Chapter 81 – Hopeless Sea (5): Exploit

Before long, Yuna wheeled a food cart out from behind the counter, bringing with her a pungent reek of fish.

The smell wasn’t quite nauseating, but it was far from pleasant, reminding Qi Si of a salted-fish workshop he’d visited years earlier.

In that dark, cavernous room, the floor had been carpeted with fish corpses; he’d half suspected he was one of those rotting bodies—hardly a happy memory.

The odor was arresting enough that every player instinctively held their breath and turned toward Yuna.

The metal cart looked as if it hadn’t been scrubbed in ages; its grey-black surface bore streaks of brownish, congealed blood—presumably fish blood—framed by several fingerprints and palm prints.

On the lower shelf lay gleaming silver-white fish bones, sucked clean and sharp as needles, each as thick as a human finger.

Ignoring the wary stares, Yuna wheeled the cart to the central table, her pale hands setting down plate after plate of blackish dishes.

Qi Si stepped over for a look: ten courses, almost all fish—salted dried fish, steamed fish, crispy fried fish, fish soup… only a plate of seaweed passed for vegetables, dotted with waxy yellow scraps of meat that killed what little appetite remained.

Nearly every bowl was lined with palm-sized white scales, long and curved like feathers—no fish Qi Si knew; they looked almost avian.

Once fifteen sets of bowls and chopsticks were neatly arranged, Yuna sashayed back behind the counter.

The players dimly remembered that, just before arriving on the island, they’d seen a host of Ghostly silhouettes leap into the sea and sprout fish tails.

A tableful of fish dishes now set before them invited uncomfortable conclusions.

Several cautious players edged back, trying to escape the enveloping stench.

Lu Li stood in silence, studying the spread.

As if reaching a decision, he moved to the center and looked around. “Let me reintroduce myself. In the real world I teach history at a university, specializing in Western history. I have a few ideas about the setting of this instance…”

The long-haired youth nearest him laughed. “Professor Lu, it really is you! I knew you looked familiar—you’re that youngest-ever professor at Yanjing University. I just read an article about you last week!”

The youth called himself Ye Linsheng, a student in Beidu; recognizing Lu Li was only natural.

Several other players evidently recalled the same article and exchanged glances.

Once promoted to official player, concealing one’s real identity in the Eerie Game had become common sense; if you possessed a famous face, spending a few points on altering your appearance was well worth it.

Yet here was someone openly broadcasting his personal details.

“Yes, that’s me. Had no idea I was this famous—recognized everywhere I go,” Lu Li quipped.

He raised a hand, wordlessly hushing them like a lecturer quieting students. “The ship we boarded at the start was a carrack—popular in the fifteenth century. Together with the narration, we can place this instance in the Age of Sail, roughly fifteenth to seventeenth centuries…”

Qi Si listened from the periphery a moment, then decided to spare his mind further lecturing.

He walked to the laden table, picked up bowl and chopsticks, skirted the floating scraps, and shovelled a helping of seaweed into his mouth.

To put it kindly, the stuff looked unappetizing—and tasted worse.

The instant it touched his tongue, an undertone of rot joined the fishy reek, like a corpse drifting in a midsummer sewer.

The stench came not from the seaweed but from the meat flecks; a closer sniff of any fish dish intensified it, conjuring images of slimy, putrid mouthfuls.

Fish was clearly off the menu; even if it wouldn’t kill you, no need to punish your stomach. Seaweed, though, could fill the belly… Glancing at the others still absorbed in their lesson, Qi Si saw the logic, swiftly scooped half the seaweed into his bowl, and meticulously picked out every shred of meat.

Then, crouched in a corner, he expressionlessly forked seaweed into his mouth, chew after chew.

Chang Xu watched Qi Si taste the seaweed, then wolf down half the plate as though afraid someone might steal it, and couldn’t help being puzzled.

While not a picky eater, Chang Xu—like any normal person—found the fishy spread thoroughly off-putting.

Yet Qi Si seemed to find the seaweed delicious?

After hesitation, he too took bowl and chopsticks and sampled the seaweed.

A briny fishiness shot straight to his brain—not enough to make him gag, but hardly “edible”.

He stared at Qi Si as if the man were some incomprehensible anomaly.

Qi Si looked up, met that odd gaze, and—spotting the bowl and chopsticks—chuckled: “Brother Chang, I saved you half.

Their eyes locked; understanding flashed, and Chang Xu copied the maneuver, scraping the remaining seaweed into his own bowl.

While the two quietly secured their dinner and slipped upstairs, the rest concluded their discussion.

Lu Li approached the table and intoned, “Everyone should eat. We don’t know how many days we’ll be stuck in this instance; we can’t stay empty.

rule Three was explicit: 【All food on the island is edible; please eat on time. Only by eating the island’s food can one become a follower of the Sea God.】

Anyone who’d survived the Novice Pool knew hunger in an instance could be lethal.

They’d swallowed worse; you pinched your nose and downed it like medicine.

Only when they sat and reached with chopsticks did they twitch at the sight: the sole vegetable plate had been scraped clean, the rejected meat neatly returned to it.

Left were unidentifiable fish dishes, still assailing nostrils with their reek…

The upstairs corridor was long and narrow, its rooms set so deep into the wooden walls they seemed part of them.

No lamps lit the passage; only a faint, sourceless glow allowed players to make out crooked room numbers on the doors.

Qi Si followed Chang Xu, deliberately stepping wherever the other had stepped, ensuring each footfall was safe—someone else had already tested for mines.

