Chapter 19 – Butter Knife

A small room, seven people seated in a circle, each with an experimental access terminal behind them. No. 0933 twitched his fingers, his consciousness still somewhat hazy. There were chaotic shouts in his ears—so familiar… As his senses gradually returned, he felt something wet and cold in his hand. He looked down and saw red—his eyes widened abruptly. Blood!

He tried to stand but found his leg muscles hadn’t fully recovered. His foot flailed and kicked something, producing a sharp clatter.

“Look at me!” The shout came from No. 0416, separated from him by Officer B, stretching his neck and yelling anxiously, “Look at me!”

Dazed, No. 0933 finally took in his surroundings. Among the seven people, only Officer C was standing, which meant he had been out of the game for at least thirty minutes. His gaze swept horizontally before dropping downward. On the floor lay a person—no, more accurately, a corpse. No. 0777, with a fatal wound across his neck.

“Ah!” He screamed, raising his hands to cover his mouth, only to realize he wasn’t wearing handcuffs, his hands drenched in blood. “Huh?” He stared at his hands. “How…?”

Next to him, Officer B woke up, frowning as he rolled his neck. Instead of moving immediately, he looked straight at the floor. “No. 0777?” His tone was one of perfunctory surprise. “Who did it?” Then he turned to No. 0933.

No. 0933 stared back blankly. “N-no… not me, I just…”

Officer B glanced at his hands, then theatrically inspected everyone else’s. “Only you have blood on your hands.”

“The murder weapon is at his feet,” Officer C interjected. “It’s the metal frame from his terminal. It’s been recorded for documentation and will be modified into a non-detachable component in future production.”

“It wasn’t him!” No. 0416 roared. “No. 0777 was already dead when I came out. I can testify!”

Officer B seemed slow to process his words, merely rubbing his temples irritably. “According to the Panopticon’s regulations, prisoner testimonies at a first-degree death scene are not considered valid evidence.”

“Then let the officers speak!” No. 0416 glared at Officers A and C. “You saw it too. You say it!”

Neither of them spoke.

“Why…?” No. 0933 looked at the other prisoners’ hands. “Why aren’t any of us wearing handcuffs?”

“The electronic sensors in the alloy handcuffs interfere with the experimental terminals’ precision,” Officer A explained. “After you entered the game, Officer C removed them from all of you.”

Officer B suddenly laughed, staring at No. 0777’s corpse. “No. 0933, do you know who his father is?” His expression was smug, his smile unnervingly gleeful. “You killed him—even the Panopticon won’t be able to contain you now!”

“Who says it was him?” No. 0416 snapped. “Why would he kill No. 0777?”

Officer B arched an eyebrow, looking at him with displeasure. “Because No. 0777 once entered his prison pod intending to sodomize him. He held a grudge and took revenge!”

No. 0416 was momentarily speechless. Officer B had clearly been waiting for this. “You saw it too,” Officer B said, lips curling. “Didn’t you?”

“You killed No. 0777,” No. 0416 declared. Officer B glared at him venomously before bursting into laughter. “Me? Why would I kill him? I was the last one out. When would I have had the time?”

“If not you, then you ordered someone else to do it!”

“Administrators don’t murder prisoners!” Officer B snarled, his carefully styled bangs trembling slightly in anger.

“There’s still me—and him!” No. 0416 pointed at the man beside No. 0933, who had posed as The Convert in the game. “Who was he playing as? Was he ever out of sight when No. 0777 died? Why not him?”

“I…” The man spoke, his tattoo-covered face expressionless. “I was playing as Meidu.”

No. 0416’s face stiffened. The one who had killed him in the cattle shed was Meidu. If Meidu had really been controlled by this man, then…

“My assigned role was Eluo Xiaogui. Surveillance, risk control, extraction from the game—all tasks completed as required.”

Not only was The Thief’s identity fabricated, but The Convert’s was too. His real identity was an administrator!

