This Game Is Too Real
Chapter 537: The Last Straw That Breaks the Camel’s Back

Chapter 537: Chapter 537: The Last Straw That Breaks the Camel’s Back

Spielberg originally thought he was done for.

His boss, Lord Vega, would surely bribe someone in the prison to make sure he was carried in upright and carried out horizontally.

However, what he didn’t expect was that his coworkers hadn’t abandoned him—they had gathered in a circle at the prison gate and even alarmed the Militia Group.

The prisoners inside were watching the excitement and whispering to each other curiously.

"By the Great Antler God... I’ve never seen such a scene before."

"What are they trying to do?"

"The best thing would be for a fight to break out!" said a desperado with blood on his hands as he excitedly clenched his fist, ready to take the chance to break out of prison.

Sitting in a corner, Spielberg coughed softly.

"There won’t be a fight... there shouldn’t be."

Everyone looked at him.

Spielberg felt scared and shrank back a little, speaking in a quiet voice.

"I... read a story to them. Awakener Bol knows that killing Stephen won’t solve any problems..."

The prisoners looked at each other.

Although they weren’t clear on what was happening, instinct told them that the people outside had something to do with this thin fellow.

The desperado walked over to Spielberg, squatted down in front of him, and stared at him for a while.

Just as Spielberg was tense to the breaking point, he suddenly spoke.

"Bol? Stephen? What’s that?"

Spielberg was taken aback.

"That, that’s a long story."

The desperado sat down on the ground and gestured with his hand.

"Don’t worry, take your time. You aren’t going anywhere for a while, and I... we have all the time in the world."

Seeing the prisoners all looking at him curiously, Spielberg swallowed and hurriedly nodded.

"Okay... then I’ll start at the beginning."

Bol was born in the slums at the foot of the great wall, a bona fide country bumpkin from the Outer City.

But who was in the city to begin with?

After all, Giant Stone City wasn’t built in a day...

He began to recount Bol’s story in a flowing narrative, and before long he realized it wasn’t only the prison’s inmates who were listening, but even the guard stationed at the gate had leaned on the railing to listen.

It was a story of an underdog.

As the noble lords would say, a lone Awakener couldn’t make much of an impact.

But who here wasn’t an underdog?

After a while, the commotion outside ended and the prison was packed.

Then another boss came along, making a pretentious display, wanting to take his workers back home, but nobody wanted to go with him.

"Go home, my children! The environment here is too terrible, gloomy and cold! Come home with me first. We can sit down and talk about any demands... How about I treat you to Mr. Hauser’s broadcast? It’s your favorite channel."

The guy with a belly full of fat put on a smile that made the onlooking workers laugh, for they had never seen such a benign expression on his face.

"Home? Are you talking about that rundown factory of yours?"

"Ha ha ha, I’m definitely not going back with you!"

"That’s right! It’s warm here! Not only is it not gloomy, but it also doesn’t have any drafts, and we even have stories to listen to!"

"Why don’t you come in too?"

The boss became frantic.

Why couldn’t these people see reason?

Thinking of the deadline for the orders, he screamed.

"Have you all gone mad! If I can’t complete the orders, the factory will have even less money! The IOUs in your hands will be just worthless paper! In the end, you’ll harm yourselves! I can just walk away, but you’ll get poorer and poorer, unable to afford even the nutritional paste!"

No wonder they were poor!

Neither smart nor hard-working, and despicable too!

"Then you can think of us as crazy," a young man said, looking at him with a hint of disdain, "We don’t care anymore. Even if you are rich you won’t give us a penny, so it’s better if you’re poorer—maybe you’ll love us more then."

"Ha ha, he’s still trying to reason with us at this point!"

"No need to talk, buddy. Go to the top of the building and see if the wind is strong for us!"

The boss’s pale and feeble arguments were drowned out by a wave of laughter.

At this point, no matter what he said was useless, even if he offered to pay some wages despite the pain it caused him, nobody cared.

But he didn’t regret issuing the IOUs—that was the greatest invention. He only regretted not buying some slaves for emergencies.

