Chapter 418: Snow Mountain |
“The Mother God forbids us from seeing her, so naturally, we grow ever more distant. The Snow Mountain does not welcome us, so naturally, we cannot see it by day. We can only follow nature's course and move Them with our piety.”
Zha Xi intoned a long, cryptic passage before continuing on his way, unconcerned with anyone else. Behind him, the herd of massive, powerful yaks formed a moving hill against the white landscape.
The players, however, no longer dared to follow them.
To walk ever farther into the vast, endless night, until all landmarks disappeared from view, was a prelude to being lost. And after wandering the Snow Mountain for so long, a fear of being lost here forever had taken root in all of them.
“It seems you’ve all noticed. We’ve been walking in the opposite direction the entire time,” Zhou Ke said, crouching down, his gaze fixed on the footprints in the snow. “When moving forward, the body’s center of gravity leans forward, so the impression of the ball of the foot is usually deeper, while the heel’s mark becomes progressively lighter.
“When moving backward, the center of gravity shifts back. The heel’s impression is more pronounced, and the ball of the foot might leave a shallower mark due to dragging or a lack of propulsive force, sometimes even showing drag marks. Now, look at these footprints—”
“All these footprints were made while walking backward,” Dong Xiwen concluded after squatting down to examine the ground. “Does that mean we’ve been moving in reverse all night? We would have been better off just marching in place.
“Seriously, what kind of messed-up mechanic is this? This instance is really pulling out all the stops to make things difficult for us. They even came up with a setup where the more you walk, the farther you get from your destination.”
“Mirrors,” Fu Jue interjected coolly. “We know that reflections in a mirror are the reverse of the outside world, and perception can be distorted by the visual discrepancy. This aligns perfectly with our current situation.”
He had only been agreeing casually, but Lin Jue adjusted his glasses, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I think we might need to go back to the inn. The mirrors there could be the key to breaking this impasse.”
...
[January 3, 2014. Entry from the Snow Mountain camp:
[The date is just a guess. In reality, ever since we set foot on the Snow Mountain, I’ve been unable to determine the specific time in this instance. The sky remains dark. I can only guess based on my physical sensations that perhaps twenty-four hours have passed. But why hasn’t the sun risen? When will it be daybreak? We have no idea.
[First, let me record what happened yesterday: Zhou Ke used a hymn to lure all the sinners of Shangri-La, forcing Lin Jue to use his identity card’s effect on himself and adding the main quest ‘Kill Lin Jue.’ We made an agreement: if we still haven’t found a way to clear the instance by daybreak tomorrow, Lin Jue will take his own life.
[I don’t understand why Lin Jue would submit to the coercion of that slaughter-focused player, but knowing him, he had likely considered this path long ago. Zhou Ke’s actions were merely the last straw that pushed him to his decision. But for a person like him to die so unceremoniously here? I feel it’s a waste, an injustice to him.
[After comparing notes, I, Alexei, and Zhang Hongbin have all been affected by the instance’s mechanics; we’ve ‘reverted to children,’ with our memories regressing and our thoughts becoming childish. Lin Jue believes that climbing the mountain will help slow this process of age regression. Whether to avoid ‘conversion’ or to counter the instance’s mechanics, it was time to move to the next stage—we ascended the Snow Mountain at dusk.
[What’s worse is that we seem to have unknowingly gotten lost in a mirror world. We were clearly moving forward, yet the result was that we were moving backward, getting farther and farther from our destination. We plan to return to the inn at the foot of the mountain. There were some mirrors there, which might be a key clue pointing to the solution.
[Fortunately, no matter what, judging by the sky now, it’s still a long time until dawn. We are all still alive, and we will remain so for a while, until the dawn arrives.]
In Qi Si’s timeline, a new page appeared in Chu Yining’s diary. Qi Si flipped through it casually, learning indirectly of Zhou Ke’s movements in the other timeline.
It was more or less as he had deduced. Zhou Ke was in the same timeline as Chu Yining and Lin Jue. After obtaining the Ink Soul Long Scroll, Zhou Ke had successfully used the recorder to leverage the situation, coercing Lin Jue into achieving his goal.
At this point, the outcome of Zhou Ke’s worldline was a foregone conclusion. The fate of those players from twenty-two years ago had been steered onto a predetermined track, leaving no other possibilities.
The light overhead gradually dimmed as time approached dusk. Everyone who had ascended the Snow Mountain gathered in the temple.
Fu Jue and his group arrived a step later, stepping through the temple gate cloaked in heavy, wind-driven snow. By the time they arrived, several more layers of bones had been added to the sacrificial pit, which was now only about a third of the way from being full—undoubtedly Fu Jue's contribution.
The members of Kyushu and Listening Wind who followed Fu Jue wore varied expressions. Some had long known parts of the secret, while others looked as though their faith had just been shattered.