“He’s an administrator,” Officer B said casually, leaning back in his chair.

“You planted a mole!” No. 0416 gritted his teeth.

“Isn’t that normal?” Officer B smirked before ordering Officer C, “Take No. 0933 away!”

“Wait!” No. 0416 was desperate, staring at No. 0933 with deep emotion. “No. 0933 was with you the whole time. How could he have killed anyone?”

Officer B couldn’t be bothered to dissect his logic, only growing more annoyed. “No. 0416, get it through your head—who’s really on your side?”

“No. 0933,” No. 0416 said, pushing himself up shakily from his chair, “Tell him what role you played on Mount Luoji.”

No. 0933 looked up at him, understanding his intent, and stayed silent. Officer B seemed to catch on, gripping the armrests and straightening up. No. 0416 grinned defiantly. “Officer, I was Eluo Xiaogui!”

For a moment, Officer B’s gaze froze.

Before entering Mount Luoji, the two chips on the floor; inside the Eluo Clan’s great house, the person he had held in a daze; and at the bloody end, the unfamiliar soul in Datie’s eyes…

He whirled on No. 0933 furiously. “You two…!” He tried to stand, but his legs were still weak. “Why?!” His eyes bulged with rage as he roared at No. 0416, “Don’t fucking tell me you screwed each other so much you caught feelings!”

“So,” No. 0416 said calmly, “No. 0933 had no opportunity to kill No. 0777. I did.”

“I say he did, so he did!” Officer B’s control snapped. He pointed at the corpse. “Someone has to take the fall for No. 0777’s death, and it has to be him!”

“Check the real-time footage then,” No. 0416 said, stepping close and leaning over him, hands on the armrests, caging him in. “See who the real killer is.”

Shock, fury, jealousy—countless emotions churned before Officer B suddenly calmed. “The nano-cameras in this room were never activated,” he said, lips brushing No. 0416’s in a light, mocking kiss. “And if you check the admin logs, Eluo Xiaogui was No. 0933!”

So close, their eyes locked—two people who had once lost themselves in each other’s bodies, now locked in a deadly game. “All administrators except me are AIs,” Officer B sneered. “In the Panopticon, I call the shots!”

As if to prove his point, he cupped No. 0416’s neck and kissed him openly, eyes half-lidded, lost in the moment. Then, from between those lips, No. 0416 murmured, “I was The Convert.”

Officer B froze, his lashes fluttering against No. 0416’s cheek. No. 0416 repeated, “I was The Convert.”

“Hah,” Officer B laughed shakily. “What’s the point of this?”

No. 0416 turned his face slightly, lips grazing Officer B’s ear. “Back then, when you were barely alive, you asked for my number.”

Officer B recoiled as if burned. No. 0416 pressed closer. “I didn’t tell you then,” he said, glancing at No. 0933. “My number is… 04—”

“Seize him!” Officer B’s eyes welled with tears as he screamed at Officers A and C. “Seize No. 0416! Activate emergency disciplinary protocol!”

In a flash, No. 0416 snatched up the bloodied metal frame from No. 0933’s feet and pressed it to Officer B’s throat. “Human command override!” he barked at the AIs. “Open the central system’s hidden menu! Execute Red Alert Protocol, Article One: Registered target’s life under threat—disable all motor functions! Now!”

Miraculously, Officers A and C, along with the undercover administrator, simultaneously deactivated, freezing in place like factory-reset machines.

No. 0416 planted a mocking kiss on Officer B’s forehead. “Don’t think your Party’s the only one with high-grade AIs. I was playing with these years ago!”

Officer B’s perfectly styled hair was disheveled. He lifted his chin, perhaps to retort, when No. 0416 slashed his throat without hesitation. Blood gushed from beneath the stiff collar of his uniform. No. 0416 didn’t spare him a glance, turning immediately to pull No. 0933 up.