Slave trade was allowed in the Giant Stone City, but slaves were too clumsy, always breaking the machines, so over time people stopped wanting to use them. In contrast, free survivors worked harder and had long since phased out slaves, but he had never imagined such an intense "disaster" occurring today.

Actually, there were less than two hundred of Vega’s coworkers at the pub’s entrance, but in just one afternoon, half the workers from the industrial zone had become members of the Workers’ Association.

Everyone sat down on the ground inside the prison.

Seeing that they weren’t causing trouble and were just listening to stories, the prison warden turned a blind eye to Spielberg reading stories and even allowed them to leave the cells to walk around freely... After all, there were too many people to keep in the cells, and just recording their names would take until the next day, so they were allowed to make do in the corridors for the time being.

It was crowded here, but also warm, with electric lights and nutrient paste available.

"Brothers, this place is like paradise!"

"We should have come here earlier!"

"When the noble lords want to arrest everyone in the city, they will have to build a prison as big as the Giant Stone City itself."

"Ha ha ha! Maybe they’ll renovate our houses for us!"

Although their fun was born out of hardship, when a group enjoyed themselves together in hardship, it wasn’t painful at all; instead, it was filled with joy.

Everyone discussed the continuation of the story together and unanimously agreed that Awakener Bol’s tale was missing a character named Kent, clamoring for Spielberg to include this comical clown as well.

Spielberg secretly felt that insulting a comrade who worked alongside them was a bit too much, so he convinced the excited crowd to save Kent some face. He removed a syllable from the name, changing it to "Ken," with a note describing him as "one who loves to spit and is fond of pressing his rear against the whips in Mr. Stephen’s hands."

This was a compromise.

Everyone nodded in agreement, as bullying one of their own kind wasn’t very interesting; even if Kent didn’t care for them and genuinely detested their filthy selves, it wasn’t right to beat him—that would only turn more hesitant children into another Kent.

It was enough for everyone to do well on their own.

They didn’t have any grandiose ideals; they simply wanted what was theirs.

These days, Spielberg’s life in the prison was surprisingly not bad, after all, he was the only one who could bring some entertainment to the people there.

Spielberg vaguely felt that, although the prison warden always kept a stern face, he actually sympathized with them.

This man had no Black Card nor chips; in the end, he was just a small fry who couldn’t skim much off the top. Moreover, recently, chips were gradually buying less and less, and it wouldn’t be long before everyone was equally poor.

Later, during one storytelling session, the warden interjected with a teasing tone, asking his fellow workers whether "jailers counted as workers."

Before the workers could respond, Spielberg immediately replied, "Anyone who draws a salary counts."

At that moment, the prison warden gave no particular reaction, but later, the food in the entire prison improved, with the nutritional paste no longer being diluted with water.

Another week passed like this, and by mid-December, the weather grew colder. The warden managed to get a batch of cheap scrap, andthe carpenters and blacksmiths joined forces to make a stove for the prison. Not only did the workers no longer have to endure the cold, but the jailers who were reluctant to cram together with the workers were also much warmer.

Spielberg secretly wrote a letter, asking an acquaintance jailer to help send it to the Alliance’s embassy, addressed to his editor, Miss Dolly, asking the Survivor’s Daily to exchange his payment for Silver coins, to buy some corn and send it to Boulder City Prison. When he saw the small mountain of corn and sacks of radishes and potatoes piled up in the prison’s open space, he was shocked.

He had no idea that his modest writing fee could buy so much!

Latter on, a colleague working in the flour mill created a contraption for milling flour, and the workers from the canning factory started making stew for everyone. With full bellies, there had to be something to do, so the engineers from the repair shop simply started giving lessons, and the masters from the chemical plant began discussing chemistry...

This place had everything; it hardly felt like a prison, more like a welfare institution. No one cared for the pathetic pleading of the bosses. Although there was an element of spite, they had indeed proved through action that without Mr. Stephen, they could live better!

Since they no longer had to work on the assembly lines, Spielberg also had more time to refine Bol’s story into something even more substantial.

