Famine 199: Life

The High Priest’s orb offered no objection to the question.

In the very center of the grand hall, above that orb, a phantom slowly coalesced into view.

The High Priest’s eyelashes were silvery, snowy hair cascading from the nape of their neck. The faint image spread itself beneath the star-studded dome, its expression indifferent—neither human nor inhuman, but closer to god or spirit.

Si Zhiyan stood straight-backed at the center of the temple.

It was the first time he had ever spoken, face-to-face, with the true High Priest.

Separated by a dome of stars, spanning long ages, the leaders of two different peoples regarded one another.

Mists swirled about, not quite reaching Si Zhiyan’s toes.

In that moment, an inexplicable sense washed over Si Zhiyan—a sudden awareness of himself: in front of others, and in truth, he was the same. Lean, detached, little outward show of emotion, hard to read—perpetually harboring his own schemes.

They were even much the same height.

After a moment, the High Priest’s white lashes trembled, and they slowly opened their eyes.

Crimson pupils mirrored themselves in Si Zhiyan’s own red gaze.

“……”

At times, silence speaks the loudest.

Si Zhiyan slowly extended his hand, fingers trembling just a shade, as if to touch the High Priest’s eyes from across the divide.

That strange, familiar forerunner gazed back at him, lips parting—voice like cold springwater, clear and pure—gradually shaping a single word…

[From the stars.]

——

The High Priest was a “child of god,” born of heaven and earth.

This was the shared belief of all the Imaginarium World’s people.

The holy texts say that on the night the High Priest was born, celestial wonders appeared, not seen for a hundred years. Meteors rained, streaking the night sky, a falling star splashing down into the lake and raising a thousand waves.

The next day, the temple priests found the newborn High Priest floating on the water. Their eyes were clear as rubies.

The High Priest came from the stars—the very vault of night became their namesake. After they took power, the deepest chambers of their temple were built beneath the starry dome.

Zhong Yanqing had read many such accounts, dismissing them as myth or legend. Yet… these few were the direct, plain records that truly remained.

They were a guest from beyond.
Without memory or emotion, brought by the priests into the temple, worshiped as a holy child.

When calamity struck, it was only natural that they become the leader.

How familiar a script this was.

Si Zhiyan slowly closed his eyes.

Ten years before the Famine Game erupted, there was the “326 Meteor Event.”

A star fell on the east coast. No scholar or institution had detected it in advance—it seemed to materialize from nothing, cutting through the atmosphere and crashing to earth.

People of Earth did not believe in tales of “God’s Children.” The meteor was taken away, hidden in a desert laboratory.
No one knew what had emerged from within that fallen star.

But Si Zhiyan knew.

In a bubble of his dreams, he had seen a laboratory.

He seemed to be floating very high up, looking down at a flow of white-coated researchers, seeing everything at a glance.

Inside the lab, a white woman known as “the Director” stared up into emptiness and said, “No need for anyone to sign today’s report; let’s say you all tried to deter me. I was the one who bulldozed this through.”

“—Lift all restrictions on the meteorite. This time, we’ll listen to what it has to say.”

Then, the glass isolation chamber descended over Si Zhiyan.

The first time he saw that laboratory, Si Zhiyan had a fleeting thought—why, this time, was he seeing things from above, in “God’s perspective”?

But he soon realized: impossible.

These dream-bubbles were all things he himself had truly experienced, sealed-up memories—they could never be “God’s perspective.”

They were his perspective.

He floated above it all, watching the world with a vision far beyond that of any [human], silently, serenely.

—He was the meteor itself.

And there was no “double scene” within that bubble.

For a long period, the meteor (Si Zhiyan) was constrained by the latest technology, until, at last, the Director lowered the barrier and set him free.

The meteor’s vision spread, slowly blanketing the world.
Then, for some reason, he noticed Bian Xu—a dying boy at the far end of the Earth.

Nidhogg had once said, “They implanted a shard of the same meteorite from which I was born into that college student’s body… Then a miracle happened.”
“That kid was half a world away in China, with no tie to the lab… But for some reason, Mom made a sudden and firm decision to bring him in, spared no effort to make him the next sample.”

