting for an opening.

However, my fantasy project collapsed midway before implementation. He discovered my assassination blueprint. Slapping the sheet before me, beside himself with rage, he demanded to know what this was.

I lied through my teeth: What? Are there words on this paper?

Enraged to the limit, he pushed my face flat against the paper, pinning my entire body over the desk. He beat me with a plastic wrap cardboard roll; it didn’t hurt, nor was I afraid. He only ever put on an imposing show to discipline me, turning red to the ears whenever I kissed him back.

Later, he pulled down my pants. I can’t recall the fine details from back then clearly; I only remember it hurt intensely, accompanied by a sensation I didn’t understand yet liked very much, though afterwards only the pain remained. He forbade me from running, his tone fierce and harsh.

He spent the entire night lecturing and disciplining me, reiterating over and over that I was never permitted to do such things. In truth, I never intended to actually execute it; I merely fantasized with detailed precision to give myself a thrill. But I refused to yield; I insisted on defying him.

I liked infuriating him. The wrath of everyone else in this world stemmed from hating me, whereas his wrath alone stemmed from loving me.

Yet as time wore on, I couldn’t endure it any longer. Swallowing my humiliation, I pleaded gently for him to stop, but his anger seemed to have slipped all control, the violence escalating without pause.

It hurt so much, and felt so exhausting. I finally burst into tears, as if meaningless old parcels of loneliness poured out alongside the weeping. Clinging to him, for a long while I had no idea what I was crying about, when clearly I was the villain.