Killer Sequence Guild, Lounge
The Judge of Defying Gods slumped on the sofa, drinking water like a madman. The person next to him looked like he was about to turn into a dried fish, surrounded by a pile of empty mineral water bottles, stamina restorers, and sanity restorers at his feet.
"The desert instance dungeon is so damn hot." A man sitting on the far left had flushed cheeks from the heat, his eyes vacant as he hugged a bottle to his chest. "The game pool has banned shops—you can't even buy water. I thought I was going to die of thirst in this dungeon."
"We were careless," The Judge of Defying Gods said, rubbing his brow. "I didn't expect to be trapped. We didn't work well enough together, and we mainly didn't bring enough supplies."
The man suddenly sat up, looking around in confusion. "What's going on? Why isn't Spades back yet? He's usually here in the lounge by the time we exit the game, but where is he today?"
"Bought a bunch of strong acid fuel and went into the Ice Age instance dungeon," The Judge of Defying Gods said with a wry smile. "Playing the [true end] line."
The man immediately understood, his body going limp again as he tilted his head with a long, incomprehensible sigh. "How many times has it been? He hasn't given up yet?"
The Judge of Defying Gods shook his head, amused. "I don't know—quite a few times, anyway. Every time we got the Ice Age poster before entering the pool, Spades would glance at it a few more times. If anyone zoned out and didn't hold him back, he'd have jumped in and left us behind."
"He's long since finished the [normal end] line of Ice Age," the man said, puzzled. "Doesn't Spades ignore games he's already won?"
"What is it about this [true end] line that draws him? Isn't it just a corpse collection quest? Why does he keep hopping in? Does he really need to beat the game?"
The Judge of Defying Gods tilted his head back and chugged another bottle of mineral water, taking a long, refreshing breath. "I remember that Spades' corpse collection mission in Ice Age was always missing one piece. I think the piece he lacked was the heart, which he searched for many times but still couldn't find."
"Anyway, you know how that Spades guy is—he'll keep looking if he can't find it. Let him be. Take it as tempering of the mind."
The man's face showed mixed feelings as he chewed on the mouth of his bottle. "Even Spades needs refinement with that mentality of his… Aren't you just telling me to go back into the furnace and rebuild it?"
The Judge of Defying Gods gripped his bottle silently.
The man fell quiet.
That comment had crossed a line. The Judge of Defying Gods was the tactician controlling the whole situation; a player had no place doubting his resolution. Perhaps the man had been on the team only a short time, with a temperament far milder than other tacticians' extreme personalities, blending in so well that the players often forgot his identity as a tactician.
But a tactician is still a tactician—and he does not allow his players to be this offensive.
The man opened his mouth nervously. "Sorry."
"It's nothing." The Judge of Defying Gods waved a hand, smiling generously, skimming past the unpleasant topic. "You've been working with Spades for a year now. Can you tell me which match impressed you the most?"
This wasn't the first time they had had this conversation. Occasionally, the Judge would pull other teammates in for a long talk, asking what they thought of Spades after he struggled to fit into the team smoothly.
The man held the bottle like Winnie the Pooh, pondering. "Honestly, every game made an impression, but the one against Russell Cemetery was the most memorable."
The Judge of Defying Gods recalled it and quickly replied, "Ah, that one… it was a bad fight."
The man nodded, lingering fear in his eyes. "It wasn't just horrible. It was the most miserable game last year. I thought the team was going to be wiped out by the end."
The Russell Cemetery vs. Killer Sequence match had been sixteen to eight.
By then, Spades' strength had become apparent, and all sides were asking about the new player of unknown origins. But the most curious guild was Russell Cemetery—a guild that did everything it could to unearth Spades' secrets and uncover his weaknesses.
Russell Cemetery had been ranked twelfth the previous year. Unlike other notorious teams, it had no star players and wasn't strong. With major turnover every year and timid new faces on the field, nothing ever stood out.
Their only memorable trait was a penchant for forfeiting in single and double matches, earning them the nickname "Double Cannon Team"—entering the arena and surrendering twice to blow up the field.
Yet this team had a surprisingly solid style of play, always hitting the ground running in certain matches, winning with precision, and occasionally defeating star teams.
Last year's Killer Sequence nearly got folded by Russell Cemetery.
Spades almost died in that game. Russell Cemetery had tailored its strategy specifically to counter his playstyle, assigning a player with skills capable of limiting him and giving that player a temporary role as tactician for the match against Killer Sequence.
