The masked white-haired young man opened his arms in the rain of light, as if embracing the sanctions that were destined to pierce his heart. He smiled at the gods, as if challenging them:
"——Next, welcome everyone to the home of 'our players'."
The next moment, his figure suddenly disappeared.
The sky transformed into the shape of an off-white book page, slowly turning a page, reflecting a new outline, shining brightly.
…
Inside the meeting room, Alauddin sat in his chair, feeling anxious.
"What's the point of Su Ming'an asking us to upload stories..." Alauddin muttered to himself.
Anthony was still busy making the call and did not answer Alauddin's question.
Alauddin frowned, and recalled what Su Mingan said at the beginning of the meeting:
…
[“Everyone, I need to collect fifteen stories.”]
[“Please hand over the stories you have written so far to me. Whether it is urban style, martial arts style, game style, light novel style, science fiction style... as long as you like it, it is a good story, and I need it all.”]
[“I named this story “Welcome to the Return World Game”.”]
【“This will be a story we write together.”】
…
…Joint Stories.
Alauddin rubbed his brows, still unable to figure out the meaning of this word.
“Swish!”
Suddenly, Alauddin felt that the scenery in front of him changed suddenly.
It is no longer the brightly lit conference room, but a slum with ochre-red roofs, humid air, gray-black soil, and rolling brown-yellow rivers.
He saw a dusty young man, his cheeks stained with dust, his temples covered with finger-shaped holes, his neck had dozens of cuts, his facial skin, bare shoulders, arms, palms, calves... all covered with thousands of scars. There was a huge hole in his chest, his abdomen was covered with wounds of varying sizes, and even the joints of his arms and legs had traces of broken bones.
The young man held a gleaming ink-gold feather pen in his right palm and an open golden book in his left palm.
Cutting throats, digging out hearts, piercing abdomens, cutting off limbs, slow slicing, suffocation, blood loss... it seemed as if so many losses had happened to him.
This is not the first player in Alauddin's impression.
But this is indeed Su Mingan's face.
The young man walked towards him, stretched out his hand without a piece of good flesh, and looked at Alauddin with confident and gentle eyes, looking at——
you.
…
"Come on." His voice was gentle but firm:
"Come, let us go on our final journey."
…
(End of this chapter)
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