Rainy Night Theater (28)

“What on earth do you mean?” A foreboding feeling welled up in Sun Hao's heart. He took a subconscious step back, staring warily at Zheng Ba.

Zheng Ba pulled a dark green syringe of poison from his pocket.

Holding the poison, his fingertips lightly caressed the barrel of the syringe. He spoke slowly, a trace of reminiscence in his tone. “The ninth game was called the Source of Plague. In that game, the evil faction was called the Infected.”

“The poison they used was called Plague. It was identical to the poison we use now, but it had no usage limit. As long as there were Infected remaining, the poison would never run out.”

Sun Hao finally realized something was wrong and tried to rush forward to stop him, but it was already too late.

Without the slightest hesitation, Zheng Ba raised the syringe, aimed it at his own wrist, and plunged it in. The dark green liquid was instantly injected into his body.

“Are you crazy?! Why are you committing suicide?!” Sun Hao roared, trying to lunge forward.

Zheng Ba pulled the needle out of his wrist. To Sun Hao's shock, the empty syringe rapidly refilled with the exact same dark green liquid.

Seeing Zheng Ba turn the needle toward him, Sun Hao had no choice but to freeze in his tracks.

“Let me tell you another piece of news. In the past few days of this game, every participant who died during the nighttime phase actually committed suicide.”

Zheng Ba's face was gradually turning a sickly blue-purple, his lips darkening to black, and his breathing grew increasingly rapid. Yet, he continued to smile, his tone laced with mockery and a trace of imperceptible sorrow.

“Since you refuse to properly act out this battle royale drama, we can only follow the script... Now, the victory of the game is...”

At this point, he suddenly choked up. Although his facial expression didn't change, a fleeting look of confusion and blankness crossed his eyes, as if he had suddenly forgotten what he wanted to say.

What he had originally wanted to say was that the victor had been decided.

When the participants refused to actively engage in slaughter, the killing would be carried out by them—the so-called “third party.”

This was the most boring kind of death drama in theater. A group of people trapped on an isolated island, gradually walking toward their deaths due to unknown causes. There was no psychological warfare, no dramatic conflict. Only by forcing an irreversible tragic ending could the entertainment value of this play be elevated.

Therefore, once things reached this state, the hidden victory rules of the game would take effect.

As long as all the deceased whose names homophonically matched the numbers died, everyone in the game would be deemed to have lost.

Having recovered his memories across so many rounds, he already knew what his “script” was.

Representing the number 8, he was supposed to be the last victim according to the script. That was why he had poisoned himself so calmly and resolutely.

Not much time had passed since the night phase began, and the memories of so many rounds were incredibly chaotic. Fortunately, he was already used to it and knew the ropes.

First, he had to read the script for this round. If he was the last to die, he would destroy the records Liu Ziwei had written out of penance.

He couldn't let that person discover her faint resistance during the reclamation process. Otherwise, they might not even be able to preserve their ridiculous sense of self.

As the initiator of that spirit-summoning game back then, Liu Ziwei, out of remorse, had recorded everything since the Ninth Round. She had then combined various pieces of information to piece together and reconstruct the situation before the Ninth Round, leaving it in the game venue.

She hoped that these newcomers could use this information to find a way to escape the game, so that they might finally welcome either liberation or complete destruction.

Then again, aside from critical information like the script and records, Zheng Ba hadn't had the time to process the information of what exactly was happening in this specific game.

Even for Sun Hao, it was only when the man stood right in front of him that he briefly recalled his situation.

But just now, Zheng Ba suddenly realized something was wrong. In this game, there was an extra “9.”

Zheng Ba did not know this Bai Jiu. He was absolutely certain of this, which was highly abnormal.

Generally speaking, the person representing the final number would always be a participant from their Ninth Round back then, because only they would possess the resolve to commit suicide.

When the participants believed this was their last hope and exhausted all their efforts to carefully eliminate any danger for the final number, they would never expect that the moment only the final number remained on the field, their defeat was already sealed.

That was the playwright's absolute favorite kind of drama.

Zheng Ba finally began to piece together what was going on in this bizarre game. Fragments of memory flashed rapidly through his mind, eventually locking onto the identity setting where Bai Jiu and Fu Liu were lovers.

The twelve of them had resented and tortured each other for far too long. Every single one of them knew exactly what kind of people the other eleven were.

Alongside his shock, an inevitable trace of joy welled up from the depths of Zheng Ba's heart. A faint sprout of hope took root, and the smile on his lips finally felt real at the moment of his death, no longer a facade.

It was Fu Liu... Had he found a loophole and smuggled someone into this game's script?

As expected of the man who had set fire to the theater back then...

If that was really the case, then they might actually be able to...

Although a torrent of thoughts had rushed through Zheng Ba's mind, in reality, only a few breaths of time had passed.

Sun Hao watched the shifting expressions on his face, his mind filled with confusion. He wanted to press for answers, but Zheng Ba's body swayed, his eyes gradually losing their luster. He collapsed straight down, breathing his last.

Sun Hao froze on the spot, staring at Zheng Ba's corpse with mixed emotions.

Never in his wildest dreams did he expect Zheng Ba to end his own life in such a manner.

They had lost their only clue. Where should they go from here?

Sun Hao sat dejectedly on the stairs, waiting for the arrival of the fifth daytime phase.

Having waited in vain in the second-floor corridor, Fu Yan, Cheng Xi, and Bai Ci decided to head downstairs to look for him. That was when they spotted him sitting on the stairs, wallowing in frustration.

“Sun Hao, are you alright? What happened last night?”

Cheng Xi's gaze swept over him before darting to Zheng Ba's corpse collapsed near the stage. Seeing that his face was clearly discolored from dying of poison, she asked.

Sun Hao raised his head, looked at the three of them, and spoke slowly, “Zheng Ba is dead. He committed suicide.”

He recounted everything he had experienced last night in detail from beginning to end.

Stunned by the turn of events, the group fell into a brief silence.

After a long while, Fu Yan sorted out his thoughts. His gaze landed on Bai Ci, his tone incredibly solemn. “Bai Jiu, based on what Zheng Ba said, your survival is the key to winning or losing this game.”

“I suspect the script's rule is that if all the people with homophonic numbers die, we all lose. Now, you are the only one left with a numbered name.”

Cheng Xi understood the conclusion but didn't quite grasp the reasoning. Fortunately, she had the awareness to follow her teammates' lead. “From now on, let's all guard Bai Jiu together. We can't afford to take any risks.”