46: The player is dead.

Chen Xi sat on the floor of the utility room.

He leaned against a sack. The sack had a hole, and husks spilled out, pressing uncomfortably against his back. He didn't move. His eyes were fixed on a crack in the opposite wall, where a woodlouse was crawling very slowly.

There were sounds coming from outside.

The suppressed groans of the wounded sounded like they were being squeezed through clenched teeth. People were moving about with sluggish footsteps. In the distance, there were sporadic gunshots, though it was unclear which side was firing.

These sounds felt very far away.

There was only one sound in his ears: a constant buzzing, like a broken radio. The echoes of the explosions were trapped inside, unable to escape.

He raised a hand and rubbed his ears.

It didn't help.

When he lowered his hand, he touched the sickle at his waist. The wooden handle was rough and stained with blood, feeling a bit sticky to the touch. He gripped it and pulled it out.

The blade glinted with a dull red in the dim light.

It wasn't rust. It was blood, completely dried and encrusted on the blade.

He used his thumb to scrape at it.

It wouldn't come off. The blood had seeped into the rust, becoming one with it.

He looked at the blade.

He looked for a long time.

Then he spoke, his voice flat, as if reciting lines.

"System."

[Please provide instructions]

"Little Chen is dead."

The system was silent for a second.

[Detected that the life signal of NPC unit 'Chen Shusheng' has terminated]

"Why was there no notification?"

[Non-critical plot NPC; no mandatory notification for death]

Chen Xi nodded.

"Who are the critical plot NPCs?"

[Units involved in the progression of the main storyline tasks]

"For example?"

[Xie Jinyuan, Shangguan Zhibiao, etc.]

"Will there be a notification if they die?"

[Yes]

Chen Xi nodded again.

He held up the sickle toward the bit of light coming through the window. The blade had a small chip—not obvious, but it was there.

"I am a player," he said.

[Correct]

"Players should win."

[The game objectives are survival and the advancement of civilization; victory conditions have not been clearly defined]

"Then what should I do?"

[Please explore on your own]

Chen Xi smiled.

The laughter was short, like a cough. After he finished laughing, his expression remained unchanged, still flat.

"Explore," he repeated the word.

He slid the sickle back into his waist. The movement was slow and precise, the scabbard making a slight rubbing sound.

Then he stood up.

His legs were numb from sitting, feeling like they were being pricked by needles. He stomped his feet, and as the blood rushed to his soles, the numbness slowly receded.

He walked out of the utility room.

In the corridor, two Soldiers passed by carrying a stretcher. The person on the stretcher was covered with a cloth, but half a foot peeked out from underneath. The shoe was torn, and the toes were blackened.

Chen Xi stepped aside to let them pass.

As the stretcher went by, it left a trail of moisture on the floor. It wasn't water; it was blood, diluted and pinkish.

He walked along the corridor.

He stopped at the top of the stairs.

Below was the direction of that pit. He couldn't see the pit now, as it was blocked by a wall. But he could smell it. The scent of char and blood mingled together, drifting up.

He headed down.

When he reached the second floor, he turned into the room at the end of the corridor.

This place had originally been an ammunition depot, but it was empty now. A few empty wooden crates were piled in the corner, with bullet holes visible on the crates.

He walked to the window.

Outside the window was the back of the warehouse, facing Suzhou Creek. There were boats on the river, very small and distant, like matchboxes. On the opposite bank were houses, three-story buildings with dark, gaping windows.

He looked at those windows.

He looked for a long time.

Then he turned around, leaned his back against the wall, and slid down to sit on the floor.

He reached into his shirt and felt around.

He pulled something out.

It was a bullet. 7.92mm, pointed tip, brass casing, primer intact. He didn't know when he had picked it up; he had just been carrying it around.

He held the bullet, twirling it between his fingers.

One rotation, two rotations.

The casing was very cold—a metallic cold that seeped through his skin and into his flesh.

He stopped and held the bullet up to his eyes.

The bullet head was slightly crooked, perhaps from an impact.

He stared at that crooked bullet head.

Images flashed through his mind.

A rainforest. Heavy rain. Gunshots like popping beans. The silhouette of Madman's back, holding a gun, firing backward. His body jolted once, then twice. He fell.

His eyes were open, looking at him.

They overlapped with Little Chen's eyes from just now.

Just as bright. Looking at him the same way.

Chen Xi's hand tightened.

The bullet pressed into his palm, causing a sharp pain.

