he moment the man in the suit uttered the onomatopoeia, Seventeen's screaming stopped abruptly. He remained in a posture of looking up and howling, but his body seemed to have all flesh and bone sucked out of it, shriveling at a speed visible to the naked eye.
The silver mask slipped from his collapsed cheeks, revealing a face that rapidly lost all color, with skin clinging tightly to the skull. In just a few short seconds, a once-vibrant human being became a desiccated corpse slumping in the chair.
"Now that Seventeen has been eliminated, will his identity be that of the liar?"
The man in the suit paused, his gaze sweeping over every invitee. At this moment, his eyes felt as if they had physical weight, pressing down until everyone found it hard to breathe. The auditorium was deathly silent; no one dared to speak, and no one dared to meet his gaze.
After a full scan of the room, the man spoke again:
"Regrettably, Seventeen was not the liar. According to the rules, those who voted for Seventeen will be eliminated together with him."
As soon as he finished, the man raised his right hand and pointed six times at the six voters.
The first to be hit was Invitee Number Three, a young girl in a floral dress. She didn't even have time to let out a gasp before her body stiffened, and her skin shriveled before everyone's eyes. Her silver mask hit the floor with a clank, revealing a pair of wide-open, lifeless eyes.
Following her were Number Five, Number Eight, Number Twelve, Number Thirteen, and Number Eighteen. In less than a minute, seven of the eighteen invitees were dead.
Watching person after person collapse around them, many secretly felt a sense of relief that they hadn't chosen Seventeen.
"What a pity. These six invitees failed to find the correct answer. But it's fine; I can give you all one more chance. However, this time, if you vote incorrectly, everyone except the liar will be eliminated."
"The thinking time is still ten minutes, but this time I can give you a hint: if you want to find the liar, the keyword is 'Scene Adaptation.' Think carefully, everyone."
With that, the man snapped his fingers again. The auditorium began to playback the words spoken by the invitees earlier—Seven's answer about the character 'Qin,' Fourteen's vague statement about the three-year gap, Byrne's rant about clients with 'ideas'...
The words spoken by the invitees during both segments echoed through the hall. When the playback ended, the hall fell back into silence.
Scene Adaptation...
Byrne chewed on these two words repeatedly in his mind, his fingertips unconsciously gripping the armrests. His brow furrowed behind the silver mask as he closed his eyes again, dismantling each statement and Q&A response one by one, anchoring them to the core connection between "scene" and "adaptation."
He had previously suspected Number Six because of the contradiction between a cold-sensitive constitution and the scene of early spring lakeside fishing. The man's hint undoubtedly confirmed this line of thinking, yet it also gave rise to new doubts.
If Six truly was the liar, why was there only one vote—his own—cast against him? Did no one else notice that flaw? Or was there a more critical scene conflict he had overlooked?
The atmosphere in the auditorium grew increasingly oppressive. Seven desiccated corpses slumped in their seats, silver masks scattered on the floor, forming a grotesque contrast with the brand-new velvet chairs. The remaining eleven invitees were wary of one another, their gazes darting back and forth through the hollow eyes of their masks. No one dared to let their emotions show, fearing they would become the next target of suspicion.
Byrne slowly opened his eyes, his gaze passing over the people present, re-tracing each person's speech and their corresponding scenes.
The old man, Number One, said he walked past Cuiyun Street in the morning—the walk adapted to the street scene. The young man, Number Two, mentioned dealing with basketballs every day—his tracksuit fit the basketball scene. Number Ten spoke of needles and thread—whether as a profession or a hobby, it didn't conflict with the scene of sewing...
Thinking this far, his gaze rested once more on Number Six. Six wore a heavy dark coat, and even in the warm auditorium, he hadn't loosened it at all, which seemed to confirm his claim of being naturally cold-sensitive.
But fishing spots in the outskirts in early spring were windy and cold. Even dressed warmly, sitting still for long periods was not something a cold-sensitive person could endure. Wasn't this disconnect between the scene and his personal traits obvious enough?
As he pondered, Byrne suddenly had a realization.
No, that's not right!
Previously, he had fallen into a mental trap, limiting "scene" to real life, while ignoring that everyone was currently inside the Red Maple Theater—this eerie space constructed by the Rules. The "Scene Adaptation" mentioned by the man in the suit likely didn't refer to the logical consistency of real-world scenarios, but to the adaptation to this gathering place or the Rules themselves.
He closed his eyes again, replaying everyone's statements word for word. Details he had previously ignored began to piece together in his mind like shards of a broken mirror.
Minutes later, Byrne opened his eyes and turned his gaze toward Seat Sixteen. She was a woman in professional business attire, sitting upright with her hands folded over her knees. Even in the oppressive atmosphere of seven deaths, she maintained an almost rigid poise.
In the previous two segments, her performance had been unremarkable. Her answers during the Q&A were standard, and she had never once entered Byrne's list of suspects. But now, re-tracing her earlier words, Byrne finally felt the fatal sense of discord he had missed.
During the Q&A segment, Sixteen had mentioned that she was allergic to spices and incense. At the time, Byrne took it as a common physical description; after all, such allergies aren't rare, and she had spoken in a steady tone, so he hadn't paid it much mind.
But now, combined with the "Scene Adaptation" hint and the environment of the Red Maple Theater, things were different. Since stepping into this auditorium, a faint scent of sandalwood had permeated the air. It wasn't overpowering, but it lingered persistently in every corner of the hall.
Sixteen claimed to be allergic to incense, yet after being in this auditorium for so long, she had remained calm with steady breathing. She showed no signs of an allergic reaction like sneezing or skin redness, nor any discomfort like shortness of breath or irritability. It was no exaggeration to say she was calmer than most people present.
In Byrne's view, this was not something that could be explained away by mere "tolerance."
Without realizing it, ten minutes had passed again.
"Time is up. Now we begin the second vote. I assume you all have your answers. This vote will determine the fate of everyone. Good luck."
The man's voice rang out right on time. With a wave of his hand, the voting devices reappeared on the armrests. One minute later, the voting ended.
The electronic screen rose once more, clearly displaying the results.
[Number Sixteen: 8 votes, Number Six: 2 votes, Number Four: 1 vote.]
Seeing the results, Byrne breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed most people had reached the same conclusion.
The man in the suit stared at the voting results on the screen. After a moment, he turned his gaze toward the audience.
"Oh. You chose Number Sixteen. Regrettably... you chose incorrectly."