Because, the one who chose Bian Xu was not the Director—but the meteor itself: Si Zhiyan.

It was he who gave Bian Xu new life.

Why? Si Zhiyan wondered. Bian Xu deserved every good thing—but why him?…

Yet, for now, that answer didn’t matter.

What mattered most was that this guest of immense power, descended from the stars…

Who—indeed, what—could such a being be?

Si Zhiyan slowly closed his eyes, letting the human body Bian Xu had shaped for him cover those red pupils.

“From the Lord God.”

“From the very beginning, it all came from the Lord God.”

He should have known all along.

The farm shop, by its core nature, was identical to the Lord God’s shop. Both used accumulated points to exchange system goods, to upgrade and enhance oneself.

The farm’s degree of completion grew as it collected fragments from every world, but only after gathering all, did it reach its zenith.

Under the Lord God’s guidance, not a single world offered food normal humans could eat—only the crops of the farm flourished.

From the start, the farm system was bestowed.
The Lord God created the [Famine Game], and Si—

“We are the Lord God?” Si Zhiyan murmured as if to himself, then instantly denied it: “No, impossible. I’m nowhere near that strong. At best, a few remnants, a sub-derivation, or perhaps a tiny fractional splinter…”

“The Lord God, before the games began, wrenched off some of Its own flesh and energy—to create [us].”

And the purpose of that, too, was clear as day…

“If our power was always only a piece of It, if we are mere parts, how could we possibly resist in that final battle?”

Beneath the stars, the High Priest’s apparition bowed its head, a single tear slipping from its eye.

“I see.” Si Zhiyan laughed quietly. “So that is why, in all the countless selection games, there has never been a true successor.”

For some reason—maybe out of the inertia of Its own decaying race, maybe just the waning of Its own life—the Lord God had been forced to wander among the stars, to hold selection games and pick a [successor].

The ultimate trial for any would-be [successor] was to kill the previous Lord God.

But the Lord God refused to die.

It found a loophole.

Each time, before the game began, It would split off a portion of Its power and craft a “chosen life” among the civilizations.
That chosen life, with strengths far beyond its kin, was fated to destroy all challengers and win as a matter of course.

But once the [chosen life] was victorious, bound as it was to the Lord God’s power, it could never escape Its control—and would always be struck down at the final test.

When Si Zhiyan first cleared the “Eye” trial, he saw as much: before the [Famine Game] began, the Lord God descended before the [Eye], projected the visages of two people and bade it keep special watch. Namely, Bian Xu, and Nidhogg.

The [chosen life] could be the meteor itself—Si Zhiyan.
Or, it could be someone chosen by that meteor—such as the Heavenly Veined Sisters, or Bian Xu and Nidhogg.

The Famine Game had gone for seven years. Who now stood best positioned to win?

Shi He was ill-suited to head-on battle, so the top three were: Si Zhiyan, Bian Xu, and Nidhogg.

No matter who ended up the winner, the Lord God’s victory was assured.
It even made Nidhogg’s location public, urging all survivors to attack him—only for Nidhogg to cut them down in swathes.

And years ago, Si Zhiyan saw through it all even more clearly.

He and Bian Xu had formed Team Xubei, began collecting Seeds of Famine, and started building the [farm system], making Bian Xu the head.

And that plan, in turn, made the Lord God uneasy.

Two years past, It unleashed Divine Punishment, intending to destroy Si Zhiyan, Bian Xu, and their fledgling farm completely.

In that desperate hour, Si Zhiyan raised a cloud of blood to try to block the Eye’s gaze, but it failed. Back then, they hadn’t done enough.

In the mists of blood, Bian Xu looked back, forcing out a smile, and told Si Zhiyan:

“Sir, there’s no time—this is the only way.”
“Let me become the core of the farm.”

Thus, from that day on, Bian Xu sank underground, beginning his dark, sunless life as the farm’s core.

Si Zhiyan fought with his life to protect the farm, and the meteor itself too suffered grievously. Before falling into slumber, he fooled even himself to evade the Lord God’s attention, crafting a laughable false identity for himself: that of a shy, introverted programmer.

In reality, Si Zhiyan had never studied code. It was a flaw only he could leave—intentionally.

