Chapter 139: Grand Performance (II) – Act One

After a brief round of introductions, the players knew what to call one another.

The aged Cynthia smiled kindly. “Let each of us say how many puzzle instances we’ve cleared and what ‘puzzle-solving’ means to us. If we meet a group riddle, I can assign tasks based on your experience.”

“Why should we listen to you?” Hansen stared at her coldly. “This isn’t a team instance. Who knows if we’ll end up killing each other? Spill your intel—do we look stupid?”

He barked the words, face fierce, making He Hui beside him flinch.

Cynthia’s smile never wavered. “I’m not here to deceive anyone. A ‘multi-player’ instance rather than a ‘versus’ one means cooperation is possible. I’m a humanist; whatever happens, I’ll try to keep as many alive as I can.”

Qi Si rested his chin on his hand, half-smiling. “The opening hint says ‘each of us is guilty.’ In an everyone-is-evil setup, playing the saint isn’t smart.”

Cynthia shook her head. “Hints are always vague. Speculating without clues only burns energy.”

“Maybe, but I won’t gamble,” Qi Si echoed Shang Qingbei’s line from the last instance and asked with a smile, “When life’s on the line, no room for error—so what gives you the right to tell us to lower our guard?”

Dong Xiwen kept quiet on the side, listening to the players’ bristling exchange, and roughly grasped the zero-sum nature of this game.

After waiting in vain for anyone to reach the point, he couldn’t help asking, “By the way, does anyone actually know our mission? Survive a few days, or…?”

‘Welcome to the Scarlet Theatre!’

A flamboyant greeting rang out nearby, cutting Dong Xiwen off.

A spotlight slammed onto the wall at the stage’s edge, turning a once-gloomy corner blazing bright.

A tall, skinny silhouette appeared in the glare—first just a black smear, then swiftly solidifying into human shape.

Qi Si reined in his smile and looked toward the sound.

The man wore a black tailcoat, thin as a rake, as if the legendary Slender Man had stepped straight out of folklore.

A plain white mask hid his face; only two dark eyeholes stared at the players like ghostly pupils.

Past experience said this tardy figure in black was almost certainly the instance’s key NPC.

Leaning on a cane

“I wish to explore a new art form in which every lover of art may join. You are the audience—and the actors too.”

“The performance has begun! From this moment, revel and strike up this grand carnival of the absurd!”

His voice twisted through a hundred bends, each note anti-human, as if the sound engineer had been murdered and his head rolled across the mixer.

Qi Si glanced at the cone-shaped ceiling above the stage and mused wryly: if everyone is to take part, the most immersive role might be becoming a marionette.

Dong Xiwen had evidently reached the same conclusion and rattled off three questions: “So how do we act? Is there a script? Any personal-accident insurance?”

Charlie bowed to the players, back turned, folding so low his torso almost touched his knees, as though performing some odd rite.

The next instant a shadow skimmed overhead; Qi Si felt something flash past his eyes and a breeze slide along the nape of his neck.

The stench of gore hit as a black shape dropped from above, suspended by strings among the players, gently swaying with momentum.

It was a person—bloody and mangled.

A child-sized body, no more than eleven or twelve.

Forearms and shins were mottled with scale-like gouges, as if someone had spooned away flesh one sliver at a time.

Most wounds exposed bone; viscous fascia and blood still dripped.

A greyed memory stirred; Qi Si looked up the blood-spattered corpse and, sure enough, saw a face he expected—familiar, memorable.

Like many killers never forgetting their first hit, he too would always remember this face—and what had happened behind it.

This was the first person he’d murdered; to strike clean and deadly he’d even practiced on the neighbour’s dog first… “So the Eerie Game really can read our memories?” Qi Si narrowed his eyes.

He hadn’t expected a corpse long since reincarnated and probably in elementary school to appear here as a plot-critical prop.

“What the hell?!” Dong Xiwen yelled first.

“I-I don’t know… so scary…” He Hui lowered her head, shoulders trembling.

Hansen and Cynthia stayed calmer, but their faces were still strained.

No one feels cheerful after a gruesome corpse drops in front of them.

Qi Si pulled his gaze from the body and innocently stared at the tabletop.

He had a hunch that if the others realized he was the killer, things would turn ugly.

“Heh-heh, just a little warm-up game—hope you enjoyed it!” Charlie’s tone remained exuberant. “Someone is dead, and the murderer is among you. When the show ends, you must vote for the culprit!”

Cynthia asked, “After we vote, what happens to the killer?”

Charlie replied, “I shall craft a grand exit befitting the sin he committed!”

‘Sin,’ huh?

The veteran players caught the keyword and exchanged glances.

Seeing the silence, Dong Xiwen raised a hand. “What if we pick the wrong person?”

“Whomever you choose will be executed. The audience cares nothing for truth—they crave thrills, blood, death!” Charlie let out a warbled ‘heh-heh,’ voice quivering. “Whatever you decide, you won’t bear the consequences directly, so don’t be stingy with your votes—revelry is all that matters!”

