Chapter 100: What is worrying is not the scarcity but the inequality.
The rules had been announced, the countdown had already begun, and the door sealing the altar had opened for them.
It seemed to be very windy outside. The strong wind brushed past the window frames, seeping through the cracks with a chilling touch, producing a sharp, lingering sound.
The people in the room began conversing, discussing the game rules. An Wujiu stood silently in place, not saying a word.
He could sense that, after the recent incident of mismatched players, besides his familiar companions, the people around him were consciously avoiding him.
For a moment, An Wujiu understood the meaning of the advice. If he were still alone at this moment, arrogant enough to think he needed no companions, he would certainly be the target of everyone’s hostility now.
While he was silent, Shen Ti had already walked over to him. He didn’t care about the rules, nor did he take the game seriously. He only cared about An Wujiu.
“I thought we wouldn’t get matched together.” Shen Ti’s hand naturally rested on An Wujiu’s waist.
An Wujiu didn’t mind and just responded to him in a low voice, “Me too.”
He was puzzled by the error at the altar. Although it was merely a system created by humans, and errors were inevitable, he didn’t understand why, after matching people, they would change it again.
Moreover, the one who was swapped in happened to be Shen Ti.
Wu You also came over, pulling Shen Ti’s hand away and standing between the two.
“Was that person someone you met before?” he asked An Wujiu.
An Wujiu shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
It seemed like they had met before, but it was strange. Back then, Yang Ming was also matched with him, and the altar didn’t kick him out.
Besides…
At that time, Yang Ming didn’t seem to be as terrified of him as the previous person, who had completely lost his will when facing An Wujiu.
Considering the number mark on his body, An Wujiu felt that this person was unusual.
Could they all be modified specimens from some laboratory? Or were they all placed here for testing?
An Wujiu was not sure.
“What do you mean?” A loud voice caught An Wujiu’s attention.
The speaker was a girl with blue hair. An Wujiu looked at her badge—No. 5, Megan.
“Do you mean that even if we exceed the sacrifice target, we can’t get the money back?”
She was facing a tall Western man unfamiliar to An Wujiu, with a badge marked [No. 10 Andrew].
Andrew nodded slightly, appearing polite and sincere. “I believe so. If the sacrificed money could be refunded, the holy voice would certainly have stated it. Moreover, he already mentioned that the criterion for determining the winner is the remaining money, so what has been given out can’t be taken back.”
“That’s too heartless.”
“So, whether the total amount is reached or not, the money given away won’t be returned; it’s just a matter of one having a reward and the other not?” Lao Yu asked.
Andrew said, “I think that’s the case.”
This idea immediately changed the situation in the room.
By now, An Wujiu understood human nature much better than before. There shouldn’t be many self-sacrificing types in this room.
The game originally had an infallible, extremely simple way to win.
But truly implementing it was uncertain.
“Since it’s anonymous, some people might give very little,” Megan said with arms crossed. “Maybe even nothing at all.”
Toudou Sakura leaned against the wall. “Yeah, this way, there’s no way to ensure the final amount.”
“This can’t be a luck-based game,” Lao Yu said.
Shen Ti, eager to stir things up, said, “Just donate whatever you want.”
Nan Shan still had his usual smiling demeanor. “Actually, that’s not wrong. Since it’s a warm-up round with no life at stake, there’s no need to worry too much.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Megan snorted. “This warm-up round is different from before. In the past, if we lost, we just lost. If we win, we get an advantage. But this round, it’s not about winning or losing. We might accidentally lose a lot of money. These points were hard-earned and exchanged with our lives.”
Shen Ti shrugged. “Fortune favors the bold. It’s normal.”
Ignored by the crowd, Noah circled the room, observing, then approached the group. In a soft voice, she said, “Don’t you think this place is a bit weird?”
As soon as she spoke, the oil lamps hanging on the four walls flickered simultaneously but didn’t go out.
An Wujiu glanced at the ceiling. The blue light from the altar shone like ghostly flames, illuminating the center brightly. This place felt like a rare, dazzling blue gemstone mine, where everyone entered for profit and was buried here.
The shadows of the people floated above, seemingly merging into a mass, blurrily and twistedly clinging to the lime walls, like clawed vines or tides swallowing the moonlight.
These shadows moved like living things.
But when he really looked up at the ceiling, the shadows reverted to mere shadows.
It seemed that Noah had already sensed something was off.
The warm-up round usually served as a prelude to the formal game, a harbinger. It was likely that the formal game would also be shrouded in this strange, eerie atmosphere, testing human nature.
“What’s so weird?” Lao Yu said to Noah. “Don’t scare yourself.”