At that time, someone suggested establishing a set of rules, or rather, a manifesto. After all, even the gangs outside the giant wall had rules, so they needed some as well.

Charging forth in a swarm only to scatter at the first sign of trouble was indicative of misbehavior; in the end, it achieved nothing but chaos and only gave the real thieves and bandits inside the prison something to laugh about.

The Workers’ Association wanted to discuss with everyone and sought the opinion of each worker, using communication instead of threats, clarifying what they all wanted, how to ask for it, and what would be considered a victory, just like in war... Only in this way could they truly unite.

Some proposed Spielberg as the chairman, but he quickly waved off the suggestion, saying he wasn’t cut out for it and that he would be content with being a secretary. It would be better for everyone to vote for a true leader.

However, he felt that everyone was right, and he was incredibly grateful that day he had written in Awakener Bol’s story—

"...Beating Stephen up solves nothing, not even if you unbuckle your belt and urinate on him. Killing a giant rat just leaves another corpse on the street and attracts more flies."

"...One person may be weak, but as long as we are united, Stephen will fear us, all the Stephens will!"

Maybe his premonition had been right.

This winter wouldn’t be too tough to endure...

...

After finishing his story for the day, Spielberg yawned and went back to his cell to sleep.

The guys from the Workers’ Association had long ago separated the snorers from the non-snorers to ensure everyone could rest, and they even politely allocated him the solitary confinement—a dark little room—to calm his mind for writing stories.

However, unlike usual, when Spielberg entered the tiny dark room and closed the door, he realized there was another person there.

The man was not tall, actually quite short, with green eyes that glinted like a wolf’s and gave Spielberg a shock.

Seemingly undisturbed by the thought of him running away, the man assessed him with a gaze as piercing as a venomous snake’s and spoke deliberately.

"Someone wants you dead."

Spielberg felt a chill in his limbs.

This guy...

He could be a genuine Awakener!

His Adam’s apple moved as he spoke.

"Who..."

"A big shot, I don’t know who."

"I’m asking for your name," Spielberg swallowed, watching him closely, "You know mine but I still don’t know yours."

Playing with a dagger in his hand, the man spoke nonchalantly.

"Small Blade, that’s what everyone’s been calling me since I can remember... What does knowing my name do for you? Planning to come after me once you’re out?"

Spielberg shook his head.

"No... When a person dies, it’s all over. There might not be any Great Antler God, or even an afterlife, although I just found that out recently."

"Uh-huh?" Small Blade wasn’t particularly interested but wasn’t in a hurry to complete his task either.

The Wasteland was very lonely, with settlements and the wild both being a jungle—whispers of beasts surrounded him inside and out.

Letting the guy talk wasn’t a bad idea, most people only spoke a few human words when they were about to die; he liked the money from his employers, as well as the last words of the dead.

Spielberg hesitated for a moment, then continued.

"But... even if there’s no afterlife, a person’s name can live on in the memory of others. Names are important, it’s not meaningless at all."

"Are you stalling for time?" Small Blade yawned, his eyes suddenly shifting as he continued, "No need, really. To be honest, another big shot has paid. He wants the opposite, doesn’t wish for you to die just yet. Maiming you suffices, like chopping off your limbs or muting your voice... Just leave you breathing."

Spielberg felt utterly cold.

He did not doubt that the man before him had the ability to do so, just as Bol could give Mr. Stephen a good thrashing—an Awakener was still far superior to the average person.

"Click, click, click, you’re a coward like the rest, the only difference being you haven’t wet yourself yet," Small Blade said while studying his face in some disappointment, jestingly adding, "I really don’t see what’s so special about you, a nobody having so many big shots circling around you. It’s my first time receiving two bounties on the same head... Oh right, didn’t that big shot from the ’North Suburb’ invite you over as a guest?"

His face suddenly showed interest, the malevolent look in his eyes slithering over Spielberg’s face like a serpent’s flicking tongue.

"You say... if I take you to ’North Suburb’, would the Manager there reward me with the position of a Thousands of leaders?"

