This Game Is Too Realistic-Chapter 537.2: The Straw That Broke The Camels Back

A chaotic rush followed by a quick retreat accomplished nothing. All it would make was a mess. The real thieves and bandits in the prison laughed at them.

The union needed to talk, not threaten. They had to agree on what they wanted, how to ask for it, and what counted as victory, just like a war. Only then could they be united.

Someone nominated Spielberg as president. He quickly declined, saying he wasn’t leadership material and that he would rather just be a secretary. He felt that they should elect a real leader.

Still, he was glad he’d written it in Bore’s story. "... Beating Stephen doesn’t solve anything. Not even pissing on him after unbuckling your belt. Killing one fat rat just leaves a corpse and some flies."

"... A lone man is weak. But if we unite, Stephen will fear us, all the Stephens will!"

Maybe he had been right.

The winter wouldn’t be so hard after all...

...

One night after finishing his storytelling, Spielberg yawned and headed back to his cell.

The union had long since separated the snorers from the quiet sleepers to help everyone rest. They even courteously gave him the solitary confinement cell, a dark little room where he could write in peace.

But that night was different. As soon as he entered and shut the door, he realized someone else was inside.

The man was short, almost small, with green eyes that gleamed like a wolf’s, startling him.

He didn’t seem worried about Spielberg escaping. He stared at him like a snake flicking its tongue, and said slowly, "Someone wants you dead."

Spielberg felt ice creep through his limbs.

This guy... He might really be an awakener.

Gulping once, he asked, "Who...?"

"A big shot. I don’t know who."

"I meant your name," Spielberg muttered nervously. "You know mine. I don’t know yours."

The man toyed with his dagger and replied indifferently, "Knife. Everyone’s called me that since I can remember... But what’s the point of knowing my name? So you can come after me later?"

Spielberg shook his head. "No... once someone’s dead, it’s over. There’s probably no Great Stag God, and maybe no afterlife either... I only recently figured that out."

"Hmm?" Knife didn’t care much, but he wasn’t in a rush either.

The Wasteland was a lonely place. Settlements were jungles, and so were the wilds outside. All around were the whispers of beasts.

Letting the guy talk wasn’t bad. Most people only spoke like humans right before they died. He liked money, but he also liked hearing his victims’ final words.

Spielberg paused, then continued, "... Even if there’s no afterlife, a person’s name lives on in the memories of others. So names matter. They absolutely do."

"Are you stalling or something?" Knife yawned. His eyes narrowed as he said, "No need to bother. Truth is, another big shot paid me too, but he wants you alive. Just barely. So maybe I will break your arms and legs, cut your tongue and leave a little breath in you."

Spielberg froze.

He didn’t doubt it. The man could do it.

Just like Bore could thrash Stephen, awakeners were still far too powerful for ordinary people.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, you're just like the others. A coward. The only difference is you haven’t pissed your pants yet," Knife said with a look of disappointment, taunting as he stared at Spielberg's face. "I really don’t get what’s so special about a little nobody like you, for so many big shots to be circling around. It’s the first time I’ve seen two bounties on the same head... Oh, right, I heard a certain bigwig from the northern suburb even invited you over for a visit?"

His expression suddenly shifted into something more intrigued. His poisonous gaze slithered across Spielberg’s face like a snake's tongue. "What if I brought you there myself? Would their administrator make me a commander for it?"

Spielberg gave a light cough.

"Ahem... that gentleman might give you some money, but probably not a title. Those are two different matters."

Knife looked disappointed. "That’s a shame... Though the money wouldn’t be bad either."

After a pause, he continued, "You still haven’t answered my question. What kind of secret are you hiding that has so many people after you? Do you know something? Like the location of a Black Box or a hidden treasure?"

"No."

"No?"

"I’m not lying," Spielberg said, eyes fixed on the dagger in his hand. "I’m just a nobody who reads the newspaper... How can I possibly have something like that?"

"Tsk tsk tsk... Alright, I believe you."

Knife chuckled and stood from the hard bed, twirling the knife in his fingers as he stepped closer. "Alright then, I’ll give you one more chance to live. Write a letter to that bigwig in the northern suburbs. If he’s willing to pay, I’ll consider selling you to him... Oh, and I only accept Dinars or CR."

Of course, he was only considering it.

After all, the other two employers had offered quite a bit too. He could just as easily kill the man and claim all three bounties himself.

The wasteland was vast, he could run anywhere. He was just a wandering drifter and had no interest in this twisted settlement.

But what he didn’t expect was that the useless coward in front of him would flatly refuse his offer.

"I won’t write it."

Knife stared at him with his eyebrows raised. "You sure?"

Though fear gripped his heart, Spielberg didn’t back down. He kept his eyes locked on the man. "If you want me to beg Lord Vega for my life, I can do that... but if you think you’ll use me to threaten that man, forget it."

There was no doubt he was a nobody, he had lived like a rat for over 20 years. He didn’t understand why so many people suddenly cared about his life. But if he had to die, he’d rather give his life to that man.

There was no particular reason. He just felt it was worth it.

"Why? There has to be a reason."

"... Dignity."

"What’s that?"

"You wouldn’t understand," said Spielberg, clenching his fists. "Go ahead and do it!"

At least he would die brave. He would die like a hero.

Knife curled his lip and didn’t waste any more words. With a swift motion, he thrust his dagger forward.

He expected his prey to instinctively raise his arms to protect his head, exactly the opening he needed.

He planned to ruin both of Spielberg’s hands first, then his legs, then rip out his tongue. He had done it dozens of times before and had full confidence it would go smoothly.

And yet, he failed.

The dagger struck something like an invisible wall. Knife broke into a cold sweat as he tried to pull it back, only to find it stuck as if embedded in solidified air.

Spielberg froze too. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

He had just raised his arms to defend himself when he saw the air ripple in front of him, and a figure slowly emerged.

"Damn it, who the hell are you?!" Knife shrieked, eyes wide in terror at the ghostlike silhouette.

A black mirrored visor and helmet concealed the figure’s face. It seemed like a woman, but perhaps not even human.

She silently gripped the blade of the dagger. On her slightly bulging chestplate was etched the code X-16, alongside the Boulder Town Arms Industry logo. That number clearly carried some ominous significance.

She had apparently been in the room long before either of them entered, and neither had noticed her presence.

Optical camouflage!

A flash of fear flickered in Knife’s eyes. He released the dagger and drew a short blade from his thigh, swinging it with all his strength.

To that, there was no clash of steel.

He never even saw what she did. He simply went flying like a kite with a cut string, slamming into the wall of the cell.

"Agh..."

Several ribs cracked!

His spine might’ve broken too.

He lost control of his lower body and wet himself.

In his last moment, he tried to beg for mercy. But before he could speak, a dagger pierced his throat.

He could only watch in horror as the figure walked up to him and effortlessly pulled the blood-soaked blade from his neck, severing both his vitality and thoughts.

The entire fight had lasted two seconds, but blood splattered everywhere. Yet, the figure standing in the pool of blood remained completely calm, as if nothing had happened.

Spielberg had never seen such violence. His legs felt like lead, his back burned with heat, and after what seemed like forever, he finally croaked, "You... You killed him."

Without acknowledging his comment, X-16 casually sheathed the dagger and looked back at him.