Tokyo: The Player Behind the Scenes.

Chapter 368, Section 115: Burning Flames of Fury
The Battle of Golden Horn Bay – A Humiliating and Devastating Defeat!

Two Ottoman warships were sunk, and our side lost 20 warships. Authority value -30, overall faction satisfaction significantly decreased, morale significantly decreased, and supplies slightly decreased.

Looking at the post-war data and the complete annihilation of the Christian Navy, Hayato's eyes glazed over, and his head was buzzing.

Hiss. This game.

This is so damn hard!
Is this the real difficulty level? It's practically giving him no chance at all.

Hayato vaguely recalled how he started as a player. He became a player through "The Promise of the Underworld," and now that he thought about it, it was an incredibly lucky start.

Because that was the first team game, he practically won by being carried by Taki and Uesugi.

The next two games also emphasized cooperation, with his teammates from the player support association becoming his external brain, allowing him to focus solely on what he did best: charging forward. He only needed to execute, and even that execution was covered by others.

Now his good days are completely over. He must face alone a doomed, isolated city, a group of scheming factions, and an overwhelming enemy army.
He was just about to show off his real skills when he was surprised to find that he didn't seem to have any skills at all!

Before becoming a gamer, his favorite games were claw machines and arcade fighting games, and if he had to be more specific, side-scrolling beat 'em ups like Metal Slug. He had never played a game that required strategic planning, anticipating battle lines, and micro-managing his troops.

Let alone the current game, it's completely unrelated to the games from before.

He thought the domestic affairs section was already troublesome enough, he failed to persuade the Orthodox Church, and his supposedly impassioned speech was so bad that even dogs on the street shook their heads after listening to it. The soldiers were silent, and morale plummeted.

I finally made it to the battle, but I didn't even get to enjoy the fight. I was wiped out in one fell swoop.

At first, he thought command was simple, but once he got started, he found that the transmission of orders took too long. The situation on the battlefield was changing rapidly, and a suitable order a few seconds in advance would become a suicide mission if it was given a few seconds later.

Moreover, even if the message is delivered at the same time, the reaction speed of different units will vary, just like opening a blind box.

The most outrageous thing is his micro-management.

They wanted to emulate the precise command of the experts, but the more they tried, the more chaotic things became. A third of their warships crashed together or got stuck on the sea-blocking iron chains due to conflicting commands, and were picked off one by one by the Ottoman fleet's cannon fire.

"If I had known, I wouldn't have messed around like this," Hayato sighed in frustration.

The game clearly has options like overall defense and free-play macro-level strategies; perhaps if the troops were allowed to fight autonomously, the defeat wouldn't have been so humiliating.

Judging from the result, it's clear that this game is basically over.

The game is quite thoughtful; a message will appear after the battle ends.

[You can abandon this round of the game and start over at any time during the domestic affairs phase before May 28th]

But Hayato gritted his teeth, not intending to admit defeat so easily.

He knew that each game opportunity came at the cost of several months of his life. Even if he was destined to lose, he had to gather as much intelligence and experience as possible from the defeat before retreating!

This is also one of the game principles that players generally agree on.

Trading life for experience is inevitable, so don't waste any opportunity to play.

He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his agitated emotions, and opened the internal affairs panel.

Satisfaction among Orthodox Christians and the middle class has plummeted to extremely low levels, while pro-Latins are also dissatisfied due to the naval defeat, and the aristocracy is wavering, with its authority value reduced to a paltry 10 points.

"Things have come to this point, the navy is completely gone, there shouldn't be any naval battles, so let's focus on building the city walls and stockpiling supplies."

Hayato sighed and began clumsily adjusting domestic policy directives. At least, he had to hold out until the next battle and see if he could turn the tide.

Unlike Hayato's frantic struggle, new player Wallace quickly figured out the game's mechanics.

As a former game level designer, he has a natural sensitivity to the core logic of games.

Even on the hardest difficulty, this kind of strategy game shouldn't have too many difficult levels at the start. After some practice and experimentation, he realized that micro-management in this game was far too complex, and probably only computers or people with extraordinary talent could do it.

However, since the option of macro-level command has been given, it means that this game is likely to rely on macro-level strategies for the overall direction, and then make fine adjustments based on the battlefield situation.

