“Perhaps this isn’t difficult,” Qi Xia pondered aloud.
“Not difficult…?” The Human Snake let out another bitter laugh. “Qi Xia… do you really think there’s anything left that can save me?”
“There is,” Qi Xia nodded. “Deep down, you already know it too. As long as you kill one person in this game, everything will be resolved.”
The Human Snake’s gaze flickered, as if Qi Xia had struck a nerve.
“You believe that if you kill someone, you won’t die in this game,” Qi Xia continued. “So, you must be more eager than anyone to strike, right? That way, you can better accomplish the task I’ve given you.”
After a pause, Qi Xia corrected himself, “The task Bai Yang gave you.”
“In this game… who do you think I can kill?” The Human Snake pushed the puzzle book toward Qi Xia. “Logically speaking, even I don’t have the answers to these questions. How am I supposed to gamble lives with the ‘participants’? And if ‘Xuanwu’ actually intervenes… how will she determine victory or defeat?”
“You just don’t want to answer,” Qi Xia said. “If you truly wanted to, every question could have a correct solution.”
“So, I should just declare a ‘life gamble’ outright…?” The Human Snake lifted his head to look at Qi Xia. “Qi Xia, you must have sensed it by now… this ‘Cangjie Game’ isn’t just some ordinary Earth Dragon trial.”
“Yes,” Qi Xia nodded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you—both the Earth Dragon and Qinglong said this is the first time this game is being held, yet I’ve heard of ‘Cangjie Game’ from other Zodiacs long ago. So… did Bai Yang have a hand in designing this ‘Cangjie Game’?”
“Hard to say,” the Human Snake shook his head. “All I know is that before Bai Yang left, Qinglong frequently discussed things with him. They exchanged many ideas, but ‘Cangjie Game’ was never mentioned.”
“Then it must have been through hints,” Qi Xia deduced. “A series of subtle, imperceptible suggestions—even ones Qinglong himself couldn’t recognize—leading inevitably to ‘Cangjie Game.'”
“Is… that even possible…?” the Human Snake asked skeptically.
“Difficult, but not impossible,” Qi Xia replied. “Given that ‘Cangjie Game’ has appeared at this exact moment, it’s hard to believe Bai Yang wasn’t involved.”
Qi Xia had already guessed that this game’s setting, like the “Human Dragon” trial, took place in a bizarre, pitch-black space—the “Train.”
Before actually boarding the “Train,” it was crucial to uncover its secrets. That was Bai Yang’s true intention.
And Qinglong had fallen for it.
He had sent a group of “Human-level” and a few “Earth-level” Zodiacs to serve as “referees” for this game, fueling their panic at the critical moment and adding momentum to the “rebellion.”
Qinglong thought he was being cautious—keeping silent about the “punishments” in this game while offering generous rewards.
But the irony was that all the Zodiacs assumed any deal with Qinglong came with equivalent consequences. Even if Qinglong said nothing, the seeds of fear would continue to sprout.
Perhaps Qinglong wasn’t lying—maybe no Zodiac would die in this game, and it would simply be about distributing rewards. Yet now, every Zodiac was preoccupied with survival.
In a “Dragon” game, killing just one “participant” would elevate a Zodiac to “Earth-level.” With such a generous reward, how could there be no punishment?
Qi Xia sighed. Looking back now, hadn’t the “Human Dragon” game “Seesaw” also conveyed a crucial message?
Both sides stood on the seesaw. If neither moved, content with the status quo, the game wouldn’t end immediately, but at least no one would die.
In reality, one side always acted first, disrupting the delicate balance. The seesaw would tilt, and in an instant, the two sides would go from peaceful coexistence to unleashing deadly strikes. Even if one side suffered heavy losses, they would drag the other down to hell.
That was the balance between “participants” and “Zodiacs” in the “Land of Finality.”
Qi Xia should have realized it then—even the “Dragons” were just Bai Yang’s pawns.
Bai Yang knew he would eventually return to this land as a “participant.” Though he might not experience every Zodiac’s game, the “Dragons” were inescapable.
So, he turned all the “Dragons” into “messengers” across time, constantly sending encrypted messages to Qi Xia in another timeline.
Now it was clear—none of the “Dragons” in the “Land of Finality” knew they were being used. They took pride in their games and were eager to showcase them to Qi Xia.
The only pity was that during the “Human Dragon” game, Qi Xia hadn’t grasped the complexity of the situation or considered it in such detail.
Whether it was the “Earth Dragon” or the “Human Dragon,” each of their games was a microcosm of the “Land of Finality.” Whether divided into factions boiling in a giant pot or trapped in rigid arenas killing each other over rules, the essence was the same.
The so-called “Cangjie Game” was simply about entering rooms, playing games, and collecting “characters.” The ultimate goal wasn’t survival—it was to amuse the “Dragon” watching from above.
That “Dragon” called itself a “god,” set harsh rules, and let “mortals” slaughter each other—a miniature version of the “Land of Finality.”
Like the world they lived in, “Cangjie Game” thoughtfully provided an “escape door,” but fleeing meant certain death.
If no game allowed true escape, could the “Land of Finality” itself be escaped?
“I don’t think any Zodiac will die in this game,” Qi Xia said, snapping back to reality. “Qinglong likely meant exactly what he said. You might be overthinking it.”
The Human Snake’s face turned ashen. “Then I’ll say it again… should I trust Qinglong or not?”
“You can trust me,” Qi Xia replied. “At this critical moment, Qinglong’s priority is stabilizing morale, not inciting panic among the Zodiacs. So, this time, he absolutely won’t kill any Zodiac present.”
“But that’s just your speculation,” the Human Snake countered. “You know Zodiacs aren’t like participants—once we die… there’s no coming back.”
“That’s an easy fix,” Qi Xia said calmly. “If you’re still uneasy, you can always choose to kill me.”
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