Spielberg cleared his throat lightly.

"Cough... That big shot might give you some money, but it’s unlikely he’d let you be a Thousands of leaders—that’s a different matter."

Small Blade looked at him, dejected.

"What a pity. Although money is not bad either."

He paused for a moment and continued.

"You haven’t answered my question yet. What kind of secret does someone like you have that so many important people are after you? Do you know something, like the location of the Black Box, or hidden treasures worth a lot?"

"No."

"No?"

"I’m not lying to you," Spielberg said, intently focusing on the dagger in his hand, "I’m just a nobody who reads newspapers. How could I possibly have such a thing?"

"Tsk tsk tsk. I believe you."

Small Blade got up from the hard bed with a smile and walked over to Spielberg, twirling the dagger in his hand.

"Alright then, I’ll give you another chance to live. Write a letter to the big shot in the North Suburb. If he’s willing to pay, I’ll consider selling you to him. Oh right, I only accept Dinars or Cr."

Of course, he was only considering it.

After all, the other two big shots had offered quite a lot too. He could just kill this guy and pocket all three bounties.

The Wasteland was so vast, he could escape anywhere. He was just a Waste Land Wanderer, with no interest in this twisted place.

What he hadn’t expected, though, was that this insignificant coward before him would refuse his proposal without hesitation.

"I won’t write it."

Small Blade looked at him in surprise.

"Are you sure?"

Despite his fears, Spielberg refused to back down and continued to stare at the man.

"I could beg Lord Vega for mercy... but if you’re planning to use me to blackmail that lord, you might as well give up now."

Without a doubt, he was just a nobody who had lived like a rat for over twenty years. He couldn’t understand why so many were interested in his head, but if he had to die, he’d rather give his life to that lord.

For no particular reason.

He thought it was worth it!

"Why? There must be a reason, right?"

"...Dignity."

"What’s that?"

"You wouldn’t understand. Just do it!" Spielberg clenched his fists, ready to fight to the death. At least he’d die a brave man, like a hero.

Small Blade sneered and didn’t waste any more words. He stabbed with his dagger cleanly and efficiently.

Seeing the sharp weapon coming at his head, the prey instinctively lifts their arms to protect their head first, and it played right into his hands.

He intended to disable the man’s hands first, then take out his legs, and finally silence his voice... He had done similar work countless times before and was confident he could pull it off cleanly.

However —

This time he faltered.

The dagger seemed to strike a transparent wall; he broke into a cold sweat trying to withdraw but found the dagger stuck as if in solidified air.

Spielberg froze as well.

He had just raised his arms to block, but then he saw ripples in the air before him that slowly revealed a figure.

"Dammit — who are you?!" Small Blade screamed in terror as the figure appeared before him like a ghost.

The dark mirrored surface and helmet concealed the person’s face; it seemed to be a woman, or perhaps not human at all.

She calmly held the blade of the dagger, her slightly bulging breastplate bearing the code X-16, along with the mark of Huge Rock Military Industry, seemingly imbuing the number with an unusual significance.

It was as if she had been there a long while, even longer than either of them in the room, yet neither had noticed her presence.

Optical camouflage!

A look of horror flashed in his beast-like eyes. Small Blade released the dagger and drew the short blade strapped to his leg, swinging fiercely at the person before him.

There was no sound of clashing metal.

He didn’t even see what the person did before he was knocked away like a kite with its string cut, slamming into the wall of the solitary cell.

"Ah..."

Many ribs were broken!

The spine seemed to snap too, his lower limbs wouldn’t respond, and urine leaked out...

In the last moment, he wanted to beg for mercy but couldn’t speak before a dagger pierced his throat.

He could only watch helplessly as the figure stepped closer, nonchalantly gripping the dagger, pulling out the blood-stained blade along with his consciousness.

The battle lasted only two seconds, but blood splattered everywhere.

Yet the figure standing in the blood seemed unphased.

Having never seen such a bloody scene, Spielberg felt his legs filled with lead, his back on fire, and after a long while of struggling from his stiff throat, he managed to squeeze out a trembling sentence.