—And this skill was used in a brutally effective way.
As soon as the game began, Russell's team exploded into action, forcibly sacrificing one of their own players. Through this sacrifice, their tactician activated his skill, turning the ground beneath Spades' feet into a vast mud puddle.
The mire nullified all of Spades' attacks and slowly threatened to consume him, a tried-and-true ability whose only drawback was its cost: sacrificing a teammate to activate it. The stronger the target, the longer it took for the mire to fully engulf them.
Spades endured seven days in the game under the debuff, unable to attack in the mud. He shifted his status from [Attack] to [Defend], grinding his opponent down and trapping them in a game shock map.
But at last, the mire was prepared to swallow Spades whole.
Half of his face was submerged, and his teammates did everything they could to pull him out, kneeling beside the treacherous puddle, digging desperately with their bare hands, fending off opponents who came at them.
At that moment, every face in the Killer Sequence was twisted into an unrecognisable mask, unforgettable to the audience. Ferocity, fury, fear, and dread mingled, filling the room with an almost tangible emotion. Muddy tears streaked their faces, and low, maddening hisses erupted from their throats—a pure, unadulterated fear of [death] looming over them.
Everyone of them knew that if Spades died there, they would die as well.
Spades, however, felt no fear. He looked serenely at his men, the mire consuming him bit by bit. "You may run now," he said.
Still, no one ran. Some howled as if tearing their own hearts out, fighting madly against their opponents with tears and blood.
Spades still won the game.
The team's collective dread amplified their strength, helping them resist Russell's attacks. After one teammate burst through and severed the opposing tactician's arms—disarming him—the mire's effect lifted.
Once Spades could attack again, victory was inevitable.
The crowd erupted as Spades climbed from the bottomless swamp, whip in hand, bathed in mud and blood. They leapt to their feet, screaming and cheering for the demon who had clawed his way out of the abyss.
He was covered in filth and horrific wounds from the seven-day ordeal. Broken bones jutted sharply from his skin, mud and clotted blood encrusting them. Yet even with such a grotesque appearance, no one doubted the outcome: Spades' victory.
Ten minutes later, he stood before his kneeling team, nonchalant, holding his bloodied whip. Mud dripped from his jaw and knuckles, and the central prop of the game—a symbol of triumph—rested in his right hand.
The Russell Cemetery team trembled before him. These rookies, on the field for the first time, begged for mercy, their cries incoherent.
Spades, also a newcomer, watched silently. The distance between winner and loser, between life and death, separated them.
It was a game of survival. Russell Cemetery had plotted against Spades, who was fully capable of ending their lives on a whim.
The audience shouted, "Kill them! Kill them!"
The Russell Cemetery team closed their eyes in despair. They had gambled with their teammates' lives, only to end up facing defeat themselves.
Finally, Spades spoke, his eyes hidden behind muddy bangs: "You sacrificed your teammates, and my teammates did everything to keep me alive, both out of fear of death. But when you stake your lives on the backs of others…" He looked down at the group, eyes unreadable beneath his hair. "…can't you see that your fates are bound together?"
The group stared in disbelief.
The tactician with both arms severed tilted his head and replied, "…that's not it. One death could save us all—it's our tactic! Didn't you get stuck in at the start?"
"This was to protect the others! One death could save so many!" he continued tearfully, unsure if he was convincing them or himself.
Spades nodded calmly, as if satisfied. "I see. You cannot see your own destiny. I will not kill you; your fate will not befall you here, nor is it my gift. You will die in your own muck."
The tactician looked at Spades in shock, tears in his eyes.
Spades spared them.
Shortly after, Russell Cemetery attempted the same sacrificial tactic in their next league match but were stopped by Team Fang Wood. The tactician drowned in the mire he had intended to unleash.
One man recalled the match, sighing: "I couldn't figure out what was going on in Spades' head back then. I would have killed those guys in a fit of rage."
"But I think this explains it," he said to The Judge of Defying Gods. "Spades finally realised the importance of the team, which is why he poached you this year."
The Judge of Defying Gods pondered, then said, "I actually asked Spades why he chose me as tactician."
"How did he answer?" the man asked, curious.
The Judge smiled. "He said, 'I saw that your fate was to work for me as tactician and then die on the field.'"
The man spat out his water. "He said that to you directly?! That's… threatening death in front of a prophet!"