No. 0933 staggered to his feet. Over No. 0416’s shoulder, he saw Officer B twitching faintly, still clinging to life. A tear traced down his nose, his eyes wet with helplessness and despair as he slowly slid from the chair.

“Let’s go,” No. 0416 urged, dragging him out the door, half-carrying him down the long, curved corridor to the elevator. “Can you walk?” he asked, cupping No. 0933’s face, urgently checking his condition.

“Y-yeah,” No. 0933 stammered, still in disbelief over what they’d just done—they’d killed an administrator. “We… we’re escaping?”

Ding! The elevator reached the first floor. No. 0416 pulled him out. “We’re not out until we’re out of this building!” Tall, agile, and strong, he practically carried No. 0933 through several turns.

The massive building was eerily empty—no AIs, no maintenance drones, not even motion-triggered alarms. It was a dead zone. “We can’t go out like this,” No. 0416 said abruptly. “Outside is the expressway. We need to change out of these prison uniforms!”

Only administrators would have civilian clothes. “Then…” No. 0933 hesitated. “We go back?”

Top Floor, Officer B’s Room—there must be clothes there.

No. 0416 looked up. Just then, No. 0933 tugged his arm, drawing his attention to the Bentham statue standing against the northern wall of the hall. On either side of the statue were composite-technique renderings of an angel and a demon, symbolizing sin and its punisher. The figures were holographic, but their robes were real.

No. 0416 ran over, standing on tiptoe to pull down the garments—two robes, one black, one white. The white one was exquisitely crafted, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns. He tossed it to No. 0933.

“Won’t this be too flashy?” No. 0933 muttered as he changed, hesitating before tossing aside his prison-issued underwear, which bore the Panopticon insignia. The robe draped loosely over his bare body.

No. 0416 did the same. Seeing No. 0933 clean and wrapped in the flowing robe, he couldn’t resist pinching his cheek affectionately before pulling him toward the Central Tower’s main doors.

It was all too smooth—unnervingly so. They circled the ring-shaped flowerbed between the Central Tower and the prison pods, reaching the front courtyard. There, an exit stood without gates. Clearly, the Panopticon’s designers had never considered prisoners might make it this far, so even basic security measures were absent.

Standing at the threshold, No. 0416 and No. 0933 froze, staring in shock at the sight before them.

No expressway. No vehicles. Not even a horizon.

Outside was a dense, shadowy forest, its gnarled trees twisting grotesquely, rustling in the wind.

“Then Officer B…” No. 0933 trailed off. Had everything B saw every day been an illusion? A hologram? Why?

“Let’s go,” No. 0416 said firmly, gripping his hand and leading him toward the forest. It was night—they didn’t know what time—but their priority was escape. “We’ll find somewhere to hide and wait for daylight.”

His strategy was sound. Not long after entering the woods, they found a suitable tree and climbed up, clinging to each other as they waited for dawn. No. 0933 was restless, shifting nervously, so No. 0416 hummed a song softly in his ear, occasionally nuzzling his temple.

“This song sounds familiar…” No. 0933 murmured, nestled in his arms, gazing into his eyes under the moonlight filtering through the branches. “It’s like…” He hummed along. “Ah, it’s the one from B’s room.”

No. 0416 paused. “Huh, you’re right…” He chuckled awkwardly. “Guess I’ve heard it too much lately.”

The implication was clear—he’d been in B’s room often. No. 0933 was quiet for a moment before asking, “Did he listen to this song a lot?”

“Yeah,” No. 0416 admitted freely. “Like his background music. It’s an old song, over a hundred years old.”

“Who sang it? Do you know?”

“Edith Piaf,” No. 0416 said lazily, ruffling No. 0933’s hair. “Her La Vie en Rose is pretty famous.”

No. 0933 memorized the name before asking, “Do you like retro music?”

