Perhaps because they had suffered losses before, from the Greenfield Stadium to the Mine Shaft, even though—under the strategist’s instructions—they deliberately showed weakness again, the monsters no longer took the bait.
The strategist frowned in confusion. “That shouldn’t be the case. We’ve already used eight nuclear blast cards. Any normal monster would think that’s outrageous enough. Don’t tell me they’re guessing we still have nine more?”
“Are monsters these days that bold with their assumptions? If I hadn’t seen the cards in this guy’s hand myself, I wouldn’t believe we actually drew something like that.”
Ji Ou: “…I’ll just assume that was a compliment.”
They had already reached the final dungeon—the last boss of the Maze Courtyard.
The giant, round slime bounced around, each jump making the entire courtyard tremble. But at the strategist’s signal, Ji Ou didn’t rush to release the final nuclear blast.
Tang Yu frowned, looking troubled. “The monsters aren’t really planning to turtle up and hide, are they?”
The previous monster had only dropped 8% fragments. After experiencing the boldness of a 30% drop once, they now felt that single-digit fragment drops were completely underwhelming.
“That shouldn’t be,” Rong Jiu said, glancing at He Wuning and Yi Luo crouching high above the camp, completely unconcerned about the slime trying to climb up. He frowned. “Could it be because they look too indifferent?”
He sized the two of them up and nodded seriously. “That’s right. It’s these two. Anyone who sees how relaxed they are would know there’s definitely a trap!”
He Wuning lifted his head. “Don’t blame the enemy’s refusal to cooperate on us.”
“Ah.” Rong Jiu shrugged regretfully. “If they really won’t come, then we’ll just have to…”
He looked at Ji Ou.
Ji Ou was already adept at deploying nuclear blast cards. He raised the card, about to drop it onto the small dot representing He Wuning—when suddenly, a shadow fell from the sky. A somewhat youthful voice shouted, “Stop!”
The strategist’s expression changed. He grabbed Ji Ou’s hand. “Wait!”
They looked up toward the front of the camp, where a slime descended from above.
The slime bounced in place with exaggerated hops, then shouted, “Stop! I’m here to negotiate a deal!”
He Wu Ning raised an eyebrow. For a split second, the scene oddly felt like someone interrupting an execution.
After his brief lapse in composure, the strategist quickly regained his calm. He slightly raised his brows, opened the vehicle door himself, and stepped out, instructing the commander behind him, “Stay in the car. I’ll handle the talk.”
Ji Ou opened his mouth, but Rong Jiu had already shut the door.
Tang Yu chuckled. “He does like to show off sometimes.”
Rong Jiu walked straight up to the slime and looked up at it. He pretended to check the time on his communicator and let out a cold laugh. “If we hadn’t been about to make a move, you wouldn’t have shown up, would you?”
“Dragging things out for as long as possible, I suppose.”
The faceless slime had one advantage in a standoff—no matter how shaken or guilty it felt, nothing would show on its face.
But once it opened its mouth, its tone was noticeably less confident. “W-we just happened to appear at this time!”
“We are brave warriors, not like you cunning humans!”
The strategist gave a disdainful laugh. “Mm, that’s true. Most people who aren’t good at thinking tend to call intelligent enemies ‘cunning.’”
Up on the camp structure, Yi Luo laughed softly. “He really does have a knack for irritating people.”
But this slime seemed smarter than the earlier minotaur. Though angry, it actually suppressed its rage and addressed Rong Jiu instead. “I’m just here to remind you—not to assume that clearing all the dungeons is a good thing.”
It sounded like it was hinting at inside information, but Rong Jiu remained unmoved. His gaze was calm as he replied lightly, “Oh? For now, we haven’t seen any drawbacks.”
Giving nothing away.
The slime snorted. “You’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Let’s make a deal, humans.”
“Leave this final dungeon untouched, and we can stop attacking Zone A.”
Rong Jiu slightly raised an eyebrow.
The slime laid out its terms. “We know Zone A has a player capable of blocking external attacks. But can she really hold out until the end?”
“Our attacks come at one-hour intervals. For three days straight, she’ll have to be on guard every single hour.”
“She could very well die.”
“You underestimate humans,” Rong Jiu said evenly. “Three days without sleep is nothing.” His expression didn’t change, but the statement was obviously nonsense—he simply refused to show weakness in front of the monsters.
The slime wasn’t fooled. It let out an annoyed, cold laugh. “Human, don’t bother with such useless lies.”
“Blue Star was a carefully selected target. Of course, we conducted research here. ‘Humans,’ these carbon-based lifeforms, are quite fragile. You lack hard shells and thick armor. You struggle to adapt to harsh environments. Irregularities in basic survival behaviors—like eating and sleeping—are enough to trigger adverse reactions in your delicate bodies. Let alone three days without sleep.”
