Chapter 953 - This Game Is Too Realistic

Chapter 953: Kill Them All! The "offline meetup" continued. While Chu Guang was happily chatting with his players, an old man, who had lived for more than two hundred years, was also quite occupied. To be precise, the younger people visiting this "humble abode" did not want him to be idle. As soon as Abussek departed from the side of the Great Rift Valley's chief, Sava immediately rushed over, intercepting the old man who was about to turn away. With a friendly smile on his face, Sava respectfully spoke. "Honorable Chief, I am Sava, head of the Mammoth Nation’s Charge Team. Please allow me to extend the sincerest greetings to you on behalf of Rassi and the survivors of the Mammoth Nation. Our leader intended to visit you personally, but the southern legion is still struggling, and the frontlines remain in a deadlock. So, he sent me instead." The old man looked at the young man before him, nodded with a gentle smile. "Hello, Sava. I'm getting on in years, and the ideas you young folks come up with sometimes I can only guess at. But this charge team... I really can't figure it out. What kind of organization is it? Can you enlighten an old fellow like me?" Sava laughed and replied. "It’s just a name. Back in the day, we followed Rassi northward into battle, always at the forefront, earning the name charge team. As the intensity of conflicts waned, the young officers of the Mammoth Nation grew up. We moved from the frontlines to the rear, yet retained the name. You can think of us as the legion’s guards, akin to the alliance’s guard corps." The old man nodded in realization. "Oh, you mean that boy, Leize. I know who you are now. Ah, you've got quite the responsibility; it pains me to see. How about this, why don't you resign? I'll ensure your safety for a year and afterwards, perhaps you can serve as a security captain in the alliance when the storm passes?" The sudden turn caught Sava by surprise, nearly breaking his composure. He coughed lightly and replied. "Uh, this... I really hadn’t considered..." The alliance didn't seem to need a security captain like him, and with his family rooted in Mammoth City, he never considered moving to the unfamiliar alliance. The old man chuckled and said. "Think about it! I have a habit of picking talented young people. Then I can't help but stretch my hand and pull them in. Ah, such a pity..." Sava didn't quite understand what he pitied, but still, with humility and respect, he replied. "You're too kind. There are many more talented people than I..." "Too modest, far too modest," the old man shook his head and suddenly, as if something occurred to him, he spoke again, "How about this? Earlier when Abussek visited me, I posed a question to him. Now, I’ll ask you one as well." Bewildered, Sava stared at him, unsure of what the old man was up to, but he cautiously said. "Please enlighten me." The old man grinned, raising his withered fingers, and began to count his sheep. "I have four generals: A, B, C, and D. A says there are ten thousand sheep on the prairie, B says there are a thousand, and C says both are wrong but can't remember the correct number, only seeing many sheep crossing the river, while D claims one among them is lying... What do you think is the truth?" Without hesitation, Sava replied. "D! Suppose A is correct, then B must also be correct, making C incorrect which makes D correct. Conversely, if both A and B are incorrect—" "Stop, stop, you don’t need to analyze that much, you'll confuse even me," the old man said, waving his hand to stop the over-explaining young man, "You're a smart kid, and D is undoubtedly a smart individual. If A says there are ten thousand sheep, who’s to say he's right? B, C, and D didn’t testify to it. And if, by chance, they missed a thousand, totaling nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine, then he’d be in big trouble." "In comparison, B shows more cleverness. If someone sees ten thousand sheep and he claims a thousand, he's left himself a safety margin of nine thousand. If I had to choose between A and B to spare, it’s B who’d likely survive." The old man paused, looking at a baffled Sava before continuing with a smile. "But B is still not smart enough. When did I mention only one person would die? Here, C shows more wisdom—he distances himself from A and B, actively taking a stance. Haha... If I remain resolute, he lives. But if someday I regret whom I’ve killed; he’s out of luck." "Thus, D is even more cunning, claiming someone is lying without specifying who, leaving room for any to be the liar—even himself. In the future, no matter whom I choose to kill, he can always point to a dead man and say 'it's him' and join my side. Even if I regret slaughtering A, B, and C, he can plead for mercy, degrading himself by confessing 'I lied'." "I'm an old man with a benevolent heart; I might just spare him with a laugh. You see, sometimes it pays to play dumb." Sava looked at the old man, caught between laughter and tears. When