“Yeah,” No. 0416 said, adjusting his hold as if afraid he’d fall. “Retro music, black-and-white films, bridge… I like a lot of things.” He smiled. “I’ll tell you about them one by one later.”

No. 0933 nodded obediently, then playfully pinched his chin. “Tell me your name.”

No. 0416 teased him. “Nope,” he said slyly. “You tell me yours first.”

No. 0933 leaned in, whispering it softly. No. 0416 burst into laughter. “Sounds a bit cold!”

“Come on, your turn,” No. 0933 insisted, tickling his ribs and squirming against him. “What’s your name…?”

──────

They were lost. The forest was far larger than they’d imagined. They searched for roads or tire tracks but found nothing. It was like an isolated maze with no end.

“This is so damn weird,” No. 0416 muttered, walking ahead while glancing back at No. 0933, who was staring up at the treetops. “What are you looking at? Watch your step!”

“These trees…” No. 0933 hurried to catch up, taking his hand. “I feel like I’ve seen them somewhere before.”

No. 0416 was amused. “Trees all look the same.” He plucked a berry from a bush and popped it into No. 0933’s mouth. “At least there’s food.”

They sat by the berry bushes, shoulder to shoulder at first, until No. 0416 pulled No. 0933 into his lap, legs bracketing him. He gathered a handful of berries and dropped them onto No. 0933’s robe. “Eat up. We’ll move after.”

No. 0933 ate without hesitation, staining his fingertips red. Just as he was about to lick them clean, No. 0416 slowly lifted the hem of his robe—first his calves, then his thighs, pale and bare. His arms tightened around No. 0933 from behind, chin resting on his collarbone.

“Hey,” No. 0416 murmured. “I’m hard.”

No. 0933 held up his stained hands, squirming half-heartedly. “What are you doing…?”

No. 0416 nuzzled his face, planting messy kisses before sliding a hand under the robe, groping his smooth backside and squeezing his slender thighs. “Come on, let’s have some fun in the wild.”

No. 0933 flushed, dodging for a while before finally tilting his head. “Then let me top.”

No. 0416 raised an eyebrow, gesturing to their height difference. “This size, topping me?” He laughed, tugging the robe higher, bunching it under No. 0933’s arms. “Here, let me feel your chest…”

No. 0933 resisted, crossing his arms over his thin chest. “Either I top, or we don’t do it!”

“Wait,” No. 0416 said, exasperated. “You let me top you in Mount Luoji. Why switch now?”

“That was different,” No. 0933 whispered. “Eluo Xiaogui was pretty…”

“Wow, I didn’t realize you were such a pervert!” No. 0416 playfully smacked his ass, then noticed his hands covering his crotch—his fingertips a tempting pink. Unconsciously, his breathing grew ragged. “Move your hands,” he ordered, shrugging off his robe and trapping No. 0933 between his legs. “Let me see down there.”

No. 0933 didn’t care about his dirty hands now, pushing back frantically. Within moments, they were tangled together, bare under the sun. No. 0416’s back muscles flexed as he moved, and soon, a pale foot rose from the berry bushes, toes curling as it rubbed against the branches like a cat scratching.

The sounds of wet kisses, soft moans, and skin against skin filled the air.

“Up,” No. 0416 urged breathlessly, pointing to a vine draped over a nearby branch. “Put your foot there.”

No. 0933, flushed crimson, stood up. His backside glistened, his robe crumpled against his chest. No. 0416 guided him forward, lifting his leg onto the vine—exposing the slick cleft between his thighs.

Standing beside him, No. 0416 gripped the slender ankle, sucking the reddened toes into his mouth. No. 0933 squirmed, trying to pull his leg back, but No. 0416 used the motion to yank him closer, thrusting up into him from the side.

“Ah—?” No. 0933 was caught off guard, thighs pressed to his chest. He’d never tried this position before and panicked. “How are you—from the side?!”