The expression on Rong Jiu’s face slowly settled. He studied the slime intently, as if trying to discern something from the enormous creature. “You said—‘selected.’”
“So this means the game can choose its own opponents? We humans were forcibly dragged into it by you?”
The slime didn’t answer, but its silence was confirmation enough.
Rong Jiu let out a cold laugh. “Looks like there’s an irreconcilable hatred between us.”
“So what we’re seeking is only a temporary cooperation,” the slime replied. It seemed to hold a strategist-like role among the monsters as well, attempting to persuade Rong Jiu. “Among my companions, I’m considered relatively calm. If it were the others, they would simply attack you without hesitation.”
“After all, to us, dying in battle is the highest honor.”
“You leave the final dungeon intact, and we give Zone A a chance to breathe. It’s a fair and reasonable trade.”
It adopted a rational tone. “This war will last a long time. There’s no need for us to fight to the death right now.”
Rong Jiu’s expression seemed to soften slightly. He lifted his chin. “And how are we supposed to trust you?”
“I’m not asking you to withdraw from the dungeon.” The slime made a show of goodwill. It bounced twice, and the slimes that had been tirelessly attacking gradually stopped, falling silent as if entering hibernation.
“You can remain inside the dungeon. If anything unusual happens, you can resume your attack.”
“I know you still have trump cards.”
Rong Jiu closed his eyes and pondered for a moment before raising an objection. “But your active hours are longer than ours. The Divine Punishment phase has at least two more days to go, but we can’t stay inside the dungeon that long.”
“Our offensive period only lasts until 8 a.m. tomorrow.”
“Our ceasefire will also last until 8 a.m. tomorrow,” the slime replied, clearly aware of this information—so they really had faced the player faction before. “After all, agreeing to a longer truce would be meaningless.”
“Stay in the dungeon. If anything happens, you can resume attacking.”
“Think about it, human. A full day of recovery time is extremely valuable. Until 8 a.m. tomorrow, no Divine Punishment will fall on Zone A. I guarantee it.”
He Wuning had remained silent the whole time, listening to the two self-proclaimed intellectuals probe each other. Resting his chin on his hand, he looked bored.
Rong Jiu glanced at him and noticed that although he appeared relaxed, one hand was gripping the hilt of his blade. It seemed that this notorious and dangerous figure was actually hoping the negotiations would collapse so he could leap down from above and silence the chatterbox slime once and for all.
Rong Jiu was silent for a moment before speaking. “Personally, I think it’s acceptable, but…”
He looked at He Wuning, uncertain whether he would catch the meaning in his glance. “We’ll need to ask the real ‘player’ whether he agrees.”
“After all, as you know, in this game, the one with administrator privileges is the true ‘player’—the one who holds the real decision-making power.”
He Wuning noticed the exaggerated eye signals and raised a brow, unsure, but said nothing.
As expected, the slime turned to look at him, showing no objection.
Rong Jiu understood immediately—he’d guessed right again.
Within the monster faction, they indeed followed the rule of obeying those with higher administrator privileges.
He gave He Wuning a slight nod, signaling that he could agree to the terms.
But He Wuning merely lifted his gaze and said matter-of-factly, “No.”
Rong Jiu nearly choked on his own saliva, suddenly wondering if he’d messed up somewhere in delivering the signal.
Looking down at the slime from above, He Wuning set new terms. “Before 8 a.m. tomorrow, not just Zone A—no game zone is to be attacked.”
The slime fell silent.
“You have ‘believers,’” He Wuning continued. “Human zones aren’t united to begin with. If only Zone A goes an entire day without being attacked, wouldn’t that just provoke hostility from the other zones?”
Rong Jiu shot him an extra glance, clearly surprised he’d thought of that angle. He shrugged in clarification. “Let me state first—I did think of that. It’s just that Zone A has already been somewhat isolated by the other zones, so out of pettiness, I didn’t take them into consideration.”
“I’m petty, not stupid.”
Yi Luo’s expression was complicated. “Sometimes I really don’t understand what you researchers care about all day.”
He Wuning only looked at the slime. “Seems you’re not as upright a warrior as you boast. You might as well admit you have ulterior motives.”
“We’re all the same.”
The slime gazed at him deeply. “We accept your condition. But one more thing.”
“Rapid game updates aren’t necessarily a good thing. Human, you’d better be careful in the game from now on.”
He Wuning lifted his eyelids lazily. “Thanks for the concern.”
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The author has something to say:
Rong Jiu: We researchers can be petty, annoying lunatics—but we cannot be idiots.
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