After a long stretch of darkness, Greed found himself in a bedroom. The room looked very retro, with a large canopy bed in the center and a carpet with Persian patterns on the floor. The curtains were very heavy, blocking out the outside completely.
He glanced down at himself, noticing he was wearing a suit. Judging by the fabric and style, it should be from the modern era, possibly the 19th to 20th century. He wondered if he had a character identity, and if so, it was likely someone rich or prestigious, attending a banquet, perhaps.
He walked to the window and pulled open the curtains, only to see a vast expanse of white outside. In the distance, there were silhouettes of mountains and trees, but they were far away, and not a single footprint could be seen on the snowy plain. A classic blizzard estate setup, just like Batman, he thought.
This kind of setup didn't surprise Greed at all; he even felt a bit relieved. Even though detective stories are a bit cliché, it's still better than being tossed in front of a monster. After all, you have to fight monsters, but with Werewolf, you can at least coast along.
Especially with this blizzard estate mode, frankly speaking, with a large crowd like this, if a few people die, no one would notice. He wasn't Arrogance; he didn't have to deduce every tiny detail, just show up for the voting to count heads.
The moment this thought occurred, a row of bold letters appeared in front of him—"You are the detective of this game, please conduct reasoning and find the murderer."
Greed peacefully closed his eyes.
Batman, oh Batman, couldn't you check when you're handing out the role cards? I'm not Arrogance, how am I supposed to deduce?
Greed sighed deeply, resignedly clicking on the game introduction. Then he realized this game wasn't Werewolf either; there were no role distinctions. Apart from telling him he was a detective, there were no other clues.
Just as Greed was pondering how to play the detective, there was a sudden knock at the door. Greed paused, looked around, but couldn't find a weapon at hand, so he slowed his steps and moved closer to the door.
The bedroom door didn't have a peephole, so he could only listen. Then he heard a familiar voice.
"It's me."
Greed opened the door to find Little Superman standing outside. He wore a green pinstripe suit, which was very fashionable for the era. He walked in, looked around the room, and said, "Looks pretty good."
"Did you receive any hints?" Greed asked.
"Hints? What hints?" Little Superman asked, somewhat puzzled.
"Then how did you find me here?" Greed inquired.
"I knocked on doors one by one," Little Superman replied honestly. "I started at the end of the hallway and knocked on every door. Some didn't respond, some did, but I knew it wasn't you when they spoke."
Greed covered his forehead. "Please, have you figured out the situation at all? This is clearly a suspenseful plot, and yet you went knocking on every door?"
"What?" Little Superman asked, still confused. "Clearly what? Why can't I hear you say that word?"
Greed understood; it must have been censored. This scenario's restrictions were very strict—words beyond the character and era were likely not allowed.
Greed shook his head and didn't repeat it, instead, he said in a different way, "The atmosphere is very strange right now; I think someone might have been killed. You shouldn't move around carelessly, just in case you run into the murderer."
"If there's a murder case, staying in your own room is a sure path to death, right?" Little Superman said, "I haven't read many detective novels, but I've heard that in such times, you mustn't be alone."
"But what if you knock on the murderer's door?"
"Then they wouldn't dare open the door to kill me; wouldn't they be discovered?"
"True enough." Greed nodded. "How many rooms are there in total?"
"Seven or eight, I didn't count," Little Superman shook his head. "But there seem to be more rooms upstairs and downstairs, possibly a dozen people?"
"That's not easy to handle." Greed muttered to himself.
"Will there be other players?" Little Superman asked. "Are they with us, or are they enemies?"
"We have two other teammates," Greed said. "They are the Agent and Deathstroke. We need to find them first."
"Then why don't you go knock and ask? When they hear your voice, they'll definitely open the door." Little Superman suggested.
Greed realized that Little Superman wasn't immersed in the atmosphere at all. He didn't seem to understand the current situation—the retro room, dim lighting, the blizzard outside—all these atmospheric elements didn't affect him. He went wherever he wanted, looking for whoever he pleased, as casually as visiting neighbors.
But there was no denying that this method was indeed effective. At the very least, the Agent would surely recognize his voice. But if they started disturbing everyone from the get-go, it might be troublesome when it comes time to vote.
"How about I help you ask around?" Little Superman volunteered, "Who was it again?"
"Better not." Greed sighed. "I'll go ask."
Greed pushed the door open and went out. The hallway was of the same retro style, with carved wall panels and dark green wallpaper. Decorative paintings hung on the walls, mostly landscapes. The candles were modern craftworks, though they had been used for some years and were not well maintained, thus appeared somewhat aged.
The light in the corridor was dimmer, and the end seemed to be swallowed by endless darkness. Greed walked out and gently closed the door, first turning back to glance at the window behind him, where the snow still fell thickly outside.
