I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 487 Pretending to be struck by lightning
The world is shaking.

This is the first feeling I had upon stepping onto Casarina Island – a place where "no fun, no play".

For him now, the game world has become strange. The ground is like it's covered with cotton, soft and yielding, and he can't put any pressure on it.

With each step he took, he felt his knees go weak, as if the ground had come alive, stubbornly and continuously undulating with a rhythm reminiscent of ocean waves.

His rationality and knowledge, which told him not to play if he was unhappy, indicated that this was not dizziness, but a perceptual betrayal.

His eyes told him that he was standing on solid, rough wooden dock planks, but his inner ear and the nerves throughout his body protested loudly, insisting that he was still standing on that rickety, rocking boat.

His stomach tightened in waves, and acid gushed uncontrollably into his throat. Unable to bear it any longer, he had to clench his teeth and force himself to swallow. A fine layer of cold sweat quickly appeared on his forehead because of his persistence.

"I...I'm so angry..."

A player next to him had only taken two steps when he suddenly collapsed to the ground, vomiting a puddle of clear water. Even though his stomach was already empty, he continued to lie on the ground, gagging violently, cursing as he did so.

The entire disembarking group seemed to have been subjected to a collective weakness spell, staggering and walking unsteadily.

Some people swayed like drunkards, clinging to the gunwale or their companions; others crawled on all fours; and still others stood frozen in place, pale-faced, trying to adjust to the long-lost land.

The laughter of the Macon Union soldiers and local laborers on the docks was very loud and jarring.

"Hahaha! Look at their pathetic state!"

"Stand up straight, newbies! The ground isn't moving, it's your balls that are shaking!"

"Fresh flesh and blood to feed the fish, but first they have to vomit themselves out!"

An old soldier in a light red military uniform, with scars on his face, crossed his arms, smoked a pipe, squinted at the group of new "cannon fodder," and sneered.

"Another batch of sea monkeys has come ashore. Tsk, I wonder how many will survive this time."

The officer leading the way was clearly used to this; his face was expressionless, and he simply waved his hand impatiently.

"Get moving, don't block the road, stay close, anyone who falls behind will sleep on the dock tonight and be eaten by mosquitoes!"

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the mockery and physical discomfort. He was also very annoyed by the NPCs' mockery.

You son of a bitch, if I'm feeling unwell, that's my problem. What are you all whining about here?
He instinctively stood up, intending to walk towards the nearest sailor who was laughing the loudest, but unexpectedly, someone moved faster than him.

The player was also pale and staggered as he walked, but his eyes burned with barely suppressed rage and a kind of insane recklessness.

He staggered, but charged straight toward the sailor who was laughing the loudest, his spittle almost landing on the player's face.

When the sailor saw him coming, instead of being wary, he laughed even more exaggeratedly and even pointed at him in a flirtatious manner.

"Oh? Sea monkey's got a problem? Wants to find your dad..."

Before he could finish speaking, the player suddenly lunged forward. His movements were somewhat distorted due to dizziness, but they were surprisingly swift.

He completely ignored the sailor's shouts, and his right hand, like a venomous snake emerging from its hole, grabbed the hilt of the curved knife at the sailor's waist!
"you!?"

The sailor's mocking expression froze instantly, turning into astonishment, and he instinctively reached for the knife.

But it was too late.

The player didn't waste any words; he seized the knife, retaliated, and slashed horizontally!

The movements were fluid and seamless, imbued with an almost instinctive ruthlessness honed through battles in other games.

lol...

A blinding line of blood appeared instantly on the sailor's throat. His face froze in shock, his eyes wide open, as if he couldn't comprehend what had happened.

The sailor futilely tried to cover the gushing blood with his hand, gurgling sounds coming from his throat, and his body went limp and fell backward.

The laughter on the dock stopped abruptly.

Time seemed to freeze for a second.

Everyone was stunned, including the Macon soldiers and laborers who had initially been watching the spectacle with amusement. Their smiles froze, replaced by incredulous shock.

Dead silence.

Only the sound of waves crashing against the dock and the dull thud of the sailor's body falling to the ground could be heard.

"Bastard thing!!"

The officer leading the way, Macon, was the first to react. His face turned ashen with shock and rage. He drew his sword and pointed it at the mercenary who had committed the murder.

"Take him down! How dare he commit violence in public!!"

The Macon soldiers around immediately reacted, raising their weapons in a flurry and surrounding the area with tense expressions.

However, at the same time they moved, the players who were originally staggering and vomiting seemed to be pulled by the same thread.

Despite their still pale faces and unsteady steps, they raised their heads almost simultaneously, their eyes quickly replaced by a cold, arrogant, and even mocking and cruel light.

No one gave the order, but the players moved forward spontaneously and silently.

They staggered, yet stood firmly between the knife-wielding players and the Macon soldiers.

Although the players were unarmed and bare-handed, when they stood together without shouting or making a fuss, a unique sense of solemnity, characteristic of players, still spread.