“You’re spread wide open,” No. 0416 teased, already moving. He wasn’t deep, but the angle was wicked. No. 0933 had no leverage, clinging to him as No. 0416 fucked him shamelessly. “S-slow down…”

“Feels good, huh?” No. 0416 panted, sweat dripping as he kissed No. 0933’s face. His thick cock angled upward, forcing No. 0933’s belly to arch, his hole clenching helplessly as he trembled.

“Haah… hah!” No. 0933 began grinding against him, whimpering. Though he didn’t hunch over, his robe billowed strangely behind him, swelling larger and larger—as if something were growing inside.

No. 0416 noticed, reaching out in surprise—

Suddenly, something dropped over them, tightening instantly. A hand-woven net!

No. 0416 thrashed, spotting shadowy figures emerging from the trees—monks in coarse robes, armed with swords and clubs. They approached cautiously, some unslinging water skins and dousing No. 0416.

Though it was just water, his skin burned, acrid smoke rising from the contact. Still, he shielded No. 0933, refusing to let him suffer.

Next came salt. The bitter grains clung to his searing flesh, and he screamed in agony. They dragged him from the net, binding him with ropes before turning to No. 0933.

“Don’t touch him!” No. 0416 roared, his skin blistering. They ignored him, yanking open No. 0933’s robe—revealing what lay beneath.

A pair of wings. Snow-white, not yet fully unfurled.

No. 0416 froze, staring. No. 0933 seemed unaware, flailing in confusion. The monks hesitated. “This is the Archangel… Should we really cut them?”

Another snapped, “Didn’t you see? He let the Demon King’s cock defile him! What kind of Archangel is that?”

A blade pressed to the base of the wings. No. 0933 struggled blindly, then shrieked as pain exploded down his back, blood streaming over his ribs. He cried No. 0416’s name as they dragged him away. Hooves clattered, metal cages rattled—until he collapsed, pale and unconscious.

What followed was a haze. No food. No water. Countless times, he thought he’d died, only to wake again. He knew he was in a wagon, being taken somewhere. The sunset was desolate, but he recognized the gate they passed through—he’d walked it countless times before.

The Island of Saints.

What was happening? With his last shreds of sanity, he wondered—where was No. 0416? Had he been captured too? They’d escaped the Panopticon, so why were they back in the game’s world?

They took him underground, to a half-built structure. From the elegant curves of the dome, he recognized it—the circular stone chamber beneath the Saints’ Tombs. He weakly examined his hands. His nails had grown long and sharp, more like a monster’s than a human’s.

Months passed. Maybe years. He survived, left slumped against the chamber wall. His hair stopped growing, fading to a dull gray. His robe frayed with time, its embroidered hem barely visible.

He accepted the truth.

He was the Angel.

He was Silver.

Starving, in pain, terrified, he curled in his iron cage. His claws could tear through the bars—but then what? In his weakened state, he wouldn’t get far.

He had to wait.

Wait for his Listener.

The Listener… So distant. Three hundred years away. He would come, leading The Convert, The Archer, and The Thief—bringing a new beginning.

No. 0933 extended his claws, struggling to rise. Pressing against the bars, he stealthily scraped a slender pattern into the wall near the ground, guided by memory.

The tomb builders came and went. In the dim firelight, no one noticed the base of the wall, gradually covered in dust. They carried him to the center of the stone chamber, shaved his hair short, plucked out his claws, and then sealed the mechanism.

Sleep. In pure darkness, endlessly sleeping. Memories blurred—the piercing light outside the prison pod window, officers with Party insignias on their sleeves, study circles gathered in groups, and No. 0416. Their love, joy, and intimacy all slipped through the fingers of time…

Slipped away, until—

Light. A faint glimmer. His eyes were open, yet he couldn’t see. Cold, heat—he was pulled into a warm embrace. Dazed, he swayed with the motion of wheels. Then came the sound of water. He frowned, hearing screams, followed by the snorts of beasts. Too weak to hold on, he fell asleep again…

Slept, until—

Light. A faint glimmer. His eyes were open, yet he couldn’t see. A carriage, wolf howls, a warm tongue. Then he glimpsed something—forest, mist, and a wide-brimmed red hat.

