Since all these rules and superstitions are outdated, what's wrong with me indulging in some me

"The ceremony now begins."

Xiao Yuheng's voice fell like an invisible knife, cutting through the extremely tense atmosphere in the hall.

next second.

Screams, cries, pleas for mercy, prayers—all the sounds exploded at once, like cold water being poured into a pot of boiling oil. Some people knelt on the ground, some rushed frantically towards the door, some huddled together trembling, and some stood motionless, as if frozen in place.

Lu Changsheng did not move.

His gaze was fixed on the empty space in front of his forehead—the number was still there, 92, unchanged. But he could sense that something had changed. The air had become thick, as if countless invisible hands were moving through it, touching everyone's forehead, weighing each person's worth.

"My numbers—my numbers are dropping—"

A sharp voice rang out from the center of the crowd.

Lu Changsheng looked in the direction of the sound. A middle-aged woman, whose forehead originally bore the number 31, was now visibly dropping. 31—29—27—25—not flashing, not jumping, but flowing away like sand in an hourglass, at a steady, irreversible pace.

"No—no—I beg you—"

She reached out her hand into the air, as if grasping at unseen "spectators," as if pleading for a mercy whose very existence was uncertain. But the numbers kept dropping. 23—21—19—

She broke down.

Her knees slammed against the stone slabs with a dull thud. Her forehead struck the ground, once, twice, three times. Blood seeped from the broken skin, mingling with dust and tears, creating a gruesome mess on her face.

But the numbers are still dropping.

No one looked at her. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the numbers on their foreheads, like drowning people grabbing onto the last piece of driftwood. Every point dropped, someone screamed; every point rose, someone laughed wildly.

Lu Changsheng glanced at the entire room.

Scores are fluctuating wildly. Not everyone is dropping—some are rising. Those with smiles on their faces and sparkling eyes, those who stand tall and composed amidst the chaos, those who voluntarily walk to the center of the crowd as if performing on a stage—their numbers are climbing.

The audience is rewarding the "performers".

Lu Changsheng withdrew his gaze and looked at Xiao Yuheng.

Xiao Yuheng stood on the high platform in the center of the hall, his black robe appearing particularly somber in the light filtering through the stained glass windows. His face remained expressionless, but his eyes moved—gray pupils slowly swept across the entire room, like a beast surveying its territory, assessing the value of each prey.

"clang--"

A deep, resonant bell tolled from the depths of the ancient castle, as if rising from the earth's core. The sound did not travel through the air, but rather through the stone slabs beneath one's feet, through the walls, and through every bone in one's body.

Everyone froze.

Because everyone knows what the bell means.

Ten minutes have passed.

Chains emerged from the ground.

Not one, not two, but ten. The pitch-black chains, like venomous snakes, slithered out from the cracks in the stone slabs, moving so fast the naked eye could barely follow their trails. The chains were covered in runes, which glowed a dark red light in the darkness, like veins, like pulses, like something alive, hungry.

The first chain was wrapped around a young man's ankle.

Before he could even scream, the chains had already spread to his knees, his waist, and his neck. Layers of black metal coiled around him, like a giant python devouring its prey. His body cracked and sputtered as the chains twisted around him—the sound of bones breaking, like dry branches snapping.

Then he disappeared.

He wasn't dragged away; he "disappeared." The instant the chains retracted, his body vanished from the world like a pencil mark erased by an eraser. No blood, no fragments, nothing remained. Only the dark red trail left by the chains as they retreated underground slowly faded on the stone slab.

Article 2. Article 3. Article 4.

Chains weaved through the crowd, precisely targeting those with the lowest numbers. A woman huddled behind a pillar, a 7 written on her forehead, was bound by chains around her waist from behind. Her mouth was open, but the chains cut off the sound, uttering only a short, grating "ho!" like a bubble bursting. Then she vanished.

An old man squatted in the corner, the number 5 written on his forehead. Chains descended from above, like a giant hand grasping him completely. He didn't even struggle; he simply closed his eyes. Then he vanished.

