The woman's scream died away, and with it, everyone's racing thoughts came to a halt.
Even the men who had been shouting and cursing just moments before fell silent. This was no longer a question of "illegal detention"—this monster before them truly would kill.
More than a minute passed in oppressive quiet before Goat‑Head nodded ever so slightly. "Very well, nine of you—seems you've all quieted down."
Faces blanched, but no one dared speak. As he'd just pointed out, there were now indeed only nine of them.
Qixia lifted a trembling hand and peeled a piece of pale yellow matter from his cheek. The shattered brain tissue, still warm and pulsing faintly, went slack within seconds, its last twitch ending as if the life had been squeezed out of it.
"Now, allow me to introduce myself…" Goat‑Head raised his blood‑soaked finger to his mask. "I am the 'Man‑Goat,' and you are the 'Participants.'"
The assembled glanced at one another in confusion—"Man‑Goat," "Participants"?
"I have gathered you here to take part in a game," Goat‑Head continued in a flat tone, "the goal of which is to create a new 'God.'"
Those two words—"create a God"—drew puzzled frowns from the group. In the few minutes since they'd awakened, they'd already concluded this Goat‑Head was a madman. But a madman who claimed he would forge a God?
"What… what kind of God?" the broad‑shouldered young man asked nervously.
"A God like 'Nüwa'!" Goat‑Head practically danced as he spoke, the stench of goat musk and rot drifting from him. "Isn't it wonderful? You and I together will witness history! Once, Nüwa created humanity and, having repaired the heavens, ascended in a rainbow. We must not lose Nüwa—so we will create a Nüwa! A glorious task awaits our new God!"
His voice rose in fervor, as though injected with adrenaline.
"Nüwa…" the muscular man knitted his brow, unable to accept the notion. He paused, then asked, "Are you some kind of religion?"
"Religion?" Goat‑Head paused, then faced him. "We are far grander than any religion—we have a World!"
The group fell silent again. The muscular man's question had been on point: Goat‑Head's actions smelled of cult, yet most cults invent entirely new deities, not resurrect a heroic figure like Nüwa.
"In that case…" the muscular man pressed on, "what exactly do you want us to 'participate' in?"
"I already told you: a game," Goat‑Head answered without hesitation. "Win it, and one of you will become the God."
"Damn it…" the tattooed man's anger cooled into dark curiosity as he spat out, "The Investiture of the Gods, huh? What if we lose?"
"If you lose…" Goat‑Head glanