Chapter 5: Demon Arena (3)
“Who’s backing you?”
Tang Mobai’s heart skipped a beat, though he tried his best to keep calm on the surface. The expert team had already anticipated a situation like this.
Since the state had decided to secretly smuggle items in despite knowing the livestream cameras were always on them, they were naturally prepared for exposure. But what could be exposed wasn’t the existence of the nation itself — only the notion that someone was helping Tang Mobai from behind the scenes.
According to intel gathered by undercover agents lurking in other livestreams, it was indeed possible for certain audience members to assist specific streamers. The tricky part was guiding the others to believe a false truth.
Coming up with a lie was easy. Sustaining it — that was the hard part.
Even now, before Tang Mobai entered this “revival round,” the experts had still been arguing about what role the “state” should pretend to play in this environment. Worse yet — Tang Mobai was utterly hopeless at lying.
Two weeks of intensive speech and acting training had earned him only a miserable C rating. Whenever he lied, his eyes would dart toward his feet, and his ears would flush red. It had nothing to do with how thick-skinned he was — even if someone dragged him to dance “Colorful Sunshine” in front of the entire squad, his ears would still burn when he lied.
Some people, it seemed, were simply born incapable of deception.
[Not talking, huh? Well, that’s fine. You don’t have to tell us. How about this — just give us a hint. As an exchange, I’ll tell you something about the other guest in your room, and maybe a little about what’s going to happen tonight. You’ve been glancing at the chat a lot — that means they haven’t told you everything, have they?]
Tang Mobai’s heart pounded like a drum. That bullet comment had hit the mark — though not because “they” were withholding information, but because the expert team themselves didn’t know.
“You first,” Tang Mobai said quietly.
[Alright then. As a freebie, I’ll tell you this: your ‘master,’ 009, didn’t protect any of you tonight because this is a culling. Half of you are trash to be discarded. The other half will become his property. He won’t fight another master for garbage — and it doesn’t even break any rules.]
Half are trash?
Tang Mobai instantly thought of the earlier chat messages about two people fighting to the death. His eyes flicked to the oil lamp beside him.
[That’s right. You’ve seen the lamp, haven’t you? The oil inside is limited. Its light covers only enough space for one person to last through the night.]
[The one who walks out of that room alive tomorrow becomes his property.]
“But… why?” Tang Mobai couldn’t help asking. “Wouldn’t human lives still be a kind of resource?”
[Before actors go on stage, they must first put on makeup.]
[Slaves are resources, yes — but in the arena, we don’t want obedient pets pecking each other like chickens.]
[The night is a baptism — a cleansing of fear, anger, blood, and cruelty. It will strip you of law, morality, conscience, and every trace of civilization.]
[Only then will you become warriors, demons — beasts that bite and tear in despair.]
A blatant trap, a naked conspiracy.
Both Tang Mobai and the silent experts watching the screen understood it perfectly. Even if the truth was spelled out, it changed nothing. Human nature, in moments like this, gleamed with its darkest light.
Anyone who lit their lamp tonight…
Anyone who realized their oil wouldn’t last…would inevitably start to consider eliminating the other.
[Unlucky for you, your roommate isn’t the kind of newbie that’s easy to deal with. So, interested in that info trade yet?]
If the message was accurate, Tang Mobai had to learn about this “roommate” before he returned. He looked at the chat, pressed his thumb to the joint of his middle finger, and subtly slid his right heel back — the prearranged signal for “no objection.”
Three seconds passed. No response.
Feigning contemplation, Tang Mobai finally nodded. “Tell me his info first.”
[Five years ago, a nameless man suddenly appeared in the revival rounds. He doesn’t speak, never interacts, and his mind isn’t all there. His ability? He can turn any part of his body into a weapon. Since his debut, he’s never lost a match.]
“Not mentally stable?” Tang Mobai frowned.
[A complete lunatic. Every arena he enters ends in a bloodbath. The match only ends when someone dies. No mercy, no empathy. He doesn’t listen to what his opponents say — just like a dragon ignoring the pleas of an ant. But that’s exactly why we love him. We even gave him a codename…]
At that moment, heavy footsteps dragged with the sound of chains approaching.
Tang Mobai’s head snapped toward the door. It creaked open.
A massive silhouette — broad enough to fill the frame — stepped inside.
Tang Mobai himself was tall for his age, tall enough that his university basketball team had scouted him as a backup forward. But this man’s physique crushed his completely.
He wore tattered hemp clothes, barely concealing the corded muscle beneath. Thick curls hung like seaweed over his eyes, an unshaven jaw shadowed his face, and in the gaps of his hair gleamed faint, ember-like red eyes — ghostly and cold.
When those eyes swept over him, Tang Mobai’s limbs went numb. He felt like prey caught in a wolf’s gaze.
[Deville!]
[Speak of the devil!]
[Our Arena superstar!]
Deville gave no reaction to finding someone else in the room. Dragging his shackled limbs and clinking iron chains, he simply walked to a corner and sat down.
Tang Mobai also wore a collar, but his was light and magically restrained, the chain dissolving into the air with no weight. Deville’s, however — heavy iron links clattered with every movement, branding the words “death row inmate” into one’s mind at first glance.