But everyone knew that here, in the shared peril of the Snow Mountain, facing an overwhelming threat of death, Fu Jue held the final decision in this trolley problem. They had no right to agonize over the details.
After everyone had settled in an empty space near the temple entrance, Fu Jue stood up and walked toward the rear of the temple. As he passed Qi Si, his steps paused slightly. “Qi Si, I need to speak with you alone.”
“Coincidentally, I have a few things to tell you as well,” Qi Si replied with a smile, rising to his feet.
He already had a good idea of what Fu Jue was going to say. He followed with an easy stride, while casually issuing an order to Lu Li and Xu Yao through his soul leaves to keep an eye on the others.
This temple, hidden deep in the Snow Mountain, was a complete hollow shell. Beyond its wooden frame, it contained no other furnishings, like a skeleton stripped of flesh, its bare spine rising starkly against the cold wind.
The courtyard’s central well was entirely occupied by the sacrificial pit, leaving almost no room to stand. Qi Si and Fu Jue, one after the other, climbed a ladder in the corner to the second-floor platform.
On the second floor was a row of rooms with dilapidated doors and windows. Inside, ancient-looking lamas sat cross-legged, their waxy, dry flesh clinging to their bones, shriveled and decayed.
Qi Si stood outside a doorway and turned to Fu Jue, a look of keen interest on his face. “I must say, I’m curious. What is it that must be discussed in private, away from the others?”
“The ritual and the sacrifices,” Fu Jue said flatly. “According to the instance’s mechanics, we need to kill a large number of people to fill the sacrificial pit for a chance to clear it.
“We know that those who are killed will seek revenge on their killers at night, and our ability to fight ghosts is limited. Therefore, I hope we can consolidate our information as soon as possible and calculate the equilibrium point between the number of sacrifices and our ability to escape.”
Fu Jue’s words were a perfect match for Qi Si’s own assessment of the situation.
The Snow Mountain instance informed the players through their nightly dreams that anyone killed would gather on the mountain to seek revenge on their murderers. The very next morning, however, it used the lamas to tell them that they needed to kill a large number of people to fill the sacrificial pit for a chance to pass.
This presented the players with a dilemma: killing is a sin, so just how many people are you willing to kill, and how great a sin are you willing to commit, in order to win?
Most players who had made it to the Final Instance could face life and death with composure. Moral questions were set aside; the only thing they needed to calculate was the ratio of risk to reward.
Qi Si tapped a finger against his chin and smiled. “More important than the equilibrium point, I think, is calculating how many more people we need to kill to fill the pit.
“It’s probably not a small number. If the Final Instance is the system’s way of ‘reclaiming’ the entire world, then even sacrificing everyone on the planet might not be enough.”
“Not necessarily,” Fu Jue said, shaking his head slightly. “This instance exists across different timelines. Each timeline has its own sacrificial pit, so the required number of sacrifices should be the total population divided by the number of timelines.
“Given a fixed total population, the earlier we begin the ritual, the more options we will have.”
His tone was perfectly calm, as if he were merely discussing a simple math problem, not the living, breathing lives of countless people.
When a decision is made in the name of the world's future, it seems that as long as the great ship called "Human Destiny" can continue its voyage, any number of deaths can be called a necessary sacrifice. Qi Si laughed. “Interesting. The savior they believed would rescue them from fire and water has just nonchalantly decided to throw them into a sacrificial pit.
“No matter how many people those so-called ‘slaughter-focused players’ deceive or kill in an instance, it pales in comparison to the number you’d sacrifice with a single decision. Quite ironic, isn’t it?”
“I will kill all my puppets,” Fu Jue stated, his tone unchanged, as if he hadn’t registered Qi Si’s mockery. “Slaughter-focused players are not worth mourning. I used the Sila Guild as a banner to gather these low-value, unstable elements under my command. Using their lives in exchange for the survival of the innocent aligns with the principles of utilitarianism.”
Qi Si nodded in understanding, his smile never wavering. “I see. I’ll detonate the Insomnia bacteria first and kill a thousand people. If a thousand isn’t enough, then ten thousand.”
He paused, then his tone shifted. “However, there is one thing I can’t help but be concerned about: what is the Ancestral God’s role in this ritual? The sacrifice, the priest, or the recipient of the sacrifice?”
“The recipient,” Fu Jue replied, his gaze lifting to the distant mountain peaks, his glasses reflecting the white glare of the snow. “It is the deity worshipped by the lamas in this world. If we want to deal with it, our only option is to use the sacrifice to lure it out.”
“An excellent approach.” The smile on Qi Si’s face finally became genuine. “Then allow me to wish us a pleasant cooperation in advance.”
The worldline had progressed to a point where there was little room left to maneuver. If things were left to run their course, the outcome would likely be the same as in the First Epoch: after the apocalypse, the Ancestral God would create a new world, and all other living beings would be melted down and remade.
