Chapter 36: The Hunger Games (2)
By this point, everyone in the room understood exactly what the Rabbit Manager’s goal was.
He wanted to split the team from the inside—and his first move in doing so was to ensure that none of the three would choose to quit the game prematurely.
With a single question, he stirred up Yan Wuzhen’s resentment toward the way the rewards were distributed. And once forced to answer, Yan Wuzhen could no longer quit voluntarily. Not that he ever really intended to—people as arrogant as him were born with the desire to control everything. If he quit now, he’d be giving up his claim to the bounty and leaving himself at the mercy of Tang Mobai and Seth’s “charity.” That was absolutely unacceptable to him.
The ideal strategy had been for Tang Mobai to order Seth to forfeit after the first round—but now…
Yan Wuzhen turned his head and saw the hesitation on Tang Mobai’s face, sighing inwardly.
The Rabbit Manager hadn’t named anyone in particular when he asked if Seth had ever resented “the one who commanded him.” But because of that, everyone who had ever given Seth an order was implicated. Neither Yan Wuzhen nor Tang Mobai knew which command, if any, might have crossed the line—or whether the mere act of commanding was enough to provoke Seth’s rebellion.
Though Seth had never shown it, who knew what that half-machine was really thinking? Besides, Yan Wuzhen knew a bit about his past. If Yan Wuzhen himself had entered this revival match to hide from the Secret Forest Guild, then Seth was here because his own guild had completely exploited him.
Back then, Seth had been little more than a pile of scrap metal. Though he’d been repaired to a decent appearance now, no one could tell what he truly thought about humans deep down.
As for Tang Mobai, he absolutely couldn’t quit—unlike them, failure for him literally meant death.
Yan Wuzhen exhaled slowly, his dark eyes locking onto the Rabbit Manager’s crimson gaze. The Rabbit Manager noticed and grinned, revealing his gleaming white rabbit teeth.
“Impressive trick,” Yan Wuzhen said coldly. “No wonder you’re the Rabbit Manager of the Demon Casino.”
“You flatter me,” the Rabbit Manager said with a slight bow. “But when it comes to manipulating hearts, I’m still nothing compared to Mr. Spider. If not for him, I wouldn’t have gotten this particular job.”
Yan Wuzhen’s smile faded, his face going cold. “I merely guided them here.”
“Oh, I know,” the Rabbit Manager said, still smiling. “That’s exactly what I meant.”
Their gazes met midair—one icy cold, the other amused. After a long moment, Yan Wuzhen looked away. “Continue,” he said flatly. “The game’s not over yet.”
Since forcing Seth to forfeit was no longer a viable way to protect their interests, there was only one choice left: force the Rabbit Manager to surrender. If they could do that, the prize money would double—enough to repair the rift between them.
Tang Mobai and Seth must have realized that too.
Yan Wuzhen signaled to them with a subtle glance. Seth looked back calmly, expression unreadable—maybe robots didn’t even have the concept of “secret collusion.” Tang Mobai seemed to understand… though Yan Wuzhen suspected he didn’t, not really.
He didn’t have long to dwell on it, because the second round began.
They got off to a good start this time—the short hand landed on the Rabbit Manager, while the long hand passed over Yan Wuzhen and stopped at Seth.
Under Yan Wuzhen’s tense gaze, Seth thought for a moment and asked, “What’s your current weakness that we could take advantage of?”
The Rabbit Manager smiled faintly. “I choose ‘Food.’”
Yan Wuzhen let out a quiet breath of relief. They’d managed to force the Rabbit Manager to eat.
He pressed a bell on the table, and the VIP room door opened. A bunny girl in a revealing outfit entered, carrying a tray. She set it down before the Rabbit Manager and lifted the cover, revealing a spread of mouthwatering dishes.
Tang Mobai’s eyes immediately drifted toward the food. Yan Wuzhen was just about to mock him when he heard Tang Mobai say, “Wait—rabbits eat meat?”
The Rabbit Manager replied coolly, “I only look like a rabbit. My diet’s perfectly normal.”
Tang Mobai slumped, disappointed. “Damn, I was hoping to see Bugs Bunny munching on a carrot.”