Using this method, you should be able to pass most of the levels.

Therefore, when the battle of Golden Horn Bay was approached, he did not insist on precisely controlling each warship like Hayato did. Instead, he issued general instructions to hold the iron chain defense line and for the Greek fire warships to focus their attacks on the vanguard warships, and then allowed the generals to act independently.

Ultimately, although the battle did not end gloriously, it successfully repelled the Ottoman fleet, achieving the feat of destroying more than ten enemy ships while losing only four of its own.

Once the battle ended, the game's prompt to exit made him lose all interest in continuing to play.

He still remembers the scene before he fell into a coma:

His daughter's body, along with the cabinet filled with sacred snow, was dragged away bit by bit by the intruder. The continuous excruciating pain from the back of his head made his vision gradually go black.

He has been in the game for several hours now. If the flow of time in reality were the same, he would probably be dead, and his daughter's body would be disposed of at will by those people.

"We must go back as soon as possible."

Without hesitation, Wallace entered the domestic affairs mode and immediately found the "End Game" option.

A confirmation prompt popped up on the screen: "Do you want to abandon this round of the game? The game cannot be saved and will start again the next time you enter." He clicked "yes" without hesitation.

A severe headache swept over him instantly, accompanied by a rapid heartbeat, dizziness, and nausea that nearly overwhelmed him again.

He lay on the blood-stained floor for a full five minutes before struggling to adjust to reality.

Everything was pitch black, and there seemed to be congealed blood in my nasal cavity; the smell was strange.

He groped around on the ground and quickly confirmed that he was still lying in his daughter Olivia's room. He was so familiar with the furnishings that he could recognize them even in the dark.

He endured the excruciating pain and crawled towards the center of the room, using both hands and feet. The place where the cabinet had been was now empty; not only was the cabinet gone, but his daughter's body had also vanished.

A chill ran from his feet to the top of his head, threatening to burst into tears. But Wallace took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down: Coward, now is not the time to cry.

He touched his pocket with his fingertips; his phone and keys were gone, and his watch was also taken from his wrist, clearly having been ransacked by the intruder.

He staggered to the sealed window, and by the faint light filtering through the crack, he judged that he hadn't been unconscious for too long, as it wasn't dark outside yet. He groped his way to the door, grabbed the handle, and tried to turn it, but the door wouldn't budge; it was locked from the outside.

This door wouldn't trap a normal adult, but for an injured person with a head injury and covered in blood, it would require an enormous amount of effort to break through.

This was likely a deliberate act by the intruder to delay him from calling the police.

"Damn bastard!"

Wallace leaned against the door, the blurry images he had seen before losing consciousness flashing through his mind: the intruder was masked, and the exposed skin was black.

It's them again, it's them again, it's them again!!!
You bastard! You beast!! You're worse than a pig or a dog!!!
They ruined his life, killed his daughter, and now they're taking away his last hope! A surge of intense ferocity welled up inside him, almost burning away his reason.

Anger solves nothing; he even needs to conserve his strength, otherwise he might not even be able to leave this room.

He suddenly remembered something, quickly groped his way to his desk, and pulled open a drawer. Inside lay a Disney princess-themed wristwatch, a birthday gift he had given to his daughter, Olivia, who had always been reluctant to wear it and had carefully placed it in the drawer.

Wallace picked up the watch with trembling hands and pressed the button on the side. The dial instantly lit up with a soft glow, and at the same time, a miniature light on the side of the watch turned on, illuminating the dark room with a faint glow.

"Olivia."

His fingertips gently traced the princess design on the watch face, and accidentally, some of the blood from his hands got on it.

He hurriedly wiped the dial with the corner of his clothes, over and over again, until it was clean before he stopped.

The clock showed 5 p.m., about an hour after he was attacked, confirming that the flow of time in the game and in reality was indeed different.

This faint light gave him a glimmer of hope and strength. He took a deep breath, stepped back a few paces, braced his shoulder against the door, and began to bang on it repeatedly.

boom! boom! boom!
The dull thud echoed in the empty room. With each impact, a sharp pain shot through the wound on the back of his head, and his vision blurred.

After an unknown amount of time, just as he was about to collapse from exhaustion, a sharp cracking sound rang out, and he, the door panel, and the twisted latch all crashed outwards.