Blood. The Listener lay collapsed in the dirt. By the carriage, The Convert swayed unconsciously, two figures in bright red robes atop him. No. 0933 sighed, slipping into slumber once more…

Slept, until—

Light. A faint glimmer. Urgent moans filled his ears. Slowly, he pushed aside the tarp covering the cage and saw two entwined bodies, lost in abandon, sprawled on the edge of the carriage. The Convert had one leg braced on the cart, the other dangling, his lower body exposed. Their eyes met.

No. 0933 retreated, leaning against the bars, closing his eyes wearily…

Light. A faint glimmer. He awoke hazily to the sight of the Island of Saints’ gate, the dappled shadows of trees along the path, and an old man emerging from the thicket at midnight. The old man stretched out his filthy fingers, rasping, “Hand it over!”

The cage opened. A demon hoisted him over its shoulder, walking along a dark, winding path. They traveled west—toward the Edge of the World, the fabled end of the universe, the cliff of time.

The scenery shifted endlessly. Towering trees grew sparse, replaced by low shrubs and wild grass swaying in the wind. Flowers multiplied, and rivers shimmered under the blazing sun. In the distance, by the widest river, he saw a group—two monks among them, and many horses, their riders clad in black robes.

The demon spread its wings with a snap, gripping him as it flew toward the group. As they neared, he realized these were not men but a horde of golden-eyed, fanged devils.

“Archangel!” they cried, dismounting to kneel. Only one cloaked figure remained seated on a white horse, its mane braided, gazing up arrogantly.

The Demon King.

No. 0933 stared down at him from midair. Suddenly, the Demon King threw back his hood, revealing a face hideous with scars—no, not just his face. His hands too, ravaged as if by fire, deeply corroded.

“This is the hour of vengeance,” he declared. “A hundred thousand of my black-winged kin march from beyond the Edge of the World to face the Fire Angel who betrayed you and the three hundred thousand legions he stole from your grasp!”

No. 0933 stared blankly. He remembered nothing. Three centuries were too long—long enough to forget even who he was. “Where… is the Edge of the World?”

The Demon King extended a hand. “Here,” he said. Beneath the grotesque scars, his eyes were gentle. “The farthest west, and the farthest east. No direction, no path to take!”

A thunderclap split the sky. Clouds churned, rolling across the land, plunging the world into gloom. From the endless haze came a roar like crashing waves and the deafening beat of wings.

“The enemy comes,” the Demon King said, turning toward the horizon—a directionless void beyond the Edge of the World. A voice, omnipresent, boomed: “The Archangel has offered his body to the King of Demons! The Fire Angel, in God’s wrath, leads a hundred thousand Sword-Bearing Angels, a hundred thousand Archer Angels, and a hundred thousand Punisher Angels to smite them!”

Before the words faded, an arrow pierced the clouds, grazing No. 0933’s temple before embedding itself in the earth behind him. The Demon King raised his right hand. From the sky above his fingertips, from the depths of the boundless gloom, a demon surged forth—then a second, a third, countless more, driving into the clouds where the angelic host lay hidden.

The mounted demons took flight one by one. No. 0933 was set down amidst dazzling flowers. Unable yet to spread his wings, he could only watch as flames and blades shredded the clouds, revealing the angelic ranks—layer upon layer, stretching to the horizon like a sea.

The angels wore armor, gripping swords and tridents, baring fangs as they roared like beasts. Their outstretched wings bristled with metal spikes and polished mirrors, reflecting light as they dodged and weaved, severing demon heads to brandish in triumph before diving back into the slaughter.