"You... You’ve killed someone."

X-16 casually put away the dagger, ignoring his statement, and turned to look at him.

"Someone wants to meet you."

Spielberg gulped.

"Who...?"

"You’ll know when you get there."

Hearing this, Spielberg’s face took on a bitter expression.

Only someone from the Inner City who dared to kill with such impunity, even within the prison, could do such a thing.

To be honest, he had no desire to meet such a dangerous person, but it seemed he had no right to refuse.

After all, Chu Guang had witnessed it with his own eyes. She crushed the life out of that Awakener as easily as if she were squishing a grasshopper. Killing him would probably take her just one second.

"I... may I say goodbye to my friends?" Spielberg asked with an inquiring tone.

That pitch-black and icy-cold mirror emitted the response he fully expected.

"No."

...

Snow had been falling in the River Valley Province lately.

And not just a little!

To prevent snow accumulation from collapsing the rooftops of western district farms, City of Dawn organized a group of players and local residents to engage in snow removal work.

Although the pay was low, there were prestige points for the region to be earned, and some players interested in public affairs didn’t hesitate to shouldering ladders and heading out.

They had the strength for it, after all.

The number of Variants in the River Valley Province dropped sharply in winter; many of the monsters had gone into hibernation. Before the spring Tide arrived, Chu Guang also had to find tasks for these energetic young players to keep them busy and out of trouble.

Seeing the residents of the refuge roll up their sleeves to help, the residents of City of Dawn also came forward in droves, some steadying ladders, others passing shovels.

This winter was indeed much warmer than the last.

Apart from internal alliance matters, Chu Guang kept a close watch on the neighboring Giant Stone City.

Not with the intention of scavenging, but for fear that the proverbial cesspit might explode.

Currently, there were roughly two hundred players in Giant Stone City, occasionally posting their experiences in the city on the official website.

These players were like the eyes planted within Giant Stone City, and Chu Guang had already instructed Xiao Qi to compile these posts into a collection and sift through them for the most credible leads.

According to the intelligence Xiao Qi had compiled, the situation in Giant Stone City was far more exaggerated than Chu Guang had anticipated.

If the Alliance’s external debt was growing geometrically, then the inflation in Giant Stone City had almost surged over its towering outer wall.

Without a doubt, Melvin was no longer able to control the inflation.

Since the disturbance in the industrial zone, the false prosperity had erupted like an avalanche, and the fuse Chu Guang had predicted was ultimately ignited.

Faced with a crisis whose source was out of sight, Melvin was not entirely inactive, but he indeed had few cards to play.

After exhausting all his tactics to no avail, he had no choice but to team up with Duron of the city hall and, through clumsy administrative interventions, meddle in the production of the industrial zone.

For instance, forcibly intercepting a batch of goods that should have been delivered to the Alliance to fulfill orders, forcing intermediate products to be sent to the downstream sectors of his own industrial chain, or directly sending finished products to stores, in short, prioritizing the restocking of Giant Stone City’s shelves.

The Alliance’s factories were indifferent.

The Alliance’s industrial department had issued an early warning, advising everyone to prepare for the "earthquake" in advance, to accelerate the substitution of industries, and to source intermediate products from places other than Giant Stone City to avoid contract breaches that could trigger a domino effect.

But the owners of the factories in the Giant Stone City Industrial Zone were in a tough spot.

The mass imprisonment of skilled workers and the collective slowdown among laborers had almost brought their assembly lines to a halt.

Now, noble lords seemed to remember where the commodities on the shelves came from, yet refused to rack their brains for a solution, resorting instead to a piecemeal remedy for a headache and a separate one for foot pain.

Of course, they could stop fulfilling orders for the Alliance and prioritize restocking the shelves of Giant Stone City, but that was contingent on someone paying the penalty for their breach of contract.

Unfortunately, Melvin, the bank president, and Duron, the hall chief, seemed unwilling to pay the penalty for contract breaches on their behalf, nor were they willing to cover the difference caused by the raw material inflation. They even demanded that the products produced be sold at a price below cost, and the loans they had previously borrowed to expand production could not be stopped.

