“You’re not a ‘sheep’ after all.” Qi Xia said to Human Pig. “The first time we encountered Human Sheep, we suffered greatly. You thought adding a lying mechanism to your game would increase your odds, but you never expected that decision would be your downfall.”
Human Pig fell silent for a moment, then reached up and removed the mask from his head.
Beneath the filthy, stinking mask was a man with well-defined features. He appeared to be in his forties, his eyes brimming with intelligence.
“It’s just a shame—I was so close,” Human Pig said. “So close to walking out of here with my head held high.”
Qi Xia’s gaze flickered slightly at that, and he asked, “Human Pig, what exactly does it mean to walk out ‘with your head held high’?”
Human Pig paused, studying the young man before him, finding him eerily reminiscent of his younger self.
“Qi Xia, have you ever made a mistake?”
“A mistake?” Qi Xia pondered seriously. The concept of a “mistake” wasn’t so easily defined. In some ways, his very profession was a mistake, yet from another perspective, he had no choice but to walk this path.
“Not in the eyes of the law,” Human Pig continued. “But the kind of mistake that alters the entire course of your life. One that fills you with regret, one that haunts you, one that leaves you repaying debts for the rest of your days.”
Qi Xia’s brow furrowed deeply, and something in the depths of his mind pulsed violently.
“What are you getting at?” Qi Xia asked coldly.
“We are all sinners…” Human Pig smiled bitterly. “Indeed, sinners cannot attain the ‘Tao.’ In the end, I’ll die here…”
*Sinners cannot attain the “Tao”?*
Qi Xia felt like he’d heard that before.
“Qi Xia, do you know? Business is like a gamble.” Human Pig slowly stood and walked over to a drawer, rummaging through its contents. “Once, I staked all the liquid assets of my conglomerate on a single ‘hope.’ Looking back now, it was no different from gambling with my life.”
After searching for a while, he pulled out an old revolver.
He blew the dust off the gun, checked the single remaining bullet in the cylinder, and continued, “At the time, my odds of success were less than fifty percent. The other board members opposed the move. But I knew—I was only betting liquid assets. It wouldn’t bankrupt the company. Instead, it offered a glimmer of hope for the future. But then… a global pandemic struck. The company’s revenue plummeted. Without sufficient liquidity, we couldn’t recover. The losses piled up.”
Human Pig lifted his despairing eyes to Qi Xia. “I thought I was gambling for a ticket to heaven. Instead, I ended up in hell.”
With that, he began meticulously cleaning the barrel.
Qi Xia felt some of his own confusion begin to unravel. “So you think this place is hell?”
“Who knows?” Human Pig shook his head. “That conglomerate—I built it from the ground up. Yet in the end, the board fired me. As the chairman, I lost all authority. To repay debts, I sold my shares at a loss. My wife, who stood by me through the hardest times, couldn’t afford medical treatment when she fell ill. My daughter, studying abroad, couldn’t continue her education and became… well-known in her school for other reasons. Compared to that world, this place is my paradise. I don’t have to think about anything—just find ways to make you all die.”
His voice began to waver. “I often wonder… what if I hadn’t taken that gamble?”
After a long silence, Qi Xia finally spoke four words: “The gambler pays his dues.”
“Ha… haha…” Human Pig let out a hollow laugh, as if his spirit had left him. “Yes. The gambler pays his dues.”
“But there’s one thing I still don’t understand,” Qi Xia pressed.
Human Pig lifted his deep, weary eyes. “I’ve answered too many of your questions. It’s not fair to the other participants.”
“What?” Qi Xia frowned. “Are these things you’re not supposed to tell us?”
In response, Human Pig flicked the revolver’s cylinder, spun it rapidly, then snapped it back into place with a sharp motion.
Slowly, he raised the gun and pressed it against his temple.
“Let’s leave it to fate,” he said. “For every question you ask, I’ll pull the trigger once. If the gun doesn’t fire, I’ll answer.”
Qi Xia sighed. “You were once a chairman. Don’t you want to leave with some dignity?”
“Dignity?” Human Pig laughed bitterly. “I’ve worn this stinking, filthy pig’s head for so long. What dignity is there left?”
“Then I’ll be blunt,” Qi Xia said. “Old man, why did you *choose* to become ‘Human Pig’?”
***Click!***
Human Pig pulled the trigger without hesitation, not even blinking.
The gun didn’t fire.
“To atone,” he answered. “Someone told me that by wearing this mask and sending participants to their deaths through games, I could one day redeem myself.”
“What does ‘atonement’ mean?”
***Click!***
Again, silence.
Human Pig exhaled. “Atonement means rewriting the past—correcting the mistakes you’ve made. Every ‘Zodiac’ here is a sinner.”
Qi Xia pieced together the fragmented clues in his mind, struggling to believe it. He chose his next words carefully. “So you once had a chance to leave, but instead, you stayed to ‘atone’?”
***Click!***
Human Pig frowned. Just as he’d said, Qi Xia’s *luck* was formidable—three empty chambers in a row.
“I wasn’t sure if I *could* leave. But I stayed,” Human Pig admitted. “I hope none of you have made mistakes. Otherwise, like me, you’ll choose to stay willingly. Because here… there’s still a sliver of unseen hope.”
Qi Xia leaned forward, deadly serious. “Then what’s the fastest way out of here?”
***Click!***
Human Pig closed his eyes, bracing himself—but again, no shot.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Collecting 3,600 ‘Tao’ is the slowest method. Even as a masked Zodiac, there’s much I don’t understand. After all, I’m still human. If you want the truth of this place, you must defeat ‘Heaven’ and ‘Earth.'”
He paused, then corrected himself. “No… don’t even think of beating ‘Heaven.’ Just focus on ‘Earth.’ The Three Celestial Beasts—Heaven, Earth, Man—are ranked in that order, all led by the ‘Dragon.’ To survive here, remember two rules: First, never provoke ‘Heaven.’ Second, never face the ‘Dragon.'”
The four answers had clarified much for Qi Xia. Escaping this place might not be as impossible as he’d thought.
He had no more questions, yet Human Pig still held the gun, his expression unreadable.
Qi Xia knew the odds—fifty percent on the fifth trigger pull, one hundred percent on the sixth.
The scene felt eerily familiar, as if they’d circled back to that fifty-fifty gamble.
Qi Xia stood and turned toward the exit. Lin Qin and Old Lü, uncertain, followed.
Just before stepping out, Qi Xia glanced back and asked a fifth question:
“Old man… do you regret it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. With Lin Qin and Old Lü in tow, he walked away.
The vast chess club stood empty now, save for Human Pig at its center.
After a long silence, he whispered three words:
“Thank you.”
A deafening gunshot echoed through the room.
Human Pig collapsed.
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