you posed the question, you didn’t mention it was about murder, did you? Although he had answered correctly. Yet the old man seemed to see through his thoughts, speaking with a profound smile. "You're still too young. I didn’t say it was about murder, now, did I? When did I say I’d kill them? That messy business... why, you're the one to handle it for me." Sava was taken aback, a chill creeping up his spine, as if a blade was placed against his neck. Unconsciously, he gulped, squeezing out a stiff smile. "Sir... you jest. We—" "I understand, I understand. Every family has its issues. Don’t worry; you’re not there yet," the old man raised his hand with a smile, not making it difficult for the young man before him, "Moreover, you’re not precisely the same as the guard corps, let alone the alliance. As for this Rassi... I don’t know him, but seeing you—now I do." "Others often tell me he's the alliance's chosen spokesperson, but I never believed that because you Boroans prefer choosing smart people. Abussek, for example, is very clever; I just have to give a hint and he grasps everything." "Your Rassi isn’t bad either. If there were truly one vote per person, he would still emerge victorious. Don’t be annoyed at my words. You guys talk tough but are actually quite straightforward, just like yourself." "…" Sava was momentarily speechless, yet to recover from the chilling implications, nor quite sure what the old man intended to say. Perhaps he wasn’t speaking to him after all, but to Rassi, standing behind him. The old man gazed at him, implying something deeper. "You’re all clever people, but sometimes clever folks lose out to straightforward fools, as the latter won’t chalk up failure to mere intelligence deficiency—a superficial explanation the former often hides behind. Ponder my words. Was my question 'who is good and who is bad'? What I asked was—what is right." "Which of A, B, C, or D speaks truth or falsehood is immaterial to me. ‘There are sheep’—that should have been your answer, but instead, you sought the smart ones from my riddle… You see, it’s not that I can’t help you, even if the professor returned it’d be of no use." Sava stared at the old man, a haze of understanding clouding his mind, diligently recording each word to relay them to Rassi. The old man had lived through too much, seen all kinds of people, and could not be underestimated. Perhaps what he couldn’t grasp, Rassi would understand. Yet suddenly, the old man changed his tone, halting his conversation mid-sentence. He turned away from Sava, no longer looking at him, merely sighing to himself. "…However, the court of public opinion is like molten gold; the issues you’ll face are far more daunting than those of Abussek." "Some sheep eat meat, some eat grass, and some eat dirt, all while bleating alike… It’s difficult, truly difficult. Even this old man knows not how to resolve it." Leaving behind words akin to a riddle, he wandered away, swaying his head as Sava watched dumbfoundedly. ... The Great Rift Valley entered winter early, and the Mammoth State at the base of Mount Chobar began to feel the chill of winter. Even subtropical regions have their winters. The monsoon passing Petra Fortress acted like an air conditioner, whisking away Mammoth City’s warmth, prompting people to huddle, hands tucked in pockets. Compared to winters two centuries ago, this bit of cold is nothing, and though the wind chills, the sun's warmth returns quickly. People strolled streets with their coats open, their faces aglow with health. Around this time last year, many people were shivering in the cold wind, but now they are well-off enough not to have to button up tightly. Not only that, but cement houses have become more prevalent in Mammoth City. On both sides of the street, the drafty thatched huts are gone, replaced by rows of cement houses painted in red and white. There was an overproduction of rust-proof paint in Mammoth State, so the surplus ended up on the walls. The liveliest spots on the street are no longer job recruitment points but supermarket shelves filled with goods. The retail industry in the South Sea Alliance is well-developed, even more so than the alliance itself. As local laborers flocked to the southern seas, they brought back some of the lifestyle they encountered there. It's no wonder the conservatives in the alliance might feel envious. Their development has indeed been rapid... even though they, too, have more or less benefited from the economic boom of the Mammoth Nation. In fact, many houses in Settlement No. 1 were built by Mammoth Nation's construction workers. The bustling marketplace is just a slice of the prosperity; the docks of Mammoth City are even more vibrant. The docks are filled with eager people waiting and overseas workers returning by ship. They have toiled in foreign lands for an entire year, and now their hard work has finally paid off. The debris and ruins in the southern seas have been cleared, and the islanders' gratitude extends far beyond