A young servant, the number 11 written on his forehead, had his right hand bound by chains. He struggled desperately, pulling and tugging, his fingernails digging into the chains, his nails splitting open, blood trickling down the chains. But the chains wouldn't budge. His body was dragged inch by inch towards the ground, his knees scraping against the stone slabs, leaving a dark red welt. Then he vanished.

Lu Changsheng stood there, watching all of this.

His fingers gripped the talisman tightly inside his sleeve, spiritual energy flowing within him, ready to activate it at any moment. But he didn't make a move.

Because of rule two: "No attacks shall be made during the ceremony."

What is the definition of "attack"? Does preventing the chains from capturing the "eliminated" count as an attack? Lu Changsheng wasn't sure. In this world where numbers determine everything, uncertainty means risk. He couldn't make mistakes in the rules, and he couldn't give the audience a reason to lose points.

The first round of elimination is over.

Ten people disappeared.

The number of people remaining in the lobby was still fluctuating, but the fluctuations had slowed considerably. Some people were slumped on the floor, gasping for breath; some were hugging their knees and silently weeping; some were leaning against the wall, clutching their chests, as if they had just been pulled from the water.

Lu Changsheng glanced at the entire room.

The number of people increased from 200 to 190.

The disappearance of ten corpses was exchanged for the remaining people living for ten more minutes.

These are the rules.

"Round two in ten minutes," Xiao Yuheng's voice came from the platform, devoid of any emotion. "Everyone, do your best."

He descended from the platform, his long black robe casting a dark shadow on the ground. He paused briefly as he passed Lu Changsheng.

"Mr. Lu," his voice was low, so low that only the two of them could hear, "how many rounds do you think you can last?"

Lu Changsheng did not answer.

Xiao Yuheng smiled. The smile was faint, so faint that only the corners of his mouth curved slightly, but Lu Changsheng saw what was beneath that smile—not anger, not fear, but a colder, more cruel kind of excitement, like the excitement a cat feels when it sees a mouse finally start to run.

"I'll bet on a three-wheeled vehicle," Xiao Yuheng said.

Then he left.

The black robe flashed in the dappled light cast by the stained glass windows and disappeared into the shadows at the top of the stairs.

Lu Changsheng stood still. The system had matched him with a science fiction novel category. Click here.

The chaos in the lobby did not subside after the first round of eliminations ended.

On the contrary—it got worse.

Because everyone realized one thing: scores aren't as simple as just "going up" or "going down." Scores determine whether you live or disappear. And the changes in scores depend on the audience.

So everyone started to "perform".

A middle-aged man knelt on the ground, tearfully recounting how he lost his legs on the battlefield, how he crawled through the ruins for three days and three nights, how he was trafficked to an ancient castle, and how he still believed in the light in his darkest hour. His story was hard to verify, but he spoke with great emotion, tears falling one by one onto the stone slab, his voice choked with sobs that he could barely continue.

The numbers on his forehead were rising. 28—31—34—

A woman nearby saw this and immediately began to cry as well. She cried for her husband, for her children, for the life she had been robbed of. The numbers were also rising, but not as fast as the man's. Her cries grew sharper and louder, as if she were trying to steal the audience's attention from the man.

In the corner, a young man was doing somersaults. One after another, he moved with the speed of an acrobat. His forehead bore the number 22, and with each somersault, he gained one point; by the fifth, it had reached 27. But he didn't stop, because the woman next to him was gaining points faster than him.

Some people are singing, some are dancing, some are reciting poetry, and some are telling jokes.

There's a fight going on.

Two servants were wrestling, fists slamming into each other's faces, blood gushing from their noses. None of the dozen or so onlookers stepped in to break up the fight, because they were watching—the numbers on the two fighters were increasing. Each punch they took added one point; each punch they threw added two points.

Audiences enjoy violence.

Lu Changsheng stood on the periphery of the crowd, watching all this, feeling an inexplicable sense of nausea churning in his stomach.

This isn't a castle. This is a circus. Everyone is like an animal in a cage, tearing at each other, trampling on each other, and performing for each other in front of an audience. The audience sits in the dark, popcorn and cola in hand, watching the people on the screen do everything imaginable to survive.

