Doomsday Wonderland

Doomsday Wonderland Chapter 1525: Game Template

Chapter 1525: Game Template

This room is probably the smallest in the entire underground s.p.a.ce, akin to a square concrete s…o…b..x, without any alterations or decorations. The only things in it are dozens of screens, big and small, hanging at various heights from the ceiling, forming a circle. They surround the woman sitting in the center, casting her in a misty silver-white glow.

Originally, she was a grey, shrunken, silent person. But when she’s bathed in the glow of the screens, it seems as if something within her is illuminated – or perhaps, it’s like her soul, normally lost, has been lit up with the screens.

Through a round hall and many corridors, the cacophony of screams, howls, and cries has become as distant as faint echoes in a stormy night’s dream, hardly discernible. With the occasional turbulence in the distance for contrast, the silence in this room seems even more deathly.

Lin Sanjiu quietly pushed the door open, and the hinges creaked. Yu Yuan followed her silently into the room.

The woman seated among the screens, hearing the sound, was startled. She turned her head sharply, meeting Lin Sanjiu’s gaze. As if her soul faced the risk of being lost again, her face turned ashen. Their eyes locked, and for a few seconds, neither spoke.

Approaching from behind a few screens, Lin Sanjiu found that the woman had turned her head but kept her hands on the keyboard, as if she were dealing with an inopportune customer and would return to her work as soon as Lin left.

The screens were filled with ongoing game scenarios; players bewildered and terrified, set in different backgrounds like forests and towns. With the sound turned off, the men and women screamed and ran silently, falling and losing their lives in complete silence.

“What… what are you doing?” Lin Sanjiu asked softly. She couldn’t tell if the woman wore any protective text. All she felt was a chill in her belly, her steps weakening.

“Writing games,” the woman answered in an even softer voice, with a thick accent.

She looked to be in her forties, and despite having become a posthuman, the hards.h.i.+p and weariness of her past were evident. Her face was dull, her eyes lifeless like dead fish, and her tangled, coa.r.s.e hair was streaked with gray.

“W-why?” Lin Sanjiu said, finally managing to voice the question that first came to mind.

The woman seemed too numb to exhibit any strong emotion that might have moved her wooden expression. “It’s my job,” she said flatly.

Lin Sanjiu stared at her, speechless for a moment. The woman seemed fearful but not overtly so, as if she wanted to return to her “work” yet was indifferent. Why would such an empty sh.e.l.l of a person be so fixated on writing games?

“It’s my job,” the woman repeated.

“Don’t you understand the situation?” Lin Sanjiu couldn’t help but consider the possibility that the woman was not very bright. “Don’t you know that the posthumans trapped in your games on the screen are real people? Real lives at stake. Don’t you know?”

The woman looked at her woodenly and answered “Ah,” as if acknowledging the fact. Her response was as if Lin Sanjiu had asked, “Red beans are red, don’t you know?”

People who enjoy writing games are not unheard of; Zhou Xian was one. But at least when their own lives are in danger, others act normally, knowing they must prioritize self-preservation. No one else would seize the opportunity at such a time to sneak back and continue working on a game.

“But you…” Lin Sanjiu was completely at a loss for words. It seemed as if she could communicate with the other party, but in reality, they couldn’t understand each other; she felt that she might be able to understand a parrot better than this woman.

“This is my job,” the other party whispered. “I don’t care about anything else; that’s just how the rules are.”

After a pause, it seemed as though her thoughts slowly provided her with the next sentence. “I don’t want to lose this job; it’s quite good.”

Lin Sanjiu could feel a chill running down her skin.

“If you tell me to leave, I won’t,” the woman continued. “I haven’t finished developing my game.”

Lin Sanjiu waved her hand, pus.h.i.+ng away a few screens in front of her, clearing a path. As soon as she moved, the woman scrambled up from the floor in a panic, backing away and cras.h.i.+ng into the screens behind her. She quickly scurried into a corner.

Ignoring the woman for now, Lin Sanjiu bent down to look at the only white screen with text on it.