They ignored the child’s words and continued discussing the sacrifice, each with different opinions and seeking the best method for their own benefit.
Thus, they argued endlessly.
“I’m a bit sleepy.”
An Wujiu heard Shen Ti say it in a very low voice. He turned his head to look at him and saw his weary expression, seemingly somewhat unwell. So An Wujiu patted his shoulder and said, “Lean on me; rest a bit.”
In an instant, he forgot his original intention to keep a low profile, not to form alliances or draw attention. Since he was already the biggest threat with the lowest credibility in the room, he might as well follow his heart.
Shen Ti, hearing this, was first stunned for a second, then smiled and ruffled his hair.
He could see that, facing these life-and-death trials, An Wujiu was no longer as tense as before.
“Forget it,” he laughed. “I hope the next game has a bed so I can hold you and sleep.”
An Wujiu thought of the first game where they met.
His lips involuntarily curled into a slight smile.
He deliberately teased Shen Ti, “Then sacrifice more, and let the gods bless you.”
Wu You was a bit worried, sensing that An Wujiu had no intention of seriously participating in the game. He turned and saw that Zhou Yijue, who had been a troublesome opponent in the last game, was now also silent.
Just as Wu You was about to ask An Wujiu what he thought, he suddenly heard a voice.
“I have an idea.”
It was Andrew again, surrounded by the crowd. “This method will ensure that every one of us becomes a winner.”
“Really?” Megan raised an eyebrow. “What method?”
“It’s actually very simple.” Andrew’s eyes seemed to shine with righteousness. “Each of us sacrifices exactly four thousand. The total amount will reach forty-eight thousand, and everyone can receive a five thousand reward. This way, each of us will have a surplus of one thousand, and we can all become the winners of the warm-up round, sharing the victory advantage.”
After he finished speaking, the reactions of the others were just as An Wujiu had expected—they weren’t buying it.
“I thought it was a good idea.”
“Isn’t this just an equal share?”
Zhou Yijue, who had been silent all this time, now smiled and walked over. “I think this method is quite good. There’s an old Chinese saying: ‘Don’t worry about scarcity, but about inequality.’ As long as everyone is the same, there shouldn’t be any complaints.”
Wu You snorted and muttered under his breath, “Since when have you been so kind-hearted?”
Nan Shan smiled and gave him a knowing look.
Wu You didn’t continue his grumbling.
Out of nowhere, An Wujiu felt someone watching him, so he looked towards the source of the gaze and locked eyes with someone.
It was the middle-aged Eastern man, his badge displaying his information—No. 11, Yang Ce.
Seeing An Wujiu turn his head, Yang Ce nonchalantly looked away.
“This method isn’t bad,” Lao Yu said to Andrew. “An equal share is, of course, the most fair and reasonable. But since only one person can go in at a time, we can’t see how much each person sacrifices. How can we ensure everyone will give exactly four thousand?”
Toudou Sakura nodded in strong agreement. “Yes, are we supposed to rely on everyone’s honesty and resolve?”
“I believe everyone here wants to achieve a common victory. It shouldn’t come to the point where someone would do something harmful and self-defeating at this moment.”
Andrew exuded a sense of justice, contrasting sharply with the people and place around him. “If we must prevent such a scenario, how about this: although the vote is anonymous once inside, we can complete the sacrifices outside. The last person can go in and make all the sacrifices at once. Isn’t that the same?”
Yang Ce, who had been staring at An Wujiu, spoke up. His voice was low, reminiscent of a cello.
“This approach is too risky,” Yang Ce said. “Everyone can transfer their points to a designated person under supervision, but that person must enter the door alone. We won’t know what they will do or how much they will sacrifice. If they are blinded by greed or forget their mission and betray everyone, each person will lose four thousand points.”
“That’s right.” Megan was the first to stand by Yang Ce. “We don’t know each other well. Choosing this person would be difficult.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but there’s another issue,” said the NPC who had helped them before, his badge displaying his number and name—No. 12, Matsubara Mori.
“The game rules seem to state that everyone must enter the altar to sacrifice. If we transfer points to someone else and let them pay on our behalf, it’s unclear whether the sacrificed points will be credited to the original holder or the payer.”
Toudou Sakura realized, “Yes, that’s a big problem. Logically, once the points are transferred, they belong to the other person. If we pay a lot and it’s not counted as our expenditure, we will have zero expenditure, and the payer’s balance will be negative, which is unfair to the payer.”
If the payer sacrifices everything, they will become the last place. But if the payer withholds, everyone will be in trouble.
“We’d better each pay our own,” Wu You suggested. “At worst, we can sign an agreement; how about that?”