He believed his future self would one day see through it.
And indeed, he did.

Two years later, Si Zhiyan, weary and battered, awoke in the farm.

The system’s cheerful notification sounded:

[Dumdum~ Welcome to the ■■ Farm Planting System!]
[Ding! Congratulations, you’ve obtained [Absolutely Secure Farm] x1!]

[Young farm owner, welcome to inherit the Tale-Farm.]

In those days, the farm was only a small courtyard, his mind fogged with false memories, dazed and half-mad.

But it didn’t matter.

As he went down to the basement, Bian Xu, trapped in the core, would always look up—his muddied golden eyes set in flesh tinged red—still so fixed, so focused, pleading through the haze: [So hungry.]

The gears of fate began to move once more.

They still had a chance.

Si Zhiyan gazed at the sea of stars.

…Now, everything was clear at last.

Every riddle about the Lord God—here, finally, they all resolved, unveiling a broad, open checkmate for him.

Eight years had passed—training up a new player now would be far, far too late.
The end of the game would mean the world’s destruction.

Faced with this dead end, Si Zhiyan—

Could only laugh, truly.

“So scared, is It?” Si Zhiyan, head bowed, shoulders shaking with laughter, “Such endless schemes, so many back-up plans—It’s terrified?”

Suddenly, he remembered that when the farm’s completeness stuck at 49%, a spasm of red threads cinched the farm’s core.
That was almost certainly a limit imposed by the Lord God, immune to all system and Lord God powers.

Yet, human-made explosives could destroy it.

The Lord God was terrified—so scared It handed Its own weakness right to them.

To desire, after all, was to fear.

When Si Zhiyan had laughed enough, he straightened, looking up.

“From today forward, I’ll give up my own strength and devote myself to training the other farm players—building their teamwork, boosting their fighting power.”

“At the same time, I’ll use every available means, at any cost, to gather the fragments of bygone worlds—the Seeds of Famine.
If three aren’t enough, then four. If four aren’t enough, then six—dozens, a hundred if need be…”

“It’s already growing weak—far weaker than It appeared, far from untouchable.”

“It regards us as failures, as crawling insects, but can no longer stifle Its dread of us.”

Under the stars, the hem of Si Zhiyan’s coat whipped in the wind.
His red eyes were alight with unquenchable, helpless fervor.

“One day, the tide we raise will drag the Lord God down from the heavens, and obliterate It completely!”

[…]

The plan was flawless, save for one flaw.

The High Priest’s white hair slipped down as a gentle reminder.

[We are… derivatives of the Lord God.]
[The Lord God’s end… will mean our own extinction.]

“Ah… yes. Yes, of course.”

Si Zhiyan lifted his face, smiling faintly,

“We are the Lord God’s power, we are the remnants of the old world.”

“A new world will be born on the corpse of the Lord—of Us.”

“Are you afraid, High Priest?”

The High Priest’s gentle red eyes regarded Si Zhiyan, and before him, lowered their head with a smile—
A gesture of reverence, of submission.

[No.]
[This remnant shell… is at your command.]

…

When Si Zhiyan left the Imaginarium World, it was still night—already the earliest hour.

Bian Xu was curled up on the bed, uneasy without Si Zhiyan there. He frowned in his sleep, golden hair messy upon the pillow.

Si Zhiyan took off his coat, sat by the bed, and lowered his head to brush Bian Xu’s face gently.

He had once vowed: I want to build a future for you.
A future without hunger or pain, where you can live joyfully and wholly, by your own will.

So… I am fated never to answer your feelings.

Bending his head, Si Zhiyan pressed his cold lips briefly to Bian Xu’s, a light kiss as fleeting as a dragonfly’s touch upon water.

Your life should stride out into the sunshine, along a wide and brilliant path—love bravely, live boldly.
You will meet new people, new friends, new good and worthy souls to love.

Not be left clinging to a dark farm cellar, breaking down in tears, murmuring, “I only have you.”

“I will never break the Golden Crow’s wings.”
In the silent night, Si Zhiyan allowed himself to brush his lips against Bian Xu’s, whispering:
“Because I’ve seen just how beautiful they are.”