He let go, and the bullet dropped to the floor, rolling a few times before stopping in the corner.

He stared at that bullet.

He stared for a long while.

Then he spoke, his voice very low, as if talking to himself.

"Madman."

No one answered.

Only the sounds from outside drifted in: the wind, the water, and the blurred voices of people in the distance.

He pushed himself up against the wall and stood up.

He walked to the window and rested his hands on the sill. There was a thick layer of dust on the windowsill; when he pressed his hands down, they left clear prints.

He looked at his own handprints.

Five fingers, clear as day.

Then he clenched his fist and slammed it onto the windowsill.

Thump.

It wasn't heavy. But the dust billowed up, clouding his face. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

His eyes were very clear.

No anger, no sadness. Nothing at all.

He turned and left the room.

He walked into the corridor and went downstairs.

At the breach on the first floor, Shangguan Zhibiao was smoking. The cigarette was hand-rolled with newspaper wrapping the tobacco, emitting a pungent smell as it burned.

Seeing Chen Xi, Shangguan Zhibiao offered the cigarette.

"Want a drag?"

Chen Xi shook his head.

Shangguan Zhibiao took a drag himself and exhaled. The smoke swirled in the light, slowly dispersing.

"The Japs haven't moved," he said. "They're spooked."

Chen Xi didn't speak.

He walked behind a low wall and looked out.

The Japanese Soldiers were fifty meters away, crouching with their rifles braced. No one moved forward. The pit in the middle was dark and gaping, like a scar.

Something was reflecting light near the edge of the pit.

It might have been broken glass, or perhaps a piece of shrapnel.

Chen Xi looked for a few seconds before withdrawing his gaze.

"How much ammunition is left?" he asked.

Shangguan Zhibiao flicked the ash: "Less than ten rounds per person for the rifles. Machine guns are out. Grenades... all gone."

"Food?"

"The flatbreads can last another two days. Water is scarce; we have to ration it."

Chen Xi nodded.

He turned and looked inside the warehouse.

There were about twenty Soldiers who could still move. Some were bandaging wounds, some were cleaning their rifles, and others were leaning against the walls with their eyes closed.

Everyone was dirty and exhausted.

But they were all still there.

"Where is the Regiment Commander?" Chen Xi asked.

"In the command post, writing a report," Shangguan Zhibiao said. "He said he's going to report what happened with Little Chen."

Chen Xi nodded again.

He walked to the wall, leaned against it, and closed his eyes.

This time, there was no darkness.

Only a vast expanse of grayish-white.

Like a television screen with no signal.

He stood there for a long time.

Until Shangguan Zhibiao patted his shoulder.

"Mr. Chen."

Chen Xi opened his eyes.

"Tell me," Shangguan Zhibiao looked at him, "what do you think Little Chen was thinking about when he went?"

Chen Xi didn't answer immediately.

He thought for a moment.

Then he said, "He was thinking about the future of China."

Shangguan Zhibiao was stunned for a moment.

Then he smiled. It was a very bitter smile, his lips curling in a way that looked worse than crying.

"That kid," he said. "Always thinking about things so far out of reach."

Chen Xi didn't respond.

He looked toward that pit.

The pit was still there. Charred and silent.

He watched it for a while.

Then he turned and walked toward the stairs.

He reached the second floor and didn't stop. He reached the third floor and kept going, all the way to the rooftop platform.

The door was open.

He walked out.

The wind was strong, whistling and blowing his clothes against his body. Sandbags were piled on the platform, and behind them sat a machine gun—empty, its ammunition spent.

He walked to the edge of the platform.

He looked down.

The entire battlefield was below him. The warehouse, the ruins, Suzhou Creek, and the concessions on the opposite bank. There was smoke in the distance; something was burning, and a pillar of black smoke was rising into the sky.

He looked for a long time.

Then he opened the system interface.

His emotion points were still rising. The numbers flickered like a heartbeat.

He scrolled to the very bottom of the mall.

[Engineering Module], greyed out and locked.

He counted the string of zeros after the price. Nine zeros.

He closed the interface.

His hand went to the sickle at his back.

He gripped it.

He pulled it out.

He held it up before his eyes.

The blade glinted in the sunlight. The blood and rust had merged into a dark red, like coagulated blood.

He looked at the blade.

He looked for a long time.

Then he spoke, his voice not loud, but very clear.

"From this day forth."

"I am no longer a player."

The wind scattered his words.

But he had heard them.