words. Funds from the southern seas not only helped rebuild their homes but also allowed them to invest in their own industries. Starting next year, they might not need to venture overseas for work anymore and could find decent-paying jobs right at their doorsteps. Of course, the industries in Mammoth City are still upgrading, and local jobs can't match the income of overseas ones. Thinking of their children soon to go to college, fathers who are still relatively healthy would grit their teeth and decide to try their luck in the South Seas once more. Some young folks, not wanting to disappoint their childhood sweethearts who've been waiting, decide to settle down and start a family before venturing out. Rassi, objectively speaking, has done some good deeds, or at least shown some humanity. He has given choices to those who previously had none. In contrast, the Moon Tribe's resistance factions, bickering among themselves, fail in comparison. Some either appeal to the alliance complaining to anyone who'd listen, while others bicker for statuses and positions to see who aligns closer with the alliance. It's no wonder Rassi looks down on them, even keeping them close like clowns for entertainment. As long as these ineffective fools remain, even if Rassi wants to play emperor, the Mammoth Nation survivors would willingly crown him. After all, having someone reign as emperor is better than letting a bunch of monkeys run the temple. Not to mention he has taken a step back, keeping the essence of the "conservatives" while giving the "progressives" face, only bearing the title of chieftain. Because of this, even though Niyan curses him from time to time, he spares him in the end. In the “Red Earth” collection, there have been many instances of using the "medical records" of the old regime to hint at the "lineage" of the new authorities, yet never criticizing Rassi directly. Though Rassi often fumes at Niyan, he kept his original promise, never letting the charge team storm in to silence him, nor shutting down the “Survivor's Daily” or Mammoth University. Mammoth University is thriving, occasionally hosting lecturers from Camp 101, and even providing some excellent faculty to Golden Gallon Harbor—all owing partly to Rassi's efforts. However, it's still not enough. Niyan always had a dream. If General Lowell’s descendants erected 1,000 pillars, then he would establish 1,000 universities on this land with money "borrowed" from Duke Garawa! Only then can the true force within the souls of the Boroans be awakened. Books always have an end. He pondered for a while, scribbling a few lines on the last page, picking up where L’s “Prologue” left off. "...During those snowy days, when the sun and moon were overshadowed, General Lowell accomplished unparalleled feats, yet whether he is to be lauded or lamented is left to posterity. Perhaps his subordinates were indeed blinded by the 'Great Victory', ensnared by witches, forsaking the joyous days to accompany him to the end, or maybe, in that snowbound land, they were compelled by innumerable difficulties." "I was fortunate to visit Lowell's camp, but the gatekeepers there told me that while the walls were from back then, the buildings, stone roads, and cages inside were relics from the ‘Moon King’ period. Lowell’s relics might be found in Duke Nihak’s governor's residence." "Yet, there's nothing there either." "I scoured all accessible ancient texts, and the story from that era is reduced to scant lines. The elderly of the Moon Tribe perhaps know something, merely saying the Moon King was a good man but remain silent on the origins of the red earth, later blaming a farmer for their suffering." "I don’t know if they spoke the truth or even the farmer's name. I can only lament, like an ephemeral mayfly, standing downstream of the Ever-Flowing River, gazing upward at the faded scenes buried atop Mount Chobar." "Later, I returned to White Elephant City. Somehow, L popped into my mind—the young man similarly buried in the red earth. I couldn't fathom why he lingered in my thoughts until I looked at my feet. Not only those planting the red earth and feeding on it had been buried—" Niyan suddenly coughed, instinctively raising an arm to cover his mouth. Moving his arm away, he saw a streak of red on his sleeve. "The air’s getting too dry..." He mumbled to himself, then a sudden inspiration struck him, and with focused intent, he scribbled down "red earth." "Fate couldn't be more parallel! Underfoot lies that soil, treading upon his bones, upon Lowell’s bones, as if they reached out to grasp my ankle, clench my throat. Realizing I spent half my life chasing history's egress in a daze, only to find he had never left me—” “He is every one of me." With a rushed finish, Niyan rose, gasping, reaching the table for a teapot to pour himself a cup. Busy with the joint education initiative, he was only managing four to five hours of sleep a night, relying on tea for sustenance. Especially after falling seriously ill in Tiansu earlier, thankfully