How could that be possible?

They had barely any profit margins to begin with, and now they had to take their scant profits—or even pay out of pocket—to cover up for the "economic overheating" resulting in vicious inflation created by the likes of Lord Melvin.

Although the Alliance also harvested their factories’ leeks, they did it in a methodical way, organized and disciplined. At least they didn’t just recklessly slash and hack without warning.

The industrial zone’s crafty merchants were driven to desperation and had to use all their tricks. Those with connections found ways to circumvent the city hall’s regulations and surreptitiously sell prohibited goods to their neighbors. After all, neither Melvin nor Duron would dare intercept Elder Sid’s goods.

Those without connections could only admit defeat, but admitting defeat didn’t mean accepting losses; they still controlled the production materials. If they couldn’t sell their milk, they could dump it. If they weren’t allowed to dump it, they’d kill the cows and eat the meat. If they couldn’t use knives, they’d starve the cows to death, or simply drag the cows to their neighbors’ houses.

Duron’s intervention didn’t really work, either. In the end, he and Melvin still underestimated people’s "greed" in times of adversity.

The shelves were quickly emptied, and once the crisis erupted, those goods became like black holes, swallowing up any amount of supplies without a trace.

Goods that should have been sold at a fair price became first come, first served, and the highest bidders got the supplies. Those who obtained a large amount of goods at high prices were not satisfied with just scraping by; they not only hoarded enough to last half a year but also kept some to sell and earn back their capital.

Even squirrels know to hoard pine cones many times their size for winter, let alone the greedier humans. Soap and sausages became the first hard currency, followed by cigarettes and liquor. Those who really couldn’t acquire hard currency exchanged their useless chips for other things, like bonds or the strong-performing S Coins.

The chips circulating inside the Giant Wall were countless times more numerous than the commodities inside the wall, and the hot money, with nowhere to go, scurried around like cockroaches.

Of course, all these investments were no match for the steady silver coins.

Suddenly, there were some small vendors selling food outside the Giant Wall; they were Alliance merchants who didn’t want more and more chips, they only bought with the stable silver coins.

The wealthy in Giant Stone City often had to go to the Black Market first to exchange a bag full of chips for a few silver coins, and then head to the gate of the outer city to purchase potatoes, corn, and daily necessities.

Those figures pushing carts became like a ray of light in the heavy snow, illuminating countless eager faces.

And under the shadows where that light couldn’t reach, some hurried figures were still active.

Dressed in clean cotton clothes, as elegant as businessmen, they would approach merchants from the Alliance and hand them a booklet.

It listed some "good stuff" that one usually couldn’t buy.

They were brokers.

They dared to sell anything and took anything in exchange.

Some were underlings of the lesser nobles or factory owners from the inner city, while others were simply militia in plain clothes.

In the hands of these resourceful minor characters, a thousand cotton coats could be exchanged for a loom that produced ten thousand meters a day. A few bottles of high-proof distilled liquor could be traded for a ninety percent new military exoskeleton, and if there was no distilled liquor, a few cases of beer or canned goods would do.

Someone even pulled out a Black Card, indicating that as long as they provided enough silver coins, he would take them into this "great gambling den" to find pleasures unattainable by the Alliance.

The gambling den was still operating normally, with the death lottery drawing daily. Melvin was still doing his best to put out fires, but the flames on the pyre were burning brighter and higher.

Every person in this gambling den had gone mad, more or less...

And just when Chu Guang thought this was the limit, a piece of terrible news suddenly came from his foreign minister, Cheng Yan.

Hearing his report, Chu Guang’s expression changed slightly.

"Spielberg... is dead?"

-

(Today I have something to go out for, so I’m updating early. There are probably three more Chapters in the Giant Stone City storyline. Oh, and Dian Niang seems to be live streaming in a few days. I haven’t decided what to stream yet; there are too many games I want to play, and it’s giving me a headache.)

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