The Rabbit Manager didn’t recognize the name “Bugs Bunny,” but judging by his expression, he more or less understood the jab. Yan Wuzhen twitched his lips—was he really the only one taking this seriously?
The Rabbit Manager ate with clear delight. At first, Yan Wuzhen could still joke about it, but soon the aroma filled the room, and even he found his gaze drawn to the plate—juicy steak browned to perfection, glistening with Maillard’s golden crust, surrounded by perfectly roasted vegetables.
He wanted to taste it.
The thought flashed through his mind—and instantly his expression darkened. He smacked both Tang Mobai and Seth on the back of the head.
Both had been leaning forward, almost nose-first into the plate. But the Rabbit Manager didn’t stop them—in fact, he looked like he couldn’t.
His crimson eyes were glued to the food. His movements, once elegant and measured, grew frantic—barely finishing one bite before shoving the next into his mouth.
Even as the plate emptied, there was no trace of satisfaction on his face—only wild, bloodshot hunger, like a starving ghost that hadn’t eaten in days.
To eat and still grow hungrier—the overturning of every natural instinct. How long before that hunger turned on them?
Cold sweat drenched Tang Mobai’s back. Fortunately, when the food was gone, the Rabbit Manager finally stopped—or rather, was forced to stop.
He looked up, eyes glowing red, staring straight at the three humans.
Humans could also become prey when hunger ruled the beast.
The trio immediately tensed, weapons drawn. Technically, combat between players was forbidden in the Demon Casino, but if one lost their sanity… all bets were off.
Luckily, the Rabbit Manager slowly regained his composure. Pulling a white napkin from his breast pocket, he dabbed his mouth and said politely, “My apologies. That was quite improper of me.”
Yan Wuzhen’s eyes dropped to his stomach—so distended it looked nearly five months pregnant. At this rate, two more rounds might be enough to rupture it completely.
There’s our opening.
The next few rounds went quickly. Yan Wuzhen questioned Seth first. Then Seth asked Tang Mobai. By the third draw, luck was finally on their side—Yan Wuzhen got to question the Rabbit Manager again.
Smiling slyly, he said, “Rabbit Manager, please tell me all of your abilities.”
The Rabbit Manager shook his head. “I choose ‘Food.’”
Again, food was brought in. Again, the Rabbit Manager devoured it like a beast. When he finished, his belly was grotesquely round, and yet he started gnawing on the wooden tray itself. His mouth filled with splinters, blood trickling from his lips, but he didn’t stop.
One more time, Yan Wuzhen thought coldly. Just one more time and he’ll die.
Then came the next spin. The short hand passed over Yan Wuzhen, Seth, and the Rabbit Manager—then stopped between Tang Mobai and the Rabbit Manager.
A cruel twist of fate—the pointer leaned toward Tang Mobai.
The Rabbit Manager smiled faintly. “Seems fortune smiles on me this time.”
“Tang Mobai, would you be willing to sacrifice everyone here—for the one behind you?”
Tang Mobai was silent for five full minutes. Then he pressed the bell.
“Idiot,” Yan Wuzhen snapped. “Do you realize that’s as good as admitting it?! You’d be better off saying it outright than eating that damn stuff again!”
Seth glanced sideways at Yan Wuzhen. What, you’d rather he just said “yes”? You’re part of ‘everyone here’ too, you know. Still, even he was surprised—not that Tang Mobai would risk everything for his lover, but that “everyone” included him too.
Nothing proved love more than self-sacrifice. Even in Hell, the lost souls would envy such devotion. But as a teammate… no one wanted to die for someone else’s romance.
Tang Mobai didn’t respond. When the food was brought in, he stared at it, trembling between craving and dread. He took a bite—and something in his brain snapped.
All reason vanished, replaced by an overwhelming voice screaming in his skull:
So hungry so hungry so hungry eat eat eat eat eat eat eat!
“TANG MOBAI!”
He jolted like a man waking from a nightmare. Tray in hand, he tried to shove food into his mouth, but Yan Wuzhen grabbed his wrist. Tang Mobai lunged to bite instead, only for Seth to block him with his own fist. Tang Mobai’s teeth didn’t pierce the synthetic skin—but the impact hurt like hell.