If the gods wished to change their fate of being devoured, their only choice was to kill the Ancestral God and take its place in the apocalypse. At present, the players were in the open while the Ancestral God was in the shadows. No plan could be implemented unless the ritual was used as a catalyst to draw it out.
This was an overt scheme. As a tool chosen by the system, accepting the sacrifice of sins was the Ancestral God’s duty. Even if it knew of Qi Si and Fu Jue's plot, it could not ignore it and would be forced to enter the game.
The conversation took only ten minutes from start to finish. The most important matters are often decided with grim finality, simply because both parties have already made their decisions before the talks even begin. What they called a discussion was merely a politely worded notification.
Lin Chen sat numbly on the temple threshold, his head turned to watch the two figures on the second floor. When he saw Qi Si descending the steps, he quickly averted his gaze, staring at a small, melting patch of snow on the ground.
He was not completely oblivious to the things Qi Si had done.
He had heard and read the players who cursed Qi Si as a slaughter-focused player, a deranged madman. As long as one wasn’t a fool, one could guess at the truth.
But until he saw Qi Si harm someone with his own eyes, until he had undeniable proof, he always clung to a sliver of unrealistic hope that it was all a misunderstanding, a malicious smear campaign by rival forces.
He wasn't a brave person; in fact, he was something of a coward. He could never muster the courage to question or resist. He would only force himself not to dwell on difficult questions, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, deceiving himself to maintain a facade of peace.
Even knowing that Qi Si wasn't the selfless, pure person he had imagined, he was still in the habit of lying to himself: that Qi Si had his reasons for everything he did, that he was simply sacrificing the few to save the many in a trolley problem, that once the Final Instance was cleared, he would resurrect everyone...
But after seeing the layers upon layers of corpses in the ice pit and hearing Qi Si’s nonchalant tone, Lin Chen could no longer turn a blind eye.
The veil of past falsehoods was torn away, the beautiful illusion shattered. For the first time, he was forced to look at the real Qi Si—
This young man, whom he had seen as a kind and righteous savior, was in fact an out-and-out madman who held no regard for human life.
Was he in pain? Was he sad? Lin Chen remained stunned for a long time, but what he felt most was a sense of release. The unresolved question had finally been answered. He no longer had to lie to himself.
The only question left was: how should he face Qi Si now?
‘You have to be responsible, and you have to remember kindness. You said it yourself—he helped you, and no matter his motives, you can’t just turn around and harm him.’
His mother’s words echoed in his ears. Lin Chen realized that the answer to this question he could never solve had been there all along.
No matter what, Qi Si had saved him three times. He owed Qi Si three lives. Until that debt was paid, he belonged to Qi Si.
If it came to it... he would repay it with his death.
“What are you thinking about?” Qi Si’s voice, as light as ever, sounded at the bottom of his mind.
Lin Chen closed his eyes and answered truthfully, “I’m thinking about that sacrificial pit, and about the people who died in it.”
“Oh?” Qi Si said noncommittally, prompting him to continue.
Lin Chen swallowed hard and asked, “Brother Qi, the lamas said the pit has to be filled with the dead. Will you kill more people?”
“I will. It’s a joint decision between Fu Jue and me,” Qi Si said with a smile. “So, are you going to oppose me?”
Silence spread through the temple. The wind and snow on the mountain grew stronger, whistling and rattling against the doors, windows, and wind chimes, creating a series of sharp, eerie sounds.
After what felt like an eternity, Lin Chen spoke in a very soft voice. “Brother Qi, I still owe you three lives.”
...
Meanwhile, Zhou Ke and the others gathered in the inn at the foot of the mountain.
Seventy-two hours had passed since they first set foot on the Snow Mountain, yet the sky above had remained dark and lightless the entire time, as if they were at one of the poles in winter, destined to be sunless for months on end.
Lin Jue wrapped a wool blanket around himself, a flicker of worry finally appearing in his otherwise calm eyes. “I suspect we’re trapped in the night. The sun isn’t going to rise again.”
Xiao Fengchao, who had been lounging on the sofa, sat up and brandished a white card between his fingers. “And here’s some even worse news: I just did a divination for the few people whose birth details I know. Every single one of their fate lines ends here.”
As he spoke, he materialized a black card in his hand. “I’m wondering if I can switch my identity card in time, to something like the Taboo Scholar. Perhaps it could disrupt fate a little, which is better than nothing.”
“Don’t bother,” Lin Jue said, shaking his head gently. “All of us are climbing the mountain together. The next time we encounter a death trap—”
He turned his head to the young man in the black suit beside him. “Fu Jue, I need you to kill me at the earliest opportunity.”
Fu Jue’s pupils contracted. “Senior, why...?”
Lin Jue raised a hand to silence him and said calmly, “To trade my one death for everyone else’s survival... it aligns with the principles of utilitarianism.”