Despite his displeasure, he stood at the front of the crowd, and the discomfort in his stomach seemed to be suppressed by the sudden tense atmosphere.

He stared coldly at the officer who had drawn his sword, his body still trembling slightly, but his eyes showed no fear.

"how?"

One player chuckled, his voice hoarse from exhaustion but filled with undisguised contempt.

"So what if I kill a foul-mouthed sailor?"

"Yes."

Another player, too lazy to even look at the tense soldiers, simply tilted his head and stared at the still twitching sailor corpses on the ground, as if admiring something amusing.

"You lowly thing, do you really think you're someone important?"

"You guys want to take action?"

Another player asked lazily, even leaning forward and exposing his neck.

"Come on, try slashing here! Let's see if we all die first, or if we demolish your little dock!"

The players were extremely arrogant. The way they looked at the Macon soldiers was not like they were looking at an armed force with the power of life and death, but more like they were looking at a bunch of annoying data and code that could be cleaned up at will.

That deep-seated arrogance, stemming from the "Fourth Calamity," was on full display at this moment.

The officer's face turned extremely ugly. His hand holding the sword trembled slightly, not from fear, but from extreme anger and a sense of... incomprehensible absurdity.

How did these newly arrived Bagnian mercenaries, these useless cowards who were just vomiting so badly, suddenly become so... insane and irrational?

Aren’t they afraid of death?
Or are they just a bunch of lunatics?
The soldiers were intimidated by the players' reckless attitude and dared not step forward for a moment.

The atmosphere on the dock was tense, as if the air itself had frozen.

On one side was a regular army that wasn't very disciplined and was somewhat bewildered by the other side's madness and indifference.

On one side are players who are in terrible condition but are unruly and treat life like dirt.

Conflict is imminent.

In that tense moment, with sparks flying, a cold and penetrating voice lashed out like a whip, instantly drowning out all the commotion:

"Put down your weapons! Are you trying to rebel?!"

The crowd looked in the direction of the voice and saw a middle-aged man in a crisp red uniform with strange silver patterns on his epaulets walking quickly towards them, escorted by a squad of soldiers who were clearly much better equipped and had eyes as sharp as eagles.

His face was so gloomy it could drip water. His gaze swept across the scene, and when he saw the sailor's corpse on the ground and the player standing with a knife, a barely perceptible fierce glint flashed in his eyes.

"Major!"

The Macon officer who had drawn his sword changed his expression slightly upon seeing the newcomer. He immediately sheathed his sword and saluted, his tone filled with awe, but even more so with resentment.

"These newly arrived Bagnians, they..."

"Shut up!"

The man addressed as major interrupted him rudely, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable authority. "I saw what happened."

He turned to look at the group of players who were still in a defensive and provocative stance, his gaze lingering for a moment on the faces of those who said "I'll kill you if I'm not happy" and "I won't play if I'm not happy".

His gaze carried an unpleasant, programmed scrutiny and a sense of control.

"you……"

He pointed at the murderer.

"To kill a port worker in public violates Article 17 of the wartime regulations. According to the law, he shall be punished with thirty lashes and three days of confinement."

His words invigorated the Macon soldiers, and their faces lit up with relief.

However, the major quickly changed his tone.

"but……"

His voice was even colder.

"The sailors in the port provoked and insulted the mercenaries first, and were also inappropriate. The caning is waived, but the three-day confinement remains the same! Execute immediately!"

This verdict, while seemingly a 50/50 split, is actually quite subtle. It spared the players from public physical punishment, giving them some face, but the substantive punishment remained, thus maintaining the apparent legal dignity of the Macon Alliance.

"As for you..."

The major's gaze swept over the other players, his tone carrying an undisguised warning.

"Gathering to disobey orders and threatening friendly forces, this offense will not be pursued this time due to it being a first offense and having a valid reason. However, if it happens again..."

He didn't finish speaking, but his cold gaze and the way the elite soldiers behind him stepped forward simultaneously, their hands on their weapons, clearly conveyed the unspoken threat.

However, the Fourth Calamity wasn't buying it. Nobody was stupid; they all knew about this "hit and run" tactic, so a burst of laughter erupted among the players, and then…

"You're faking it, brothers! Let's go! Kill these idiots!"

Someone shouted this, and the players rushed over.

"kill!!!"

There were no slogans, no formations, and not even synchronized steps, but that roar, a mixture of excitement, madness, and a thirst for revenge, was like a barrel of gunpowder ignited by a spark, exploding instantly.

The first to rush out was the player who had just killed the sailor. Before he could even warm up his sailor's scimitar, a string of blood droplets flew from the tip of the blade. He was like a shark that had smelled blood, charging straight at the nearest elite guard.

The guard's pupils contracted sharply, and he only had time to hold his musket horizontally in front of his chest.

"Crack!"

The scimitar struck the gun barrel, sparks flying, and then the player kicked the latter in the stomach, knocking him to the ground.