Before he could bite again, the mechanisms of the Hunger Hell intervened, restraining him.
That alone was enough for him to regain clarity. He looked down at his swollen belly—no fullness, no relief, only a gnawing emptiness. The lingering scent of food made his mouth water uncontrollably.
So this is the “Gluttony” of Hunger Hell…
Tang Mobai tore his gaze away and whispered, “…Thanks.”
The Rabbit Manager clapped, his furry paws making soft thuds. “Ah, such touching camaraderie. Rare to see that in all of Lost Paradise. I’m curious how long you can keep it up.”
Yan Wuzhen shot back coldly, “You should worry about yourself. The second round’s over—are you really going to start a third?”
Statistically speaking, with three against one, the odds were stacked against him. If he got chosen again, whoever questioned him could easily force another meal. One more “feast,” and the Rabbit Manager would lose his mind completely—eating until he burst.
Any sane person would surrender now.
The Rabbit Manager sighed. “If only I could. But alas… you must understand a corporate slave’s predicament.”
“Let’s continue.”
A corporate slave? Yan Wuzhen sneered inwardly. If the manager of Hunger Hell’s Demon Casino was just another office drone, then what were the ordinary damned souls? Trash? Or… did he have another ace up his sleeve?
The third round began.
Yan Wuzhen stayed on guard, watching for any trickery. But whether it was fate or justice, the wheel turned against the Rabbit Manager again—the short hand stopped on him, and the long hand pointed straight at Tang Mobai.
Yan Wuzhen’s heart leapt into his throat. He fixed Tang Mobai with a desperate stare—if not for the rule forbidding outside coaching, he would’ve whispered the answer himself.
Force him to choose “Food.”
It would be the third time, and no one in Hunger Hell had ever survived a third round of gluttony.
Just once more—and the Rabbit Manager would eat himself to death.
So this time, no matter what, Tang Mobai would definitely choose “Truth.”
If it were Yan Wuzhen in this situation, what would he ask? Who’s the person behind him? No—that’s something the entire casino already knows. The great demons never bother to hide. Asking about weaknesses and abilities has already been done. Right, he could ask who the person loves most or what he values most—it might overlap with weaknesses, but since Seth added that restriction earlier, the two questions might not necessarily lead to the same answer…
“Manager Rabbit, since you look like this now, does your type lean toward rabbits or humans?” Tang Mobai asked curiously.
What kind of stupid question is that!
If the restrictions of the Hungry Hell weren’t in place, Yan Wuzhen would’ve strangled Tang Mobai on the spot just to shake the nonsense out of his brain. Those two options—was there even a choice?!
Manager Rabbit was silent for two seconds, then pressed the bell to summon food.
Huh????
Everyone’s eyes turned to him. The rabbit-faced manager’s expression didn’t change as he calmly said, “I refuse to answer that question. I have the right to remain silent.”
Tang Mobai and Yan Wuzhen: “??!”
No, seriously—how was that any different from saying “There’s nothing buried here at all” right after digging a hole?!
Seth, at least, stayed composed. Meeting Yan Wuzhen’s gaze, he added mildly, “You see, to humans, there’s still a difference between ‘cannot answer’ and ‘choosing not to answer.’ The programmer who coded me once confessed to all his crimes in court because he had to present his browser history.”
The robot’s face said clearly: “I know, that’s just how humans are.”
Even that expression—a robot claiming to understand humanity—was enough to irritate Yan Wuzhen. What annoyed him more, though, was that it was true.
The next round of food arrived. Manager Rabbit gracefully tied on a napkin and smiled at the bunny waitress who brought the tray. “Thank you very much—it looks delicious.”
The waitress’s cheeks flushed pink as she scurried off shyly, leaving the three men, who had just learned about the manager’s “preferences,” all with strange looks. Tang Mobai practically wanted to tell her, Sis, seriously, different species—it’ll never end well…
But he soon had no time to think about anyone else, because Manager Rabbit went insane.
Literally insane.
He began eating—ferociously, endlessly—like the elegance he’d shown seconds ago was just the last flicker before death. He devoured everything: the food, the tray, then tore into the leather sofa like it was a delicacy, stuffing his mouth with padding until his stomach visibly burst open.
