Famine 200: The Source

Although the primary direction for development had been set, there was still much work to be done on the specifics.

First: how could the Lord God be brought down from the heavens?

On this point, the High Priest gave his answer without hesitation.

[Leave it to me.]

Beneath the starry sky, the white-haired High Priest lowered his gaze, watching Si Zhiyan with gentle, steady eyes.

[I must continue sleeping, to gather strength… but when you need me, I will emerge from the Imaginarium World.]
[So long as It realizes I am still alive, It will never stand idly by.]

For he was a former loser, a target already marked for destruction.

The High Priest, bearing the Lord God’s power—so long as he reappeared in the world, the Lord God would know instantly. A dead man revived, a new anomaly within the Famine Game.

The Lord God, seemingly an unknowable deity, in fact acted with utmost caution. It would not, under any circumstances, ignore this event.

The High Priest was willing to trust Si Zhiyan.

[Let me enter the game as bait, to force Its hand.]

Second: less than two years remained until the end of the Famine Game. Even if the Lord God had grown weak, Its power was, still, very real.

Even if It was no longer as unassailable as before, It was certainly not something players could confront now unaided.

They needed a comprehensive plan of attack, and above all, more people.
More—and still more—people.

Si Zhiyan sat by the bed and spent the night thinking.

At dawn, when Bian Xu awoke, he found Si Zhiyan asleep in the chair by the bed.

“Sir?” he called softly.

Si Zhiyan didn’t respond. He was exhausted.

Bian Xu watched him quietly for a while.

After a moment, he lowered his eyes, pressing his lips together.

Masks worn too long eventually become part of the face. Bian Xu always wore that radiant smile from years past, so that no one truly knew what he was thinking.

He only paused a moment, then gently gathered up Si Zhiyan and placed him back onto the bed.

His movements were so careful, they seemed almost reverent, as if handling the world’s most precious treasure.

Where had his “sir” been last night?
If he would not say, Bian Xu would never ask.

But Bian Xu would find out. He had his own methods.

A slender vine curled around Si Zhiyan’s pale ankle, winding slowly upwards, tight and possessive.

Where no one could see, Bian Xu’s eyes darkened; he bent his head and kissed Si Zhiyan’s fingers.

If his sir refused to acknowledge him, if he wished to keep him a secret—it didn’t matter. So long as his sir was happy, he could accept anything.

But… perhaps his sir forgot, from the very first moment they met, Bian Xu had never truly been an obedient “good boy.”

…
……

Later that day, Si Zhiyan and Bian Xu exchanged intelligence.

Apart from omitting the truth about his own origin and original sin, there was no reason to hide the rest of the plan from Bian Xu.

Bian Xu sat cross-legged, nodding attentively, eyes filled with a touch of admiration and complete sincerity—he looked rather like a giant, naive golden retriever.

It made Si Zhiyan want to reach over and ruffle his hair.

“We’ll need fragments from more worlds,” Si Zhiyan said to Bian Xu. “I’ve considered it. Gaining the favor of local natives—such things don’t actually have to be done personally by the two of us.”

“Going in solo is always risky. The nightmare instances have their own currencies; if not for items like that tiramisu jar, it would be very difficult to scrape together thirty-two thousand points in five days—it would be dangerous.”

Bian Xu watched him, then smiled: “Sir, are you saying—?”

Si Zhiyan thought for a moment: “If there’s a way to open a farm entrance inside those instance worlds, it would make everything much easier.”

The farm’s population had already grown immense.

Lost civilizations, ruined worlds… actually, only a minority were interested in such things. But with the farm’s current numbers, that still wasn’t a small figure.
Not to mention, Zhong Yanqing was just such a person in his own right.

Si Zhiyan was generous. He issued an open bounty.

Registered players could make a reservation, and collect a blank [Spinning Black Hole Crystal] from the mining field.

Every [Resonant] crystal sphere, depending on the grade of world fragment obtained, could be exchanged for anywhere from several hundred up to several thousand points.

With this policy, the amount of points required would number in the millions, the tens of millions.

Before setting prices, Si Zhiyan opened the system, preparing to check just how long his current points could support this plan. One glance at the balance—they almost scared him into silence.

That—how many zeros was that?

Si Zhiyan counted several times, unable to believe this was his true remaining balance.

He’d spent months at the dense apartments, budgeting every penny, so frugal he was nearly developing trauma from poverty.

Who could have known, stepping outside, he’d suddenly achieve financial freedom?!

—Now, inside the farm, Si Zhiyan basically never had to worry about points again!

The more players there were, the more—

After all, the farm was, almost beyond doubt, this world’s last players’ common ground—the sole source of food.

Any essential industry achieving this scale of monopoly… in the apocalypse, was like printing money.

With nearly a million players, even counting basic daily needs at fifty points each, the total daily point generation became astronomical.

Come on—choose between a steaming plate of fried rice, soy-sauce rice rolls, double-cooked pork, and roasted pig’s feet, and… nutrition paste? You must be a masochist.

And it wasn’t just players living in the farm—food from the farm was exported far beyond its bounds.

[Tale Metropolis] itself was the Lord God’s massive “ant farm,” a vast, level world without barriers.

At the same time, as part of the Famine Game, it possessed its own quest zones and resource deposits.

Thanks to local resources and geography, some player settlements struggled to move to the farm.

What’s more—not every leader had Nie Du’s broad-mindedness. Many heads of settlements, envious of the farm’s conditions but unwilling to give up their own hard-won power, were fretting themselves gray-haired.

So the clever ones began to sniff out opportunities.

They built trade caravans and commercial groups, negotiated with Yun Zhong, bulk-purchased food from the farm, and escorted it in armed convoys to player clusters all over the map.

These trade groups bought massive quantities every time—

Even if they only made a margin as middlemen, they supplied whole cities!

While the traders were counting up their ever-rolling profits, the farm, as the source supplier, was making even more—quietly, invisibly.

By now, the farm had a full staff and logistical apparatus. Li Cui’e and Yun Zhong, among others, were ceaselessly expanding the workforce.

The pay was so good, people were bending every connection, offering bribes, desperate to squeeze themselves into the farm’s hiring pool!

Of course, every time a player tried to press a gift on a recruiting manager, they received a most “enthusiastic” response—

“The farm’s laws are rules anomalies!! Do you even know what a rules anomaly is?!!”

The player in charge would shriek as if tossing a bomb, hurling the bribe back and forth with the applicant several times over before finally shoving it forcibly back: “If you want to die, don’t drag me with you!! Go stuff yourself down an S-grade anomaly toilet, why don’t you!!”

Well…

Watching all of this from above, Si Zhiyan just shook his head and smiled.
Heavy law in troubled times had its merits, after all.

In short, the farm’s funding was abundant.

So Si Zhiyan allocated a generous budget, even raising the baseline standard.

As expected, once the announcement was out, it instantly caused an uproar.