Demons fell. Their blood dyed the clouds crimson, brilliant as sunset. No. 0933 stared at the crimson expanse, breathing in the stench of blood. His pale pupils contracted to slits. Suddenly, wings burst from his back—newborn, veined with blood. They flexed once, twice, then propelled him skyward.

The angels noticed him, swiftly reforming ranks. In unison, they turned, raising their blades. High above, the Fire Angel ignited, a distant speck of gold and red at the zenith.

No. 0933 charged toward him. The wind howled, battering his eyelids, whipping his long hair back. The Demon King followed, black wings unfurling as he dodged arrows like rain. Then—light erupted from No. 0933’s emaciated ribs, dazzling as dawn, as a shattered sun.

Against this radiance, the Fire Angel’s glow dimmed. All shielded their eyes. In the faintest shadow, they saw the Archangel’s second pair of wings—vast, powerful, spreading from his ribs. A single beat stirred the air into a maelstrom.

The angels knew this power too well. They cowered behind the clouds. Only the Fire Angel remained, unleashing a torrent of fireballs from the heavens, raining destruction upon No. 0933 and the demons.

The flames were vicious, searing. A single touch reduced flesh to ash. The demons could ascend no further. In the crimson sky, only No. 0933 flickered through the clouds—so fast that his afterimages seemed to occupy multiple places at once.

The Fire Angel hadn’t even discerned his true form when a hand clamped onto his skull. Pressure spiked at his temple—then, with a crack, it shattered.

Demons howled in triumph, a cacophony of clicks and roars. No. 0933 stared blankly at the charred skull fragment in his hand. Turning, he saw angels, demons, all living things—the entire world—prostrate before him. At the lonely pinnacle, he screamed in confusion, curling into himself in agony. From his narrow waist, a third pair of wings sprouted, drenched in blood and blazing light.

Light. Light that blotted out the sky, scouring the land. The heavens, trees, rivers—all overturned, annihilated. Angels and demons alike were swept into death like ants. No. 0933 shut his eyes, but even closed, the light pierced his pupils, plunging him into endless black. He would never see this world again.

Darkness. Silent as before birth. Warm as a mother’s womb. A gentle touch brushed his lips. In his mind, chaotic voices clamored: Name! Tell me your name… I’ll take you out! Don’t doubt—I love you… If we can’t leave, we’ll stay here forever as Eluo Xiaogui and Dira Datie!

“Ah!” No. 0933 jolted upright. The alloy handcuffs bit into his wrists. Sweat drenched his chest and back. Gasping, he tried to focus.

Officer B stood before him, checking his pupils with concern. “How do you feel? Nauseous?”

No. 0933 shook his head, scanning the room—the testing chamber for Mount Luoji. Only the two of them remained. “Where are the others?”

“They’ve returned to their pods,” B said, producing a warm towel to wipe his face. “You wouldn’t wake. There might’ve been an issue with the consciousness retrieval module.” He helped him from the device. “You likely fell into a logic gap, causing temporary subconscious disruption. Conclusion?” He smiled gently. “The test failed. Mount Luoji isn’t ready for deployment.”

No. 0933 studied him. Was this the same B he knew? No. 0777’s death, their escape, the three centuries on the Island of Saints—all illusions?

“Come,” B opened the testing room door. “I’ll take you back to your pod.”

No. 0933 stood. His legs worked—proof he hadn’t just exited Mount Luoji. What was happening? Unless… Dragging his feet along the corridor’s smooth curve, he took in the familiar surroundings. Was this world, as he’d guessed, a constructed virtual reality? Was he merely data in this simulation, easily retrieved from the Island of Saints?

“Officer,” he stopped. “I want to see No. 0416.”

“0416?” B seemed puzzled. “No such number exists. The Panopticon only holds felons—numbers start from 5.”

No. 0933 thought for a moment, then walked on, muttering oddly, “Retro music.”

“What?” B didn’t catch it.

No. 0933 continued, “La Vie en Rose.”

B tensed. “What are you mumbling?”