And even then, he didn’t stop. His body ignored all natural defenses like nausea or pain; nothing came back out—he simply kept eating. He bloated into a grotesque sphere, his skin stretched paper-thin until, with a horrifying crack, the food burst right through his stomach.
Chunks of half-digested food splattered the floor, mixing with blood and viscera. His pale intestines slithered out like white snakes, only to be grabbed by the delirious Manager Rabbit and bitten into like spicy jerky—chew, chew, rip another piece…
At last, he collapsed on the pile of filth and entrails, his mechanical chewing still continuing even as the light faded from his eyes.
Yan Wuzhen and Tang Mobai had both gone pale, though they somehow kept themselves upright. Seth alone remained calm. “That should be the end of it.”
It did seem like it.
Yan Wuzhen turned toward Tang Mobai. “You’re an idiot.”
Tang Mobai blinked. “Huh?”
“It’s not over. We’re still bound by the contract,” Yan Wuzhen said grimly. “Or do you think one of us has to be the winner now?”
“Wait—did you just insult me again?” Tang Mobai protested, looking hurt. “Why do you always insult people for no reason and then not apologize?”
“I’ll apologize after the game.”
“What? Don’t I deserve a real apology?”
While the two bickered, Seth silently stared at the rabbit’s stomach. The black in his eyes flickered with green data streams, and his pupils narrowed like a camera lens. “He’s alive again.”
Yan Wuzhen and Tang Mobai whipped their heads around. Sure enough, Manager Rabbit’s limbs were twitching. He opened his eyes again, his torso a ruin of blood and viscera. Still, he stood up as if nothing was wrong, roughly scooping the broken organs back into his chest cavity like someone hurriedly packing a suitcase before a flight—everything crammed in messily.
When he was done, the only visible sign of injury was a patch of white fur. If not for the scattered food and blood on the ground, one might think nothing had happened.
“My apologies for the unsightly display,” Manager Rabbit said, dabbing the blood from his lips. His mouth, which had been torn apart moments ago, was now pristine. “But now that that’s settled, we can continue the game.”
The three players’ faces went rigid.
Yan Wuzhen slammed the table. “That’s cheating! The rules said no abilities or items can affect the fairness of the game!”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t call this cheating,” the rabbit replied pleasantly. “I haven’t affected the fairness, have I?”
How could you say you haven’t?! If he couldn’t die from gluttony, how could they possibly win?!
“The rule only prohibits actions that affect fairness—it doesn’t ban using abilities altogether. Besides,” the rabbit went on, “both sides must retain a chance to win. If even one of you gives up, the game ends. Isn’t that advantage enough? If I didn’t have a counterbalance ability, you’d have all the odds.”
“Relax. You still have the upper hand.”
Yan Wuzhen’s expression was dark, but he couldn’t deny the logic.
The rules only absolutely banned items. Abilities were fine as long as they didn’t make the game unwinnable for the other side. To accuse the rabbit of cheating, they’d need concrete proof that his ability made victory impossible.
But how many times could he “revive”?
Yan Wuzhen ran a hand through his hair, biting his thumb anxiously.
This “resurrection” ability was far too overpowered—it shouldn’t exist in the lower layers of hell. If it did, the user would be infamous by now. There had to be a limit. Maybe it depended on consuming massive amounts of food—gluttony as the price for survival…
No wonder he’d proposed this game.
Next, it was Seth’s turn to question the rabbit. Without hesitation, he asked, “Since you insist on fairness, and our numbers are three times yours—your revival count is three or less. True or false?”
The rabbit only smiled and said nothing, pressing the bell again for more food.
Yan Wuzhen and Tang Mobai exhaled in relief.
But things hadn’t actually improved. Even three resurrections were too many.
Yan Wuzhen observed the rabbit closely. His movements were smooth again—calm, composed, completely recovered. The pressure on them mounted unbearably.
As silence fell over the room, Yan Wuzhen “accidentally” knocked over the bell on the table. It rolled under the rabbit’s chair.
“Sorry,” he said casually. “You’re closer—could you grab that for me?”
“With pleasure.”
The rabbit bent down awkwardly, holding his bloated stomach as he retrieved the bell and set it back on the table. Throughout, Yan Wuzhen’s eyes never left him.
