Chapter Twenty: The Killing Game (Part Eight)

It was already eight o’clock in the evening. The familiar “click” echoed throughout the corridor as all the bedroom doors automatically closed and locked. Luo Hanya sat quietly before her computer, waiting for the negotiation time with the police to begin.

Before long, the screen flickered with white light. Amidst the static hum, the computer slowly booted up. The first image to appear was the same card as always—blood-red lettering, stark black and white patterns, simple yet unsettling.

The screen shifted again, washing over in crimson. A chat box appeared, and Luo Hanya tentatively typed a few words. The scarlet background and dark green font exuded an inexplicable sense of dread.

Suddenly, a line emerged on the screen: “Is anyone there?” Clearly, someone was trying to initiate contact.

Luo Hanya paused, noticing that another person had already replied, “Yes, someone’s here.” Without further hesitation, she typed, “Mm,” to confirm her presence.

Once everyone had signaled their existence, the screen fell into an unexpected silence. “Time is short; let’s not waste it,” Luo Hanya, surprisingly the last to join, was the first to break the deadlock.

“Yes, time is pressing. Let’s begin negotiations,” the other participant replied, evidently eager to escape their predicament and readily agreeing with Luo Hanya’s proposal.

“Heh, indeed, time is short. Why don’t we just reveal our identities? It’ll be easier to verify.” To their surprise, the third participant directly suggested they all disclose who they were.

About five minutes passed with no new messages. Clearly, Luo Hanya and the other were deep in thought, while the third simply waited, unhurried. Eventually, impatient, another message appeared.

“Let’s agree to reveal our identities together in thirty seconds. What do you think?” The suggestion seemed reasonable. Both Luo Hanya and the other person hesitated, then typed “Agreed.”

Luo Hanya watched the time in the lower right corner, typed her name, and hovered her finger over the enter key. As the seconds ticked by and the thirty-second mark approached, she hesitated at the crucial moment. In the end, she did nothing.

A suffocating silence followed, broken first by the third participant’s indictment.

“How can you do this? Didn’t we agree?”

“Heh, you didn’t send yours either.”

“You—”

“Stop arguing. Let’s try again. This time, everyone reveal together.”

“Don’t be childish. Who would be foolish enough to expose their identity?”

“You can’t say that. Only by trusting each other can we survive!”

“Heh, trust is a childish thing that exists only in fairy tales.” Luo Hanya again suggested they try, but clearly, the suspicious participant had no faith that trust could exist among them. The third still clung to a shred of hope, but when fantasy meets bare reality, it yields nothing. Expecting them to reveal themselves was as unlikely as touching the sky.

“I am Han Crow Luo.” After some deliberation, Luo Hanya decided to disclose her identity. Only when someone takes the lead is there hope, and only when the police have a foundation of trust will it be easier for them to win.

Unconsciously, Luo Hanya had returned to the game’s rules. But what meaning did these rules really hold? Even if they exposed the killer, so what? Would victory in the game allow them to leave? Clearly, that was impossible.

“Heh, I’m still Tan Yue! How do you prove you’re Han Crow Luo?”

“Yes, how can you prove you’re truly Han Crow Luo and not an impostor?”

Luo Hanya was momentarily at a loss for words. She was merely an eighteen-year-old who’d grown up in a sheltered environment, unable to fathom why the adult world was so rife with deception.

Yet youth has its own advantages. If an adult were questioned like this, they might become angry and mock the others. But Luo Hanya, with the fervor of youth—or perhaps more accurately, the stubbornness of adolescence—refused to accept defeat. “I really am Han Crow Luo!”

Both participants fell silent, clearly hesitant. Yet out of self-preservation, neither was willing to reveal their identity.

“Fine, you’re Han Crow Luo. I believe you. Let’s begin verification.”

“Yes, we all believe you’re Han Crow Luo. Let’s start verifying.”

Despite having spent the day in this web of intrigue, Luo Hanya hadn’t realized how vast the gulf between people could be, how even the most basic trust had become a luxury.

“Alright, let’s begin.” Luo Hanya, though weary, knew these things couldn’t be changed in a short time. She had no choice but to submit to this harsh reality.

“Let’s verify Bloodhand’s identity. After all, he’s the most dangerous.”

“Yes, let’s check Bloodhand. If someone so ruthless became the killer, it’s hard to imagine anything more terrifying.”

“Hehehe.”

“I agree. Verify Bloodhand.”

Luo Hanya clicked the verification button in the lower right corner. A window popped up, similar to the voting machine’s interface, displaying nine portraits. This time, another portrait was grayed out.

She gently clicked Bloodhand’s portrait and waited for the computer’s response. After a moment, the portrait flipped, enlarging to the size of the card. On its back, two large red characters appeared: “Not.”

The verification screen vanished, and the computer returned to the chat interface.

“Good thing it’s not.”

“Heh, is there anything else?”

“What’s wrong? There are still over ten minutes left in negotiation.”

“Enjoy yourselves. I won’t be joining.”

“How can you do this? Han Crow Luo? Are you still there?”

“There’s really nothing left to discuss. Let’s end it.”

Luo Hanya saw that the two had no intention of cooperating, and so she no longer wished to continue this meaningless negotiation. She left the computer.

The sky was nothing but clouds—no hint of starlight, mirroring Luo Hanya’s gloomy mood as she leaned against the window.

Whenever troubled, she liked to gaze at the mysterious night sky. Beneath the cold moonlight, beneath the myriad stars, beneath the tranquil and distant heavens, she could let go of all earthly dust, returning to a pure, serene beauty.

But clearly, tonight the heavens refused to oblige. Thick clouds obscured everything, just as hope was hidden from the people trapped in this villa. At that thought, Luo Hanya became lost in reverie, recalling the day’s events, reflecting on Wang Hui’s fragility and brilliance, pondering Li Xin’s guilt and radiance.

She didn’t know how much time passed, but eventually her elbows felt sore from leaning so long. She rose from the window, shaking her head in self-mockery, glanced at her watch—it was already half past nine, yet she felt no trace of sleepiness.

Suddenly, the world around her seemed blurred, but Luo Hanya paid it no mind. Clearly, it was a mechanism of the game system, skipping over irrelevant time so players wouldn’t waste too many hours.

She habitually glanced out the window. Was it an illusion? Amidst the pitch-black night sky, a shining star seemed to appear, guiding those who walked in darkness. When the sky finally cleared, it flickered once, then hid itself in the dawn.