"Weapons! Grab the weapons!"

He yelled, "I'm not happy, I'm not playing anymore!" His voice was hoarse, but it was as if he had pressed a switch.

Although the mercenary players enter the recruit camp, they are not soldiers; they are locusts, viruses, and the fourth catastrophe.

They don't need discipline, just a little "hint".

So, in the next second, the entire dock turned into a large-scale unpacking site.

A player as thin as a bamboo pole simply slid out, skimming along the ground and crawling between a guard's legs, grabbing upwards with both hands...

With a "snap," the guard's belt, along with his knife and gun, was ripped off, and his pants fell down to his ankles.

"Holy crap, I got loot!"

He screamed with excitement, rolled on the spot, and swung his musket around like a stick, smashing the butt of the musket onto another guard's knee. The crisp sound of bones cracking drowned out the sound of the waves.

"Hold him down and strip him of his armor!"

"Poke eyes, kick groin, do you even know how to play?!"

"Stones, throw stones at it..."

The players fully demonstrated the essence of "a novice can defeat a master with a flurry of punches," and they pounced on lone soldiers in groups of three or five like hyenas. Anyone who grabbed a weapon would swing it wildly, regardless of whether it would hurt their own people.

Some people jumped up and used their weight to pin the soldier to the ground, and then several people surrounded him, punching and kicking him, gouging his eyes, pulling his hair, and even biting him with their teeth.

Some people even grabbed sand or their own vomit and threw it at the soldiers' faces.

The soldiers in Macon were completely dumbfounded.

They had received rigorous training in formation and marksmanship, and were adept at fighting disciplined enemies, but they had never seen this style of combat before.

This is not a fight at all; it is the most primitive, despicable, and insane street brawl, and the other side doesn't care about casualties at all!

As soon as a soldier knocked a player down with the butt of his rifle, two more soldiers pounced on him, one grabbing his leg and the other putting him in a chokehold, dragging him to the ground.

Another soldier raised his gun to aim, but before he could pull the trigger, he was knocked back several steps by a player who lunged at him from the side, and his musket went off and hit the sky.

"Madmen, they're all madmen!" a soldier shouted in terror, trying to retreat, but was overwhelmed by more players surging forward.

The Macon officer was both shocked and furious. He swung his sword and wounded a player who was rushing towards him, but the player only staggered, glanced at the bleeding wound, and then pounced on him even more excitedly.

"Haha, brothers, this kid can't kill me in one hit... Let's focus our fire on this elite monster first!"

"???"

The major and his elite guards attempted to quell the unrest, but they were outnumbered and quickly scattered by the chaotic crowd.

Although the guards were well-equipped and had higher individual combat skills, they were no match for the players' relentless, wave-of-blooded tactics.

Often, just as a guard manages to parry an attack, more players will rush in from the side and behind.

The docks were in complete chaos. Roars, screams, the clash of weapons, the players' grotesque laughter, and the NPCs' curses were all mixed together.

Players were constantly being slashed, pierced, and dying on the ground, but more people immediately filled the gaps.

Macon soldiers were constantly being pulled to the ground, their weapons stolen, their armor stripped off, and they were wailing in agony.

Unhappy and unwilling to play, he still managed to snatch a short knife that someone had dropped. He swung it wildly without any strategy, relying more on his ruthlessness and the sense of security provided by his companions.

He saw a player pierced by a spear, yet clinging tightly to the shaft, shouting at the players behind him.

"Quick, climb up the pole and chop him down!"

This frenzied fighting style completely destroyed the morale of the Macon soldiers.

Finally, some soldiers broke down, threw down their weapons, and ran away.

One leads to another; panic spread like a plague, and the discipline of the Macon Union soldiers crumbled in the face of incomprehensible madness.

The major's face was ashen. He stared at the completely out-of-control, hellish scene before him, at the mercenaries attacking frantically, oblivious to their own casualties. A chill ran down his spine.

He finally understood why his superiors had repeatedly emphasized the need to "manage" these Bagnya mercenaries carefully.

They weren't soldiers; they were a bunch of lunatics.

"Retreat! Everyone retreat! Retreat to the second line of defense at the port!"

The major roared hoarsely, and with the protection of the remaining guards, he retreated in a sorry state.

Instead of giving chase, the players were busy looting...grabbing weapons, armor, and anything of value they could take from the soldiers.

On the dock, all that remained was a mess, groaning wounded soldiers, and a group of players who were overjoyed, as if it were New Year's Day.

The first "conflict" on Casarina Island ended with a crazy, chaotic, yet exceptionally successful "zero-dollar purchase" and a show of force by the players.

Panting heavily, Buzai looked at the blood-stained dagger in his hand, then at his excited companions and the chaotic dock.

The dizziness seemed to have disappeared without me even realizing it.

Instead, there is a distorted sense of accomplishment and a more authentic understanding of this "game".

Here, the rules seem to be able to be broken.

(End of this chapter)