Famine 135: Wife Cakes

Even Yan Cheng, in that instant, summoned the Hunter’s Axe.

Ye Xianqing rose swiftly, stepping back to position himself behind Yan Cheng. As a doctor, his greatest contribution in battle was simply to keep himself safe.

Yan Cheng stood alone, blocking the flood of monsters like a lone fortress, gripping his hunter’s axe in both hands, his gaze wavering: “Havana…”

But Havana didn’t take kindly to this: “Captain, what do you mean by that?”
“You said you had something important to say, and now you’re… W—what are you trying to do?”

Yan Cheng replied, “I only asked you to gather our brothers here.”

Many unfamiliar blood-faced monsters glared angrily. Havana shook his head helplessly and raised his hand: “Under the protection of our [friend], we are all brothers and sisters.”

Cries resounded as countless players raised their twisted arms. Many of the blood figures’ bulging eyes were starting to go red, their strange features twisting more grotesquely…

Si Zhiyan realized at once that something was wrong.

These monsters were, at their core, still players—this was essentially a closed, independent settlement, with its own beliefs.

They’d relied on their [friend], suffering through pain and mutation together, sharing hardship and joy, and had developed a strong sense of belonging.

These players were not supernatural creatures; they felt no instinctive hostility toward outsiders, but were still wary.

Havana might well have tried to call only the old teammates, but now, he and the community were inseparable. The other denizens of the Nest would surely want to understand why Yan Cheng had come. Strangers visiting always had to pay their respects.

But Yan Cheng didn’t know this.

Now, surrounded by a surging red tide of monsters—countless uncanny faces filling his view—his body was instinctively tensed with dread, focused on self-preservation.

Those in the Nest didn’t see themselves as odd, maintaining the social caution and probing of normal human interactions; but Yan Cheng and Ye Xianqing, thrusting themselves into the strange heart of the Nest, reacted with self-defense as if facing monsters.

And it seemed Yan Cheng, a bit slow to catch on, had yet to realize all this.

If they couldn’t find common ground, things would go wrong!

As Si Zhiyan turned these thoughts over, searching for a solution—

“We should go,” Ye Xianqing whispered.

But Yan Cheng, brows pressed together, studied Havana for a long moment…

Swish.

He released his grip, letting the hunter’s axe dissolve into countless sparks of blue light that scattered from his palms and vanished.

Empty-handed, standing among the horde of blood monsters, Yan Cheng showed no fear and said openly, “No. I trust him. Havana is my brother—he’ll not harm me.”

“I mean no harm. Qing, get the bottle. Let’s sit and talk.”

What resolve! Si Zhiyan couldn’t help but quietly applaud.

Yan Cheng’s eyes reflected both Havana’s twisted face and those of the blood monsters, as well as the portable lava-bottle from the Dimlight Hostel.

Though unaware of the root cause of conflict, Yan Cheng still chose to trust his teammate; this leader’s steadiness and faith became the first bridge connecting these two sides.

“Captain…” Havana echoed softly, emotion plain on his face.

A man like Yan Cheng had built a tight-knit, family-like elite team in the apocalypse by virtue of this very character.

So Yan Cheng sat in the little cabin, Ye Xianqing holding a lava lamp behind him, surrounded by a dense circle of contorted blood monsters.

Yan Cheng’s hoarse voice flowed gently, describing for everyone the faint lights of the abyss, the hostel, the cafeteria, that dreamlike world beyond…

The blood monsters exchanged glances. Some faces flickered with feeling; more remained the same, wary eyes fixed on him.

At last, Yan Cheng drew a paper bundle from his coat and offered it up.

“These are from the farm hostel. Not much—I brought what I could. If anyone wants to try, let’s share.”

Havana opened it—and found a bundle of wife cakes.

Small, round pastries rested quietly there, glazed with a warm golden sheen, still giving off a gentle heat. Their crusts were layered and crisp, caramel at the center from the baked egg wash, their edges thin as cicada wings, and sprinkled with sesame, giving off an enticing aroma of fresh baking.

Not too many, not too few—twenty-three in all, brought specially by the captain for them, so not one would be left out.

When the package was unfurled, the blood monsters pressed in, each silently taking one of these rare little treasures.

More than twenty-three reached for them.

Round cakes vanished into deformed, exposed teeth, crisp pastry flaking and falling, weightless, offering only a faint, buttery aroma. The dark amber glutinous rice filling was soft and sweet—restrained in its sweetness, mellow, suffused with both the fragrance and stretchiness of the dough, filling deformed mouths to their limits.

“So good…” Havana and the others, mouths full, murmured, “Things from the farm are so much tastier than nutritional paste…”

“Ah…? So soft….”

“It’s been so long since…”

More and more wore dreamy expressions.

Some blood monsters’ lips were so twisted their hands trembled as they ate, seeming at that moment to rediscover the dignity and shame of being human. They bowed their heads.

So many had come that even if each cake was split in four, it would not be enough.

Those farther back stood on tiptoe, swallowing hungrily, gazes eager for a taste.

It smelled heavenly. The rich butter and sweet rice filling lured the soul itself.