Andrew took a deep breath. “Everyone, I believe we all want the most balanced outcome. If we all win, the subsequent competitions and advantages can be shared by everyone. Isn’t that great?”
An Wujiu looked at him through the crowd, feeling as if he were seeing his extremely kind former self.
But this person before him was more willing to emit light and warmth.
“I know there’s distrust among us, but once we get through this, it will be fine. If you’re willing, sign the agreement. If not, that’s okay too. We each sacrifice four thousand. This is the best plan for now.”
Time was running out. The crowd looked at each other, and for a moment, no one responded.
Zhou Yijue was the first to speak with a smile. “Andrew’s right and sincere. I agree.”
“I can do it too, just four thousand,” Wu You said.
Matsubara Mori also stepped forward. “I agree.”
Gradually, those who initially opposed the equal share plan relented.
They had different expressions, but all seemed preoccupied, thinking quickly and agreeing swiftly.
An Wujiu watched Zhou Yijue, seeing him blend in seamlessly, pretending to be a perfectly good person.
This game wasn’t really a game at all, and there was no need to think too much—it was just a setup.
Among the sacrificers, those who appeared the most upright and just would likely gain the support of others, while the contrary would struggle.
If not for the mismatched player incident, An Wujiu would have been willing to stand up for his companions and strategize for everyone. But now, it was unnecessary.
One by one, everyone agreed and stepped forward. There was no time to draft an agreement, so they could only make a verbal agreement.
Zhou Yijue turned back, his narrow, upward-slanting eyes fixed on An Wujiu. “And you? Mr. An, someone as sensible as you would surely agree with our plan, right?”
An Wujiu returned a smile. “Of course.”
With little time left, Andrew once again emphasized the importance of unity and then approached An Wujiu. “You are number one; you must go in first.”
He did not show any signs of suspicion, only warmth.
“Please.”
An Wujiu nodded.
With a minute left.
After he left, An Wujiu exchanged a glance with Shen Ti. Though they didn’t speak, they both knew what the other meant.
“Have Wu You pass the message, including to that person.”
Not far away, Zhou Yijue watched An Wujiu say something to Shen Ti and then head towards the door before the altar. His face, as always, was devoid of much expression—the face of a natural gambler.
When he stood before the altar, the door closed with a bang.
Wu You kept staring at the door until Shen Ti tapped his shoulder, signaling for him to come over.
Shen Ti lowered his head and whispered a few words to Wu You.
“Go, tell your Nan Shan-ge.”
Wu You glared at him, doubting what he had just been told. “Are we really going to do this?”
Shen Ti just shrugged.
After some internal struggle, Wu You passed the message to Nan Shan and Noah.
He wanted to tell Toudou Sakura as well, but she was always with Zhou Yijue, and there was no opportunity.
An Wujiu came out quickly. The others didn’t crowd around to ask him questions, but An Wujiu spoke first: “Once inside, there will be a projection option where you enter the amount you want to sacrifice, and that’s it.”
So the others entered one by one in order: Lao Yu was second, Toudou Sakura was third, Zhou Yijue was fourth…
It wasn’t until No. 12, Matsubara Mori, came out of the sacrifice chamber that the sacrifice game officially ended.
“Is it… that simple?” Megan felt something was off; the warm-up game seemed too easy.
“They should announce the results soon,” Lao Yu said, looking at the ceiling.
Soon enough, the holy voice arrived on schedule.
“Sacrifice has ended. The results will now be announced.”
An Wujiu remained expressionless, and even Wu You, who was nervous at first, was no longer tense.
“Sacrifice failed.”
The result announced by the holy voice caused an uproar among the crowd.
“Who didn’t sacrifice enough?” Lao Yu looked towards An Wujiu. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
An Wujiu’s cold, indifferent face gradually turned into a smile, his lips slightly curling up in a seemingly kind and friendly manner.
“How could it be?” His tone was light, contrasting sharply with Lao Yu’s heavy and firm accusation.
“We agreed to sacrifice 4,000, and I followed the agreement.”
Having experienced the “Red and Black” scenario, Lao Yu naturally didn’t believe An Wujiu.
But he had no evidence.
“Holy voice! Announce everyone’s sacrifice amount!”
His demand was echoed by Andrew. “That’s right, we request transparency.”
But the holy voice refused.
“The rules are clear. This is an anonymous sacrifice. I can only reveal the total amount.”
With that, a number appeared above the altar.
It was only 20,000.
“Twenty thousand?”
Andrew frowned, his eyes full of surprise. “Why…”
“Someone must have betrayed us!” Megan was puzzled. “Why doesn’t the altar tell us each person’s amount? This isn’t fair.”
