The Crimson Game Chapter 7

Among the ghost customers, one massively obese man assaulted my visual senses.

His skin looked like it had been soaking in water for a month—deathly pale and swollen.

Perhaps he'd been obese in life, because combined with this waterlogged skin, he looked like a walking mountain.

"Oh no. Please, not me," I thought, with a sinking feeling.

The man waddled toward me, looking at me, then at table seven.

I suddenly understood. I jogged over and pushed two chairs together, saying respectfully:

"Honored guest, please have a seat."

The man didn't move.

I looked up at his massive backside.

It took three chairs to barely accommodate his enormous rear end.

I approached him.

"Honored guest, what would you like to order?"

"Fifty oysters, three hundred meat skewers, six pitchers of beer, three bowls of fried noodles. And remember—I want the meat skewers rare."

Hearing the man's voice, I couldn't help but shudder.

This massive man had the voice of a prepubescent boy.

Combined with his appearance...

Jesus, what a combination.

"Certainly, sir. Please wait."

The enormous order required four trips back and forth.

The man picked up a meat skewer and held it to his nose.

Suddenly, I felt a wave of cold emanating from him. He turned his thick, triple-chinned face toward me, his voice dripping with rage.

"You! You're dead!"

I understood why he was angry. He wanted skewers dripping with red blood—which would violate the rules.

I didn't panic. I put on an expression of righteous anger.

"Sir, please wait. I'll go have words with the kitchen."

With that, I grabbed a decorative lamp from the table and ran toward the kitchen.

The fat man was caught off guard by my bizarre behavior, his anger temporarily diffused.

I held up the lamp, pointing at the kitchen and shouting, adopting a posture like I was about to fight someone.

The surrounding players stared at me like I'd lost my mind.

The kitchen was about sixty feet from the dining hall. On the side nearest the kitchen, there was a protruding wall.

Customers couldn't see into the kitchen.

Only the players knew—there was nobody in the kitchen.

Actually, there wasn't even a ghost.

We had no idea how the food appeared at the window.

We only knew we had to follow the rules.

Now I shouted at the empty kitchen:

"You blind idiot! How dare you serve my honored guest unsatisfactory food! I'll kill you today!"

I charged into the kitchen with heavy steps.

The others couldn't see what was happening inside.

They could only hear sounds: "Ding—! CRASH—! BOOM—! AAH—!"

When I emerged from the kitchen, my face was covered in bruises, I was limping, and my arm hung at an odd angle.

I dragged my foot, staggering toward the obese man.

"Sir, I apologize. Our kitchen staff didn't know better. I've dealt with him personally. Please wait just a moment longer. I'll grill three hundred skewers for you myself—no! Five hundred! Please wait."

I turned to head back to the kitchen.

The fat man looked embarrassed, his thick arm reaching out to stop me, his voice actually carrying a hint of sheepishness:

"Actually... it's not necessary. Well-done is fine too. Haha, don't trouble yourself. Thank you."

Hearing this, my anxious heart finally settled.

I immediately bent ninety degrees at the waist.

"It's my lifelong honor to serve such an esteemed guest. I never expected you'd be so magnanimous as well. I'm truly moved. If you don't mind, may I call you 'bro'? Bro, please eat as much as you like. If you need anything at all, just let me know—I'll be right here beside you."

Straightening up, I even wiped at my eyes with my hand.

The obese man was taken aback by my words.

His fat hands waved in the air awkwardly.

"Oh my, little brother, just sit at that table over there. I'll finish eating soon."

Behind me, I heard another player mutter into my ear:

"Damn! You can do that?"

"This guy's got something."

The corner of my mouth, hidden against my chest, curved up slightly.

Playing mind games? When have I ever been afraid?

Before the fat man left, he pressed a small metal cylinder, about the size of a thumb, into my hand.

When I learned this thing had an explosive range of six miles, I nearly dropped it in shock.

The fat man said it was a gift for me.

When no one was watching, I quickly stuffed it into my underwear.

After the second wave of customers left, I stood up and stretched.

I wiped the vegetable juice off my face with a napkin.

The others watched me move my supposedly injured limbs normally, lost in thought.

"Hey! I saw everything just now. You're pretty impressive!"

A chubby male player walked up beside me, looking at me with admiration.