it wasn’t the “death serum”, he managed to survive in the end. Yet, ever since, his health had not been the same. Sipping the hot tea, warming his throat, Niyan felt a slight perspiration, with thoughts gradually untangling. In reflection, the conclusion seemed rather hasty, not as gripping as the prologue. Such a bland ending doesn’t match the grandeur of the saga, and Mr. Mouse's readers likely wouldn’t accept it as before. In fact, not just the readers, even he felt something was amiss. Thinking back, the prologue was about L, while this epilogue concerned Lowell. After all, he truly met L, many times, but being two centuries apart, he had never encountered Lowell, making any writing akin to viewing flowers through a mist, and drawing through a window. “The phrase ‘He is every one of me’ is hard to grasp. Would ‘He is every Boroan’ be more straightforward? But that seems too absolute... Nevertheless, it’s a lead.” With this in mind, Niyan put down the teacup, but as soon as he did, his throat felt itchy, and he reached for a tissue on the tray, coughing heartily. Yet when he moved the tissue away from his mouth, his heart thumped violently. Blood… The sight of the bright red color made him dizzy for a moment. Perhaps he shouldn’t delay any longer and should find time to see a doctor. At that moment, the office door opened, and a professor, clutching a newspaper, hurried in. Seeing the tissue in Niyan’s hand, he paused, asking with concern. “Sir, are you alright—” “I’m fine,” Niyan wiped his mouth, nonchalantly tossed the tissue into the bin, then turned his gaze to the professor, “What’s got you rushing in without knocking?” The professor taught history at Mammoth University and also edited the Mammoth City version of the “Survivor's Daily.” The professor glanced at the bin, then at the newspaper in his hand, finally shoving it into Niyan's hands with gritted teeth. “Take a look at this paper!” Niyan took the newspaper, frowning slightly. The paper, titled “National World Report,” had a grand name, but was obscure, at least he hadn’t seen it before. It seemed to be the work of a small newspaper company. Due to Rassi's three-chapter agreement allowing private sectors to publish, after the “Survivor's Daily” entered Mammoth City, numerous large and small newspapers sprung up like mushrooms, gaining a share in the market. The inability to let the "Survivor's Daily" monopolize the media was also something Rassi tacitly permitted. Niyan had never intended to monopolize the media industry, focusing instead on education, and was pleased to see the survivors in Mammoth City eagerly starting their newspapers. It was like a collective effort to help him finish the work he hadn't completed. What he hadn't expected was how skilled these people were, unearthing stories that even the "Survivor's Daily" hadn't discovered— **"Explosive News! Eyewitness Account! Truth Buried in the Tasan River Dam!"** He quickly read the article from start to finish, his eyes widening as his hands holding the newspaper trembled uncontrollably. The article cited a source claiming that it wasn’t the then-Imperial Governor Bamt who destroyed the Tasan River Dam but rather a plot orchestrated by Rassi himself! It was said to not only defeat the Empire’s City Defense Army, which outnumbered the Moon Tribe Resistance several-fold but also to pave the way for rescue efforts and sending displaced people overseas for work! If one inferred the process from the outcome, what was stated in the report didn’t seem implausible. The floods from the Tasan River indeed helped Rassi in many ways, addressing issues of land annexation, labor dispatch, and even humanitarian aid from the alliance and companies... Virtually all problems were resolved with the flooding. However, suggesting that Rassi could foresee all those outcomes while standing by the river back then seems unlikely. At that time, Mammoth City and the Moon Tribe Resistance weren’t even properly formed, and the collapse of Bamt’s amassed army of hundreds of thousands is something that unfolded later... Niyan took a deep breath, calming himself. "The whole article is based on insiders’ accounts, with no definitive evidence. Regardless of the accuracy of the report's contents, it’s irresponsible journalism!" "The new dam is already built; what evidence could there be?" sighed the professor, advising earnestly, "And let’s not focus on the truth for now. It’s not just this newspaper; several others... Soon, every newspaper in town will be reporting on this. If we don't make a statement, we risk losing credibility! Do you know what people outside are saying? They call us Rassi’s dogs!" Faced with either offending Rassi's authorities or the survivors of Mammoth City, they were at a crossroads, forced to make a choice. Yet Niyan widened his eyes, angrily retorting. "What do you mean, don't worry about it for now? Tell me, if newspapers don't consider this, what should they focus on? Reporting must be factual, not fabricated. How many times