After the Revival Match, Yan Wuzhen had also awakened a new Fate Path, though it wasn’t what he’d hoped for.
[Fate Path 6 – The Advisor]
Effect: When you offer someone advice, the more they trust and depend on your words, the more you understand them… You know what to do, don’t you?
It wasn’t the strategist or manipulator path he’d wanted, but a support-type ability that seemed almost useless. The more they trust me, the more I understand them? If they already trust me, that’s basically being an ATM for someone—it lowers my dignity as a professional manipulator.
But right now, he desperately hoped it would work.
As the two locked eyes—the intelligence broker’s black gaze and the rabbit’s crimson one—there was no trust between them. Yet the rabbit had just followed his suggestion to bend down and pick up the bell. That counted as a sliver of activation. Yan Wuzhen could faintly sense the other’s emotions.
He hoped for fear, unease—anything.
Instead, he felt calm. A deep, almost joyful calm.
That bastard.
Breathe. Calm down. Yan Wuzhen shut his eyes, forcing his thoughts into order.
Getting the rabbit to surrender was impossible. There were no cracks to exploit. The smart move was to cut losses—to keep what reward they could.
This was still a winnable game. As long as one of them surrendered, the others could leave with the prize.
Yan Wuzhen glanced up at Tang Mobai and Seth—only to find both of them already looking at him.
A suffocating silence filled the air. Yan Wuzhen realized, in that instant, that the flow of the entire game had fallen completely into Manager Rabbit’s hands.
“Of course,” the rabbit said, his smile widening. “To surrender, you’ll have to survive through the fourth round, right? Now then—let’s begin the third.”
Yan Wuzhen asked. Seth answered.
Their group’s previous turns had always gone quickly, but this time, Yan Wuzhen hesitated.
What now? How do you break this deadlock?
The situation had completely flipped. Forcing the rabbit to surrender was no longer possible. His revival limit might be three—or, optimistically, just one—but from what Yan Wuzhen’s [Advisor] ability told him, the rabbit either truly didn’t fear death… or had a trump card even deeper.
And what if he’d chosen not to answer, just to make them think they still had a chance?
Seth and Tang Mobai might have already fallen for it. But Yan Wuzhen had no illusions about human nature. This team couldn’t withstand another round of doubt. No one understood better than him how fragile trust was.
Anyone who could become a casino manager in the Hungry Hell was a master at manipulating human desire. They feared not ignorance—but greed.
Since the founding of Nightfall Street (Hell’s infamous strip of gambling, pleasure, and vice), there had always been a saying:
“Don’t go to the clubs—you never know if what you touch is a man, a woman, or not human at all. Don’t go to the casinos—the animal dealers will make you leave the same way you entered: naked. Don’t take the Bliss Candy—the desires it grants will consume you just as quickly.”
The rabbit said this was just a “game,” but in truth, it was a gamble. Yan Wuzhen had thought they were wagering time and effort—when in fact, they were betting everything.
It was time to cut their losses. Since the rabbit wouldn’t surrender, someone had to make the “sacrifice” to preserve their collective reward.
Yan Wuzhen’s gaze swept past Tang Mobai and landed on Seth. The robot’s expression remained as calm as ever—detached, unaffected. That cold indifference was exactly why Yan Wuzhen hated him. He’d never seen a trace of desire in the machine—not even the basic instinct to survive.
Creatures without desire are not to be trusted, because you can never predict what they’ll do the next second. Even someone as naïvely unpredictable as Tang Mobai still had obvious desires that Yan Wuzhen could sense.
But Seth didn’t. It was as if life or death made no difference to him. Today, he could calmly joke and argue with everyone; tomorrow, he could head to the repair bay and bid them farewell.
That sense of being unable to control things was what Yan Wuzhen despised the most. If it weren’t for Tang Mobai, he would never have considered teaming up with Seth in his entire life.
If one person had to be sacrificed…
Yan Wuzhen opened his mouth, ready to finally voice the question he’d been holding back for so long—when suddenly, he felt a warm touch on his thigh. Looking down, he saw Tang Mobai’s hand reaching out from under the table, pressing against him.
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