He looked away and began counting the number of people.

190 people. They were scattered in more than a dozen groups of varying sizes in the lobby. Some were performing in the center, some were watching from the edges, some were shivering behind pillars, and some were squatting in corners talking to themselves.

Then he noticed something was wrong.

The number of people is incorrect.

It's not that the total number is wrong—it's that the distribution is wrong. The northwest corner of the lobby, near the side door, is particularly deserted. It's not that there are no people, it's that "fewer and fewer people are there." Lu Changsheng remembers that ten minutes ago there were at least fifteen or sixteen people there, but now there are only seven or eight left.

Where did those people go?

Lu Changsheng moved in that direction without making a sound. His steps were light, his expression natural, as if he were just walking around casually. But his hand had already slipped into his sleeve, his fingertips gripping three talismans.

He channeled spiritual energy into his eyes, and his vision instantly sharpened. Not that he could see further, but that he could see "deeper"—he could see the traces of spiritual energy remaining in the air, and he could see those subtle fluctuations that were invisible to the naked eye.

Blue light is "eating" people.

Lu Changsheng's pupils suddenly contracted.

Lu Changsheng's pupils suddenly contracted. An Zhiyu was in the distance, looking at him across the distance, and had obviously also noticed this.

Their eyes met for a fleeting moment in the air. An Zhiyu nodded slightly, then subtly moved in another direction, cutting off any possible escape route for the blue light. Her left hand was already on the hilt of her sword, but she didn't draw it—drawing the sword before knowing who the other party was or what methods they would use would only alert them.

Lu Changsheng withdrew his gaze and continued walking towards the northwest corner.

He neither deliberately lightened his pace nor deliberately increased it. His steps were neither fast nor slow, exactly the same as before, like an ordinary guest looking for a quiet corner. But his right hand had already slipped into his sleeve, his fingertips gripping three talismans—one for immobilization, one for exorcism, and one for protection.

The spiritual energy flowed slowly within his body, like a lurking snake, ready to strike at any moment.

He passed one pillar, then another. He was getting closer and closer to that layer of blue light.

ten meters.

The blue light was still moving. It had just swallowed a third person—a young servant, the number 19 written on his forehead, trembling in a corner. The blue light approached him from behind, like a silent tide washing over a beach. The servant's body stiffened for a moment, then slumped down, without any struggle or sound.

A hand reached out from the blue light and dragged the servant's body deeper into the shadows.

eight meters.

Lu Changsheng's peripheral vision locked onto that hand. Black gloves, leather, long, slender fingers, the movements clean and efficient, as if it had done this countless times. A section of dark gray cuff peeked out from the glove's wrist—the color of a servant's uniform, but not that of an ordinary servant.

The butler's uniform.

Lu Changsheng's heart skipped a beat, but his expression remained unchanged. He even slightly turned his head, pretending to watch the increasingly bloody brawl in the center of the hall, and the corners of his mouth even curved slightly, as if he were enjoying some interesting performance.

five meters.

The blue light stopped.

It stopped moving, stopped expanding, stopped contracting. It remained still, like an animal that had suddenly sensed danger and held its breath.

Lu Changsheng did not stop.

He continued walking, his steps unchanged, his expression unchanged. His gaze shifted from the brawl in the center to the thickest pillar in the northwest corner.

three meters.

The blue light began to tremble slightly.

Two meters.

He stopped; Lu Changsheng was looking at the pillar.

"When did this crack appear?" Lu Changsheng's voice was neither loud nor soft, as if he were talking to himself.

No one answered.

His back was facing the blue light.

An open, unguarded back, like a piece of meat on a chopping board.

The blue light moved.

It's not moving, it's not expanding—it's pouncing.

The blue light, like a stretched-out net, descended from behind Lu Changsheng. Its speed was so fast that its trajectory was almost invisible; he could only feel a cold, damp wind, like a gust of wind blowing from a grave, surging from behind him.

I'm currently reading Chapter 176 of the novel by Cola, completely engrossed and unable to tear myself away.