have I taught you that? If it truly were Rassi's order, I’d personally write an article against it! But what if it’s not? We'd both become tools for someone else!" If the Boroan Nation intended to incite civil war, they’d undoubtedly launch a media offensive! And this "National World Report," it might very well be orchestrated by the federation in Tiansu! He had sensed earlier that someone was making moves under his nose. But since it wasn’t done under the name of the "Survivor's Daily," they were powerless against it. They might consider forming an industry committee like the alliance did, to evaluate the credibility of media outlets, but it seemed too late to instigate such measures now. These opportunists aimed to use the Tasan River Dam as a pretext for war, to plunge countless innocents into renewed calamity... Regardless of who was behind this, he had to stop them! Clenching his fists, he folded the newspaper, slipped it into his pocket, and hurriedly grabbed his coat hanging by the door. Seeing his actions, the professor anxiously asked. “What are you planning?” Niyan unhesitatingly replied. “Going to the front line to ask Rassi for the truth!” The professor, astounded, said with a bemused expression. “My god... You’re heading to the front lines again?! I say, you should hurry to Dawn City to get treated. How long have you been having lung problems? You really can’t delay any longer.” Niyan shook his head, declining the kind offer, donning his coat and buttoning it up. “This ailment comes and goes; delaying a bit more won’t hurt, but the Boroan issues can’t be postponed! I must go to the front line first to understand what happened exactly! If he truly orchestrated the explosion, did he act knowing the consequences or were there other factors?” It was a battle won against a numerically superior foe, where Rassi held a significant disadvantage in numbers. From the perspective of the governor then, there seemed no pressing need to destroy the dam. However, that remains speculation. It’s reminiscent of chapters in “Red Earth” concerning Lowell, largely speculative, with the alliance yet to uncover the absolute truth. But one point in the paper struck at his heart. Niyan had long felt suspicious about Governor Bamt's confession, and now this report only fueled those suspicions. It’s like how -30-degree fungi can freeze into ice blocks, no matter how tenacious, they can only go dormant. Red Earth isn’t a complex, intelligent lifeform like mutated slime mold; it’s merely a natural decomposer, incapable of conjuring nourishment out of thin air. Carbon fixation, nitrogen fixation, and converting solar energy and organic matter into nutrients needed by organisms… this required the collaborative effort of all plants, animals, and microorganisms across the Boro Province. What species of miracle could transform frozen earth into nourishment in such dark, desolate times? Calling Red Earth a nutritional paste is inaccurate, but the thought had crossed his mind. The greatest debate in alliance academia regarding this segment of history lies precisely here. A cadre of scholars led by Ms. Han Mingyue believes that the development and dissemination of Red Earth occurred in two phases: the former by General Lowell, the latter by the “Moon King,” who unified Boro Province. However, this hypothesis is evidently unfavorable to the tragic narrative of the Moon Tribe or politically incorrect. It almost justifies the Westland Empire’s persecution of the Moon Tribe—even if Ms. Han Mingyue harbors no such notion, the alliance’s research institutes need not heed public opinion. Yet her research doesn’t represent authority. Similarly, another group posits that the spread of Red Earth was a spontaneous outcome under “slave economics,” driven by the landed class's intrinsic need to “lower slave living costs”—the real catalyst behind Red Earth’s dissemination. These are considerations void of human elements, analyzed purely from a macro level. Either theory holds potential validity; those who lived through that epoch are long dead, and the Moon King had seemingly obliterated this lineage of history to dust, despite meeting his own end. Some inexplicable intuition suddenly arose in Niyan’s heart— Perhaps it was their disrespect for history that birthed repeated sufferings. This intuitive belief strengthened his resolve to find Rassi. They needed to have an honest conversation! And it was the only way everyone could survive! Seeing Niyan’s steadfast refusal to seek medical attention, the professor pleaded. “What about finding some local doctors? I heard they know some home remedies, maybe they can cure you.” Niyan shook his head, once again declining. “They are either intentionally or unintentionally frauds; if you wish to believe, do so yourself, but spare me the persuasion.” Hearing this, the professor smiled wryly but ceased his persuasion, praying silently in his heart. They had many tasks unfinished, and they were at a critical juncture. He hoped all would be well for him!