“There’s even more food at the hostel, and soft, safe beds to sleep in,” Yan Cheng said. “So, come with me…”

Suddenly, a furious shout came from the rear: “Nonsense!”

The monsters recoiled en masse, splitting like a tide. Havana, startled, fumbled the half-wife-cake in his hand, dropping it. He stared at it with deep regret but said nothing, just pressed his lips together and stood with the others.

From the crowd, a figure approached on all fours.

This one was clearly far more mutated than the rest—if the others were “pseudo-humans,” he was pure aberration. Crawling on all fours, face elongated, he moved mostly on tendrils. In his hand he held a carving knife and a half-finished wooden idol—

A likeness of [It].

“Squad Leader!” called Havana.

“Where did you find someone spreading such nonsense?” the squad leader said.

If Havana’s voice was a broken radio, the squad leader’s had gone further, as if drifting in from another world—whispering eerily and indistinctly in everyone’s ears, sending shivers down the spine, yet somehow still clear.

“Only those lacking resolve can be swayed by such words.”

He gave a heavy snort, tendrils waving in the wind.

“Led by [Our Lord], we’ve found the true meaning of life.”

“We don’t need to eat or sleep. I haven’t taken food or water for three days. Haven’t slept for even longer. Yet I remain as strong as ever—perfectly fine.”

Yan Cheng frowned, about to reply, but the squad leader’s bulging eye swept over him and abruptly asked, “You’re still doing missions, aren’t you?”

Yan Cheng said, “Yes.” You needed points even to eat at the hostel.

Food from the hostel was far better than anything the main god provided, a real improvement. Yan Cheng waited for the squad leader’s next attack, ready to bring this up.

Unexpectedly, the squad leader smirked and asked a seemingly unrelated question—

“Brother, you’re obviously a man of deep feeling—have you never suffered because of it?”

Yan Cheng was struck dumb.

“All these standing here are brothers you’ve found after the end. But what about before? Your parents, your family—are they still alive? How many siblings did you have? Where did you rank at home? Friends, classmates, kin?”

“…”

Yan Cheng fell silent.

The crowd was utterly still. Every player bowed their heads.

Parents, loved ones, children… unless you were together when the game began, you’d likely never see each other again.
Families split and scattered—some dead under horror, some vanished forever.

Slowly, the squad leader went on. “—They all died in the Hunger Game, didn’t they.”

“I don’t blame you. You and Havana are both good. But have you ever thought—you never should have quarreled; you shouldn’t be as you are now.”

“The Hunger Game was a mistake from the beginning—a catastrophe, a torture none of us should have to endure.”

He sighed deeply.

“Look at yourself, still suffering for this sentimentality—still hankering after mere food and fleshly pleasure?”

“Eating, sleeping—all empty burdens, imposed on us by the main god. Chaff dragging us down.”

Yan Cheng’s fists trembled as he clenched them.
In that moment, he truly found himself unable to argue.

Maybe there really was no argument: everyone here had suffered from the Hunger Game and knew, deep down, that the squad leader was right.

Ye Xianqing said, “But… the hostel and the farm owner can help us fight the main god—”

“And who is this owner of the hostel and farm?” The squad leader cut him off.
“Have you ever even met him?”

Yan Cheng was silent. After waiting a while, with everyone’s eyes on him for the answer, he finally replied, “…Not yet.”

The squad leader chuckled low. “You’ve never even met him, but you’re ready to hand over the reins the main god placed on you, to let him pull?”

“How do you know he’s not using that leash to control you just the same?”

No wonder this squad leader had the highest authority in the Nest.

After a few short words, the blood monsters who’d shown the most interest just now all lapsed into silence.

Yan Cheng looked out at his old brothers, each biting his lips, sighing, averting his eyes, not one daring to meet his gaze.

Even Havana was silent.

At that moment, Yan Cheng knew—the tide had turned.

HACK wagged its tail, big head butting against Havana, then Yan Cheng, unaware what was happening.

The squad leader no longer looked angry; his bulging eyes regarded them with a kind of sadness. After a while, as if weary, he waved his hand.

“For old times’ sake, I’ll not kill you. Leave, please.”

“No one here will go with you!”

……

Suddenly, in the middle of the plank, before the red-roofed hut, a billow of white mist rose.

As the fog spread throughout the crowd of blood monsters, exclamations rang out: “Ah! S-something’s falling!”

“Huh, isn’t this…?”

“It’s food!!”

“Huh?! Tiramisu?!”

The last cry was clear as a bell.

Countless delicate little treats appeared from the mist, raining from the sky in a shower of golden color, raining and bouncing to a stop. Some were brightly colored candies, some glutinous rice balls, most were little golden biscuits fragrant with butter…

Irresistibly tempting delicacies cascaded like rain, landing in every blood monster’s hands.

They barely had time to react, but instinctively snatched, grabbed, seized—faster than any enemy they’d faced. Even the squad leader, for a moment, was stunned in place.

A gentle, steady voice echoed in every ear:

“I hear you were looking for the host of the hostel.”
“—That would be me.”