As Deville ignored him completely and sat down, Tang Mobai’s breathing eased slightly, sweat beading across his forehead.
A single phrase flashed through his mind — killing intent.
He had only ever seen it in movies or fiction. But this was the first time he’d felt it — real, tangible, suffocating. It was as though behind that man stood a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood.
Licking his lips, Tang Mobai looked at the fast-flowing chat. He whispered, “Deville… Demon?”
[What, you think we’d give him a cute nickname?] the chat jeered.
[Your turn, little newbie. Time’s almost up!]
[Come on, give us a hint — who sent you here?]
[Don’t worry about revenge. You’re not gonna survive the night anyway. Think about it — if they sent you to a place this dangerous, they clearly don’t care about you. So why keep their secret?]
[Yeah, yeah! Spill some gossip before you die!]
[Poor kid, spent so long prepping — bad luck though.]
Their comments dripped with mockery, taunting, and voyeuristic delight.
Tang Mobai was starting to understand these people. If this “Lost Paradise” world was a distorted society, then the participants in this revival round were its lowest class. Like modern viewers watching videos of slum life — often the poorer the content, the higher the views.
The privileged watched out of curiosity. The miserable watched to feel less alone — to think, someone else has it worse than me.
But in this place, there were no moral restraints. Only extremes. Only blood.
Most of the audience had already decided — this was a one-on-one survival room, and Tang Mobai had no chance of making it out alive. They waited eagerly for his mask to crack, to watch him struggle, doubt, and despair.
He stared at the comments in silence as the clock ticked closer to midnight.
Then, just as they assumed he’d stay silent — Tang Mobai suddenly lowered his head.
In a trembling voice, he said, “You’re all wrong. I really wasn’t sent by anyone… Someone did help me, but not in the way you think.”
[Huh?]
[What?]
“That person… I believe in them.”
His cheeks flushed. His ears turned scarlet. His gaze flickered, shy and awkward, before curving into a small, embarrassed smile — the kind of pure, bashful expression that overflowed with youthful warmth.
“Because that person is… my lover.”
The screen went black.
Livestream ended.
[…]
[Wait, what?]
[THAT’S what I tuned in for?! Even trash like him has a lover??]
[How are they even in the mood for romance in a deathmatch?!]
[Ugh, this reminds me of those couples in dungeons mid-raid — I hate it! I came here for carnage, not dog food!]
[Damn it! Why can’t we see the night feed? I wanna watch Deville tear him apart!]
The chat exploded in chaos.
Outside the screen, the expert team finally exhaled in relief. It wasn’t a good lie — but it worked perfectly with Tang Mobai’s “bad habit.”
He was lying, but the physical reactions — blushing, stammering, avoiding eye contact — were genuine, which made his “embarrassment” read as authentic rather than deceitful.
A perfect accidental misdirection.
But the team’s smiles soon faded. Because now came the real worry — the five hours of blackout, when the livestream would be completely shut off.
The instructor responsible for Tang Mobai’s training flushed red in the face, staring fixedly at the barrage of comments. He opened his mouth to say something, then glumly turned to Wang Yuanzhi. “…Is there really nothing else we can do?”
Wang Yuanzhi exhaled slowly and shook his head. “In the end, we’re only spectators outside the screen.”
“The one who’s truly facing mortal danger from start to finish is Tang Mobai himself. There will always be times our hands can’t reach him—and that moment is now.”
The room fell silent.
“Then we must trust him. Right now the only thing we can do is trust him. But don’t stop thinking—keep replaying and analyzing. Did you record it?”
A staff member on the right replied, “Recorded!”
“Good. Analysis team—don’t miss a single clue. Streaming team—don’t waste this time either; keep watching other streams. We still know far too little about this platform. Gather as much intelligence as you can.” Wang Yuanzhi said. “I’m very concerned about the ‘factions’ mentioned in the chat. From what they imply, this may not be the first time. It might not necessarily mean a real-world faction interfered—there could be factions inside Lost Paradise that have infiltrated the Revival Matches. Start from that line of inquiry and investigate carefully.”
“Yes!”
With Wang Yuanzhi’s orders, the whole base sprang back into motion. He breathed out slowly and looked at the black screen—the reflection showing the worry hidden on his face.
All they could do now was provide support and logistics. At this point it all depended on what Tang Mobai had managed to absorb from the two weeks of training.
[Mini-Theater – Special Training Edition]
To overcome his habit of blushing when lying, Tang Mobai is forced to wake up and dance the colorful sunbeams in front of his troops every day.
A week passes, and Tang Mobai remains calm, blushing from head to toe.
The instructor wonders: “You’re in this state, why do you still blush when you lie?
Tang Mobai: “I don’t know.”
Instructor: “How about we try naked running?
Tang Mobai: “No.”
Instructor: “Oh, sorry, sorry, you have to try it!
Tang Mobai remains calm: “No, I’m afraid my moral standards will be lowered to the ground (suddenly lost in thought).” Instructor, do you think that if we try to do something a little more subtle in the live broadcast room, would the audience increase faster?
Instructor: “…”
In order not to destroy the Tang Mobai, the naked running plan was forcibly terminated.