Wallace gasped for breath and rested for a while before struggling to get up. He leaned against the door frame to stand up straight, his wound bleeding even more from the exertion, the blood flowing down his neck and soaking his collar.

Ignoring the pain, he staggered out of his house, walked towards his neighbor's house, and knocked on the door.

"Wallace! My God! What happened to you?"

The neighbor opened the door and, seeing his blood-covered, deathly pale appearance, quickly stepped aside to let him in.

"My house was robbed. Can I borrow your phone?" Every word Wallace uttered aggravated his wound, causing cold sweat to pour down his forehead.

"Of course, of course!"

Ben and Wallace had always had a good relationship. Upon hearing this, he immediately turned around to get his phone and even wanted to invite him inside to sit and rest, but Wallace politely declined.

All he wants now is to call the police as soon as possible, find his daughter's body and the stolen Saint Snow, and, he doesn't want to be heard.

After connecting to 999, the operator's tone was one of programmed busyness: "This is the Metropolitan Police Service. We're currently handling a high volume of calls and may not be able to dispatch officers immediately."

“Saint Snow,” Wallace interrupted her, his voice hoarse.

"Hmm, what did you say?" The operator seemed not to have heard her clearly.

"Holy Snow, I had more than ten kilograms of Holy Snow, and it was stolen." Wallace's words were simple, without mentioning his daughter's body. He knew all too well that, to the authorities, the body of a dead girl was far less attractive than ten kilograms of Holy Snow.

The operator's tone instantly became urgent: "Okay, please give me your address, and our nearby officers will be there immediately. Sir, this is an emergency, and you need to be responsible for your words. Please repeat, are you sure it was ten kilograms of Sacred Snow that was stolen?"

“Yes, that’s right. My address is…” Wallace gave his address.

"Okay, received. Please wait where you are. Police officers have been dispatched."

After hanging up the phone, Ben came out with a roll of bandage and a bottle of water: "Wallace, you need to get this bandaged."

Wallace returned the phone to his neighbor, forced a smile and thanked him, took the bandage and casually wrapped it around the back of his head, then staggered back to his own front door, sat on the steps, and stared blankly at the end of the street.

The power of ten kilograms of holy snow was indeed formidable. Within minutes, the piercing sound of sirens grew louder as three police cars roared in and stopped outside his house—a far cry from a scene of police mobilization.

A Black police officer got out of the car first, walked up to Wallace sitting on the steps, and stared at him for a few seconds at his blood-covered appearance: "Mr. James Wallace?"

“It’s me.” Wallace’s face twitched involuntarily, his fist clenched quietly in his pocket, his nails almost digging into his palm.

He suppressed the murderous intent surging within him, slowly loosened his fingers, and tried his best to make his voice sound calm.

"We received a report that ten kilograms of Sacred Snow were stolen from your home. Please describe the situation to us." The officer noticed his subtle movements but assumed they were just his anger towards the robber and didn't think much of it.

Wallace nodded and calmly described the intruder's features: masked, dark-skinned, tall, and the general outline of the robbery. Finally, he added, "My daughter's body... it used to be in that cabinet, but now it's gone too."

The officers exchanged glances, their eyes filled with pity as they looked at Wallace.

During this time, they had witnessed too many tragic events; some had lost loved ones, others had lost their homes, and they had become numb. This pity was more out of professional habit than genuine empathy.

And their compassion goes beyond that.

“We understand the situation, Mr. Wallace.” The black police officer nodded formally. “We will do our best to track down your daughter’s body and the stolen Saint Snow. But please be prepared, the current investigative environment is very complex.”

He paused, then added, "We've already called an ambulance. You need to get your wound treated first. We'll cordon off the area, and we'll come to the hospital to take further statements if necessary."

Wallace nodded silently.

He sat on the steps, watching the police officers set up the cordon. The red and blue lights of the police lights flickered on his face, illuminating a bloodless face and a pair of eyes that burned with a silent flame deep within.

He knew it was unrealistic to expect the police to find the sacred snow for him, so he only had the bare minimum requirement: he could give up those ten kilograms of sacred snow.

At least, at least, give Olivia back to him.

(End of this chapter)