Then No. 0933 said, “Edith Piaf.”

Instantly, No. 0416 froze mid-step, face frozen in confusion. No. 0933 turned to him. “Enter background operation mode.”

B’s foot lowered. His brow smoothed, gaze forward, hands at his sides.

No. 0933 stepped closer. “Know how I figured it out?” He sounded tense. “That you’re an AI.”

“Unknown,” B replied tonelessly.

“No. 0416 slit your throat,” No. 0933 whispered. “But your pupils didn’t dilate.”

“Oh.” A mechanical acknowledgment.

“When No. 0416 disabled the other AIs’ motor functions, you weren’t affected.” No. 0933 touched his cheek—curious, almost pitying. “You’re different. Controlling you requires a key.”

“Oh.”

“Deduction, plus some guesswork.” No. 0933 pinched B’s hand. No reaction. “I… had my wings cut off on the Island of Saints, locked in a cage… What were those three hundred years? Why did the game become real?”

B remained still, not even blinking. “How do you determine which is the game and which is real?”

“If this isn’t real, then what is it?” No. 0933 clenched his fists. “What am I?” He stamped his foot. “Where is No. 0416?”

“Prisoner 0933,” B offered no answer—or perhaps couldn’t. “You have two choices. One: escape the Panopticon, relive your past. Two: deactivate my background mode. I return you to your pod. You resume your routine—meals, sleep, playing Island of Saints. Nothing changes.”

No. 0933 glared, eyes glistening.

“If I were you, I’d choose option two. Optimal.”

No. 0933 laughed—wild, unhinged. “Optimal. I bet you’ve convinced plenty that way.” He suddenly crouched. “That’s why those words were there—play as The Listener—left by a previous No. 0933 who gave up, right?”

He slammed the handcuffs against the floor. The sensor shrieked an alarm. “No. There’s a third option.” Tears streamed as he laughed madly, smashing the cuffs down. “Escape all of it!”

The world shattered. Explosions, flames, agony—his body torn apart, yet his mind lucid, serene, sinking into void.

Darkness.

A distant hum. Familiar, comforting. Emotion outpaced reason: a vacuum cleaner. He opened his eyes. A system prompt chimed: …User, advanced edition of “The Cage” cleared. Weekly rankings updated. Rewards will be delivered to your account within 24 hours…

He removed the external device, detached the injector, and stretched stiffly. After twenty minutes, he hobbled downstairs. Coffee and toast waited on the table. Morning.

“Darling, you’re out!” A woman’s voice from the living room. He frowned, sitting at the table. A butter knife lay within reach. He picked it up, flipping open the newspaper.

Financial Times. He skimmed to investments. The TV murmured morning news: …Fatalities linked to the game have risen to 132. Analysis suggests all victims attempted to locate a so-called “real world.” Experts increasingly urge regulation of multi-world immersion games like “The Cage”…

He set the paper down, studying the knife. Sharp enough. With a sudden motion, he slashed his carotid artery and collapsed onto the table.

Darkness.

Silence.

He opened his eyes, removed the gear, stood. Same room. After resting, he descended. No woman this time—only men’s clothes on the rack. He lived alone. Coffee and toast waited. Morning.

Illogical. He’d been in-game for ages, yet the toast was freshly made.

He sat, took the butter knife. The TV news played: …Experts warn that in multi-world scenarios, players may struggle to distinguish virtual from real, as no definitive proof confirms our world’s authenticity…

Financial Times again. He tested the knife’s edge. Sharp. He angled it toward his throat—then a knock at the door.

He ignored it, pressing the blade to his skin. The knock came again. “Chu Dong! I forgot my keys—open up!”

He froze. The knife clattered down. Real? Even if not—if he was here, it was enough.

“Coming!” He rushed to the door, trembling as he turned the knob. Morning light spilled in, birds singing. A laughing voice: “The apples today are divine. Here!”