“Si Qi, what do you think of the Jiuzhou Guild?” Chang Xu asked suddenly, conversational.

Qi Si kept walking and replied with a smile, “Commendable spirit—utterly foolish.”

“Bad money drives out good; those with higher moral standards are more likely to go extinct. And most of the time, so-called sticking to principles is nothing but self-delusion.”

“Self-sacrifice is the most worthless act. I believe that if everyone adhered to egoism, humanity would actually evolve better in the struggle for survival.”

Qi Si delivered the verdict in a flat tone, as though stating common knowledge like ‘the sun rises in the east and sets in the west’ or ‘the earth is round.’

He suddenly recalled a dark fairy tale he had read as a child:

Legend says a demon loses a piece of flesh for every person saved, while an angel loses a feather. To preserve its beauty, the angel saves no one; the demon, to save others, becomes a hideous thing.

It seems to subvert traditional religious morals, yet still can’t escape the cliché of ‘rescuing humanity.’ Its only real lesson is that ‘good people die young.’

In Qi Si’s view, no one is obliged to save anyone. Those with great power, as long as they’re prepared to be overthrown, may harm or kill without blame; moral condemnation is merely the helpless cry of the weak before death.

He wondered whether this instance would feature something like an angel’s feather… though a Sea God really shouldn’t belong to the same myth system as an angel.

Chang Xu had no idea where Qi Si’s thoughts had wandered. The young man’s views openly defied Federation mainstream propaganda, yet his certainty planted seeds of doubt.

He couldn’t help asking, “Why do you think that? I’ve always believed egoists can’t go far.”

Qi Si smiled and replied in the same tone, “I’ve always thought anyone who’s studied biology would grasp it easily.

The total resources of nature are limited and can only support so many organisms. Save a deer from a wolf and the wolf starves; save a person and, via the butterfly effect, the resources he consumes and opportunities he seizes might ruin a family on the other side of the Federation.

Even without such extremes, helping individuals unfit for survival pollutes the gene pool. Many hereditary diseases and weaknesses should have been eliminated through evolution, yet medicine keeps them alive to pass on—not salvation, but self-indulgence.

Otherwise, why would scientists appeal for humanity to ‘select itself’?”

Qi Si stopped at a door on the right side of the corridor, poked its lock with a thin wire, and was pleased to find the hotel lock just as pickable.

He pocketed the wire, closed the door, and caught up with Chang Xu. “In your view, how are morality and justice defined? Ghosts eat people, people kill Ghosts—each follows its own survival rules.

In reality we adopt human-centrism and craft moral codes to restrain our kind. But in the Eerie Game, who makes the rules? After all, by order of arrival, Ghosts are the hosts and we are the guests.”

Chang Xu halted and met Qi Si’s eyes. “But we’re human, not Ghosts. Someone once told me: ‘Humans aren’t born to be beasts.'”

Qi Si sighed. “See? That’s human-centred egoism—ineffective outward, coercive inward. Everyone simply wants to live; why shame them for relying on their own abilities? Humans are animals too; why pretend we’re above beasts?”

Chang Xu sensed the argument swapped concepts and was full of holes, but he’d never been obsessed with changing minds.

Kill and you pay with your life; the dangerous must be controlled. The Federation relies on armed force to uphold these rules, caring nothing for whether the criminal repents or feels logically consistent.

If no crime is committed, judge the deed, not the heart; however heretical the thought, it can’t warrant punishment.

—At most intervene early and prevent trouble.

Chang Xu rubbed the back of his neck. “Si Qi, do you plan to join a guild?”

Qi Si shook his head. “I don’t see the need. Without party items, guilds are optional. I’ve no wish to trade most of my points and props for their so-called thirty-six years of experience.

And I have no interest in that guild called ‘Sera’—a bunch claiming social Darwinism yet choosing to band together; stupid and laughable.”

Chang Xu nodded, then pulled a white ring from his pocket. “This replica of Sera’s ring is a party item; it activates when worn.”

“…Huh?”

Chang Xu looked away and recited: “The formal player pool’s instances are hard; teaming up raises survival odds. You’re the strongest player I’ve met since entering the game, and I hope we can keep cooperating.”

Qi Si was silent for two seconds, then gave a half-smile. “You’ve even prepared the party item. Are you going to coax me into some guild next?”

“No,” Chang Xu said seriously. “I’m not in a guild myself yet.”

“Is that so… really? You’re not lying?” Qi Si eyed him suspiciously until Chang Xu’s face stiffened, then smiled and took the ring.

He casually stuffed it into his trouser pocket and joked, “Since you asked for cooperation, how about you follow my lead from now on?”

Chang Xu, puzzled, shook his head. “Counting this instance we’ve only teamed twice; we barely know each other. I think case-by-case decisions make more sense.”

“Is that so?”

Qi Si stared at the line floating in mid-air—【‘Soul Contract’ skill activation failed; you may not propose this clause to this entity again in this instance】—and narrowed his eyes.

No dice roll, just instant failure—because Chang Xu had refused?

Combined with two earlier real-world trials, Qi Si roughly grasped the activation conditions of Soul Contract.

Consent meant automatic success; refusal meant automatic failure.

Only when the other party’s intent was ambiguous would dice be rolled; success would enforce the effect via rules… Of course, what counted as ‘ambiguous’ needed more tests.

Qi Si stared at the back of Chang Xu’s neck, absently rubbing the bracelet on his right wrist.

Easy to fool yet instinctively resistant to rhetoric from training—perfect material for testing Soul Contract.