A very simple game, without complex, redundant rules or constraints. It was hardly even a game.

The woman didn’t seem very bright, and the game she had created didn’t require any thought: anyone who fell into this game would receive an incredibly sharp pair of scissors. All defenses, tools, abilities, and stamina would temporarily be disabled, regardless of age or gender; everyone would have the same stamina. During the thirty days and nights the game would run, they had to use the scissors to cut other people’s skin, scoring points with each cut, unable to eat, drink, rest, or sleep—because there were more than ten people, all crammed into a room less than a hundred square meters, each one looking for opportunities to cut others 24/7.

As Lin Sanjiu slowly stood up, she asked, “Did you write this using a template?”

“Mm-hmm,” the woman answered, having moved to another corner.

“Show me the template.”

The words seemed to fall on deaf ears, eliciting no response from her face. Lin Sanjiu called out several times, but the woman exhibited an insect-like silence, standing there without a word.

“Yu Yuan,” Lin Sanjiu said, not wanting to waste any more words on her, “Help me find the game template here. I want to see it.”

Yu Yuan walked between the screens and quickly got the hang of the alien system. In no time, he pulled up file after file, like PPT presentations, saying, “Look, number six; this must be the template she used.”

Lin Sanjiu took her eyes off the wooden-faced woman and looked at the screen.

The template couldn’t have been simpler.

The PPT-like page read, “Gather 2 to an unlimited number of people in a confined s.p.a.ce. Let them all compete to do something that scores points, and after thirty days, those with ___ or more points can leave freely.”

The two stared at the doc.u.ment in silence for a while. Lin Sanjiu felt a sudden heaviness in her stomach, a nauseating feeling; she then looked at a few other templates—all simple to the point of being boring.

She looked at three or four in total, taking less than five minutes.

Lin Sanjiu lowered her eyes and sighed, saying to Yu Yuan, “I really did want to give them a way out.”

Although the woman was slow-witted, she reacted instantly at the mention of life and death. As soon as the words were out, and before Lin Sanjiu could turn around, the woman darted for the door without a sound—her footsteps didn’t escape Lin Sanjiu’s ears. As Lin Sanjiu turned, she caught sight of her, fl.u.s.tered and panicked, disappearing through the door.

Lin Sanjiu was in no hurry.

With her speed, she could easily let the woman run ahead for a while; besides, she now felt like someone who had just thrown up violently, somewhat faint and listless—not physically, but rather a wave of nausea and weakness that seemed to come from a deeper place.

She slowly pushed the door open, walking into the corridor outside as if taking a leisure stroll.

The woman ahead was panting and running, cras.h.i.+ng into things, but she didn’t think to cry out for help, perhaps because she knew no one would come to her rescue; this quiet escape scene looked somewhat like the posthumans on her screens.

Lin Sanjiu was like a shadow, slowly following behind, her steps seeming light and unhurried; but no matter how the woman ahead turned and fled, she could not shake Lin Sanjiu off—the two of them, one in front of the other, formed a strange and quiet hunt.

When the woman threw herself into the small hall where the tubes were located, a figure jumped up. At this time, there were no more people in this entrance hall; it seemed like everyone had run away—but clearly, no one chose to leave this underground s.p.a.ce.

Inside the transparent tube, the corpse that was killed by being struck by two pieces of board was still left in its original place, its flesh and blood floating vaguely in the middle of the tube, and large amounts of fresh blood were slowly flowing down the tube wall.

Lord Tremors’ face changed instantly when he saw Lin Sanjiu, who appeared with the woman.

“I’ll take care of her,” he barked, not even glancing at the woman. “She can’t strangle me with protective text! I’ve never heard of such a thing happening!”

If he had put on protective text again, that would indeed be very troublesome. Lin Sanjiu looked at him, uncertain whether or not he had donned the protective text, but she really didn’t feel like dealing with it now.

As Lord Tremors stepped forward to intercept her, the woman, who had not uttered a sound from beginning to end, suddenly seemed to find her strength, and turned to rush in the direction of the other game makers’ rooms, not looking back at Lord Tremors even once.