“Perhaps…” Zhou Yijue said softly, “this is a lesson for us to not trust others easily.” He sighed. “It’s okay, it’s just a loss of some points. At least there’s no danger to our lives.”
“Points?” Lao Yu was furious. He stepped forward and grabbed An Wujiu by the collar. “It was you; I know it.”
An Wujiu remained unperturbed. “It’s over.”
“You!”
“Even if I didn’t give, think about it.” An Wujiu spoke calmly, “20,000, according to the agreement, means at most five people sacrificed. The remaining seven contributed zero.”
“Lao Yu, the ones you’re looking for aren’t just me.”
Shen Ti grabbed Lao Yu’s wrist and squeezed hard, still smiling. “Calm down, old friend.”
Lao Yu had to let go.
Once bitten by a snake, one is afraid of ropes for ten years.
Apart from An Wujiu, Lao Yu suspected no one else.
An Wujiu straightened his collar and looked up at Andrew.
All of this was within An Wujiu’s expectations.
Indeed, as Zhou Yijue said, “Don’t worry about scarcity, but about inequality.” But in this situation, what everyone wanted wasn’t 4,000, but 0.
For each person to give an equal 4,000 points was an extreme scenario.
No one could guarantee that there wouldn’t be at least one traitor among them. If that traitor appeared, even if they sacrificed only 3,999, the game would still fail.
Even if some self-sacrificers gave more than 4,000, the traitor who didn’t follow the agreement would win because they would have more remaining points.
The more selfish, the more likely to win.
Driven by such victory conditions, no matter how kind people were, once there was distrust among the group, they would be shaken.
If I give 4,000, what about the others? What if someone doesn’t keep their promise?
Wouldn’t my 4,000 be wasted?
Under such thoughts, this game was destined to fail.
Even if there were multiple self-sacrificers willing to give several times more points, this wasn’t the first round of the game. These people, no matter how foolish, had suffered from others and tripped over others’ tricks.
Faithfully following the agreement in the team, waiting for a slim chance of victory under extreme conditions might result in losing 4,000 points due to a traitor.
But actively betraying others and choosing zero sacrifice wouldn’t cost a penny. At most, they wouldn’t be the victor or gain an advantage.
But don’t worry about scarcity; worry about inequality.
If I can’t win, neither can others.
The greatest balanced victory was no victory.
From the moment the holy voice announced the rules, An Wujiu understood. He didn’t say a word; he was just observing the behavior and logic of the others.
He also knew that if he kept his promise and sacrificed 4,000 or more, Zhou Yijue would definitely sacrifice zero. He calculated this too and couldn’t not choose to betray.
Moreover, he would inevitably blame the betrayal on An Wujiu.
Rather than that, An Wujiu chose not to sacrifice, at least not losing points, solidifying the betrayal label.
Not only that, but he also wanted others to choose zero sacrifice, minimizing losses.
Seeing the total of 20,000, An Wujiu thought Andrew must have given much more; otherwise, it wouldn’t have reached 20,000.
Facing his loss, An Wujiu didn’t feel pleased. Perhaps because Andrew reminded him of his early self, or perhaps he didn’t want to see a sincere idealist’s inner fire extinguished.
“Did you tell him?” An Wujiu asked Wu You.
“I did,” Wu You looked at Andrew and said, “He didn’t agree.”
An Wujiu only asked Wu You to tell Andrew one thing, that zero sacrifice by all was the true solution to this game.
But he didn’t seem to accept it. He believed in the goodness and trustworthiness of human nature.
An Wujiu had to let go. He saw disappointment, struggle, indignation, and incomprehension on Andrew’s face, but reality was like that. He had pointed a way out for Andrew, despite its muddiness.
“The warm-up game is over.” The holy voice announced the end of the game. “There is no winner in this warm-up game, which means no player receives a reward.”
“Therefore, the official game mode will be chosen by the system.”
With that, the flames on the altar rose, nearly reaching the ceiling. The silver-blue core was beautiful, as were the flickering tongues of fire, like the spinning, flying blue skirts of a Gypsy dancer.
Above the flames, two lines of blood-red words appeared.
[Team Mode, Dark Team
Official Game: Blood Moon Sacrifice]
An Wujiu turned instinctively, and the previously closed wall suddenly had a window. The icy glass revealed a night sky stained gray by wind and snow, with a blood-red full moon hanging high outside the window frame.
“The pilgrimage begins again. Wishing everyone a pleasant journey.”
For every Ko-fi received for a perticular novel, I will release a new chapter!