Dong Xiwen narrowed his eyes and said, “So we won’t be directly responsible for the consequences, but we’ll be indirectly responsible? And what the hell is this about an audience? Earlier you said we were the audience, and that I’d rather watch Sakurano’s videos than die—am I allowed to say that?”

He Hui chimed in, “Yeah, I’m really scared of blood. As a member of the audience, may I request fewer gory scenes?”

“You’re only a minority. As the playwright, I cater to the majority!” Charlie declared. “In this game I’ve prepared three questions for you, and each of you must answer truthfully. After you’ve heard everyone’s answers, I’m sure you’ll know who to vote for. Simply write that person’s name on the paper; the one with the most votes is the murderer!”

Qi Si arched a brow at the word “name.” “What if we don’t know each other’s real names?”

Charlie turned his deathly pale mask-face toward him. “Haven’t you already told the audience—the names of the characters you’re playing? The audience doesn’t care what you were called before; they care about the roles, the characters’ names!”

The players all recalled the self-introductions they’d given at the start.

Needless to say, most of those names were fake; yet from Charlie’s subtext it was clear those made-up names would serve as their identities in this instance.

There would be no “You’re looking for Lu Xun—what’s that got to do with me, Zhou Shuren?” The “character names” they spoke would point directly at themselves.

Still, the phrase “telling the audience” sounded odd—were there really other spectators besides them?

Dong Xiwen, never one to mince words, voiced the question on everyone’s mind.

“Of course!” Charlie beamed. “A play is created for thousands of viewers. You can’t see them, but they’re right here!”

Dong Xiwen felt goosebumps rise, as though countless eyes were hiding in the shadows, watching him.

He flicked his gaze left and right but saw nothing suspicious.

The entire room was a vast stage, every inch lit by flash; not a shadow remained.

Charlie, oblivious to his discomfort, raved like a lunatic. “Don’t worry—one day the whole world will see this performance! Art is an explosion—they’ll love it!”

Qi Si smiled. “Sounds fun. I hate being the performing monkey, but if the stage is the entire planet, that’s another matter. So, may we hear your questions now?”

“You like my concept too? Wonderful!” Charlie crowed. “I’m sure you’re all eager, so I’ll cut the chatter. First question: How old were you when you first killed someone?”

In that instant Qi Si felt the instance’s thick malice.

A corpse’s age is easy to judge; if he answered truthfully, the others might put two and two together.

And if he played word games or feigned ignorance, his evasion would look blatantly guilty.

Had the Eerie Game truly grown so shameless as to target him this openly?

Qi Si asked evenly, “Who answers first?”

Charlie stayed silent, leaving the detail for the players to decide.

Cynthia smiled. “Let’s go by seat number. Zhou Ke, you’re number one, so you start.”

“That’s unfair,” Qi Si objected. “If we always follow that order, the later players will have time to craft lies after hearing the earlier answers.”

Dong Xiwen frowned. “Didn’t Charlie say we must answer truthfully? Who’d dare lie under threat of death?”

Qi Si said softly, “Truth can still deceive.”

“Zhou Ke, you’re yammering so much—feeling guilty?” Hansen barked impatiently. “If you don’t want to go first, let’s start with number five.”

Qi Si turned to him. “Hansen, you seem eager to pin suspicion on someone and draw attention. Suggesting number five starts because you’re number two and don’t want to answer second. What are you afraid of?”

Hansen sneered. “Slander! You’re the one who refused first—sounds like you’re desperate to dodge suspicion!”

Qi Si faced Charlie. “Twelve.”

“…Huh?”

The players blinked before realizing Qi Si was answering Charlie’s “how old” question.

Dong Xiwen’s expression was complicated. “Bro, at that age—was it an accident or what?”

Qi Si merely smiled at Hansen. “Done. Your turn.”

Hansen shot him a warning glare and muttered, “Nineteen.”

With two examples set, the remaining three rattled off their answers.

He Hui: “Fourteen.”

Dong Xiwen: “Huh? You too…””

Cynthia: “I’m not sure it counts, but if someone died because of me, the first time was forty-six years ago, when I was thirty-two.”

Dong Xiwen: “Wait, you’re over seventy?”

Seeing everyone stare, he rubbed his nose awkwardly. “Oh, I was twenty when I killed—two years ago. That scumbag deserved it; I don’t regret it.”

With the first question finished, Qi Si idly picked up a pen and jotted down each answer.

He noticed that, aside from his clash with Hansen, no one voiced suspicion after hearing the others’ replies.

He realized: if the first question could reveal the killer, Charlie wouldn’t need three.

As a playwright, Charlie knew Chekhov’s rule—”If a gun appears in Act One, it must fire by Act Three.”

Since three questions were promised, the players’ choice of culprit would only crystallize after the final answer.

“In the first question no one lied. Lacking drama, perhaps, but it lets the plot advance smoothly toward the climax.”

Charlie intoned his critique, then raised his voice. “Second question: How exactly did you kill him, and what did you do with the body?”