Compared to the inside of the room, the corridor was a bit colder, though it might have been Greed's imagination. He always felt a faint breeze, despite the doors and windows of the corridor being tightly shut, with no clue where the wind was coming from.
Greed walked to the first room and knocked lightly, but there was no sound from inside. The second room had some footsteps, as if someone had walked to the door to listen, but after hearing Greed's voice, they still didn't open the door. The following rooms were mostly quiet, but Greed felt there were people inside.
Reaching the stairway, Greed was reluctant to go down. It was a high-risk area for accidents, with too many blind spots in the view. What if a murderer was crouched somewhere?
"Why aren't you going down?" Little Superman's voice suddenly came from behind.
Greed turned around, surprise evident in his voice: "Why did you come out???"
"I got a bit bored staying in the room alone," Little Superman said, "Haven't you found them yet?"
"They may not be on this floor... Hold on, you should go back first," Greed said to Little Superman, "If there's no one in the room, what if someone goes in?"
"Is there anything important in the room?" Little Superman asked, puzzled.
"Not really, but what if they put something in there? Like a body or a murder weapon..."
"Then we just switch rooms," Little Superman suggested, "Even though I don't mind much, I know doctors might be a bit fastidious..."
"Is that really the issue?" Greed rubbed his forehead, "If there were a body in the room, wouldn't we be considered the murderers?"
"So what if we are," Little Superman said, unconcerned.
"You don't have superpowers right now," Greed emphasized, "If someone falsely accuses us and we can't prove our innocence while the other side has guns or something, you'd be done for just as quickly."
Little Superman thought for a moment and said, "Okay, should I go back now?"
"It's better not to," Greed sighed, "If you go back now and just happen to run into the murderer, that would be troublesome. Let's head downstairs to look for them instead."
Upon reaching downstairs, the darkness was even denser. Greed continued to knock on the doors one by one, with most of the rooms not responding, until he knocked on the penultimate one.
Deathstroke opened the door, somewhat surprised to see Greed, then asked, "Why are you here?"
"By my standards, I definitely wouldn't have come," Greed admitted, "But someone was eager to gather."
Greed stepped aside a little, revealing Little Superman behind him. Deathstroke sized him up and then said, "Hello, is it you who wanted to come over?"
Little Superman seemed to be recalling Deathstroke's profile, possibly not earnestly but merely nodding perfunctorily. Deathstroke noticeably disapproved.
"How did you find this place?" Deathstroke asked.
"Knocking door to door," Greed said, seemingly incredulous himself, "That's how he found me too."
Deathstroke frowned deeply, peeking outside before stepping aside to let the two in.
"Too reckless," Deathstroke said while closing the door, "Even if you don't encounter danger, you make yourself look suspicious."
Deathstroke had obviously guessed the nature of the game—a blend of reasoning and detective work, possibly tinged with suspense and horror. In such a game, controlling the narrative was crucial; appearing too suspicious could easily lead to an instant death outcome.
Deathstroke wasn't particularly skilled at deduction, but through playing often, he naturally understood. The previous season had so many challenging scenarios, with most restricting abilities and containing instant death triggers. Without cautiousness, one couldn't clear them at all; experienced players tread carefully, considering their next step thoroughly.
As soon as Greed entered, the Agent emerged from the washroom, clearly having been checking its facilities. It was Little Superman's first time seeing someone as young as Shiller, and he was intrigued, circling around him several times.
Greed originally wanted to tell his teammates he was a detective, but this information was obviously also restricted. It seemed any setting beyond the game couldn't be disclosed, suggesting that everyone might have a special identity that couldn't be shared with teammates.
But the immediate task was understanding the current situation—where they were and what to do next.
Since Greed knew he was a detective, there had to be a murder and a murderer, most likely with a body already behind one of the doors he had knocked on earlier.
Gathering here couldn't just be to await execution; there had to be a reason. Deathstroke thought so too, suspecting that the heavy snowstorm outside, having trapped everyone here seeking shelter from the adverse weather conditions, was likely the cause.
"Then this house must be in a very particular location," the Agent continued, "Like near a campsite or a mountain cabin. But the house's luxurious decor suggests more of an estate, and we're all wearing suits, not the attire of those seeking refuge."
"That suggests a banquet," Greed said, "For some reason, the estate owner invited everyone here, but during the stay, a murder occurred, and coincidentally the road is blocked by snow, trapping everyone."
The Agent shook his head, "If that's the case, we shouldn't be staying in our respective rooms. We should be gathered together in a panic, eyeing each other suspiciously. Plus, haven't you noticed how eerily quiet this estate is, with no servants around?"