"Correction: my skill isn't prophecy—it's called [Listening to God's Words]," The Judge shrugged. "Sometimes I can barely tell if he's the prophet or I am. His intuition is incredibly precise—almost better than prophecy."
"Take the Ice Age dungeon, for example. We've all been there. That unknown creature X's derivative that turns humans is troublesome. Even we, capable as we are, struggle to identify the real target. It's hard to clear the dungeon because you can't find anyone to attack."
The Judge looked at a team member across from him. "But do you remember how Spades cleared it when he was with us?"
The member muttered, "He killed all the replicas—except for us—once he got in…"
The Judge nodded. "Exactly. Once inside, Spades quickly found Edmond hiding in Fang Xiaoxiao's body, killed him, stopped his plan to use the particle device on the global climate, and completed the main global warming quest to clear the level."
"That's the [NORMAL END] of this game," The Judge of Defying Gods said, spreading his hands. "From the moment we entered the game until we found Spades beside a pile of replicants' corpses, he cleared it in less than thirty minutes."
"Aren't you curious? How can this guy identify who's human and who's a monster so easily? The monster anthropomorphism in this game is so realistic, it makes you question whether you're real or not."
The man rubbed his chin in thought. "Oh yeah… how did Spades figure it out?"
"I asked him," The Judge of Defying Gods said, a resigned look on his face. "Do you know what he told me?"
"What did he say?" the man asked.
The Judge let out a long, deep sigh. "Intuition. He recognizes it purely by intuition."
"As much as I hate to admit it, his instincts are that good. Spades never lies," he continued, pressing a hand to his forehead. "But that's also the problem. If he's going to fit in with the team, he has to trust my tactics over his instincts."
"But if his instincts are that accurate," he added, "I don't have the means—or the confidence—to convince him to suppress them and follow my tactical arrangements."
The man frowned. "Is there no way for us to go along with Spades' instincts?"
"I've thought about it," The Judge said, taking a deep breath. "But it's useless. Spades has no way of properly articulating his instincts to us. They're usually split-second feelings, and by the time we react, he's already gone eight hundred miles away."
The man slumped over the table, recalling the gruelling experience of chasing Spades through the game. "—leaving us searching the same places over and over again…"
"The main problem is communication," The Judge said, frowning. He propped his head on his hands, eyes glazed over. "Spades can't say more than a few words before wandering off, and I can't even get his attention by banging on a gong. Can someone—somehow—teach him to communicate with people?"
-----------------
Inside the game, near the Ross Ice Shelf.
Spades gathered his gear and strapped his walking equipment to his sled board, looping the safety rope around his waist as he dragged it forward. He reached into the lining of his jacket and pulled out the map, crumpled by the fierce wind, confirming his next destination with a quick glance.
After visiting the buoy point in the Ross Sea, Spades had covered dozens of other locations. By now, most of the map's points were cleared, leaving only a handful of spots untouched.
His eyes lingered on the inland marker at the South Pole. He exhaled slowly, the breath forming a foggy white cloud in the frigid air.
Edmond Observatory.
He remembered logging in here alongside the player Bai Liu. Having identified his target, Spades drew his whip from behind his waist, adjusted the skis fixed to his feet, and leaned forward, knees slightly bent. He scanned the relentless blizzard, locked on a direction, and swung his arms left and right over the snow.
The whip struck the ground, sending a thick spray of snow past him. Using the whip like a ski pole, Spades leveraged the reaction force from each swing to glide over the snow, a blur of orange-red streaking across the white expanse.
If the Judge of Defying Gods were here, he would have yelled at Spades for using such an expensive whip like a sled dog, instead of pulling the sled with it.
But he wasn't.
Spades, black goggles in place, swung his whip from side to side, gliding smoothly until he vanished into the roaring wind and sweeping snow.
Tarzan Station.
Bai Liu stopped only briefly at Tarzan Station before darting off, snatching a helicopter parked outside and taking off before anyone noticed.
The wind howled around the aircraft, and flying in such conditions—visibility barely thirty meters—was like pole-dancing on the scythe of death, with a crash possible at any moment.
But Tang Erda, as a pilot, couldn't disobey Bai Liu. Their tactician's eyes glowed with excitement, like someone about to claim a billion dollars, and even his breathing quickened. His slender fingers gripped the backrest of the pilot's seat so tightly his knuckles whitened.
"Where are we flying?!" Tang Erda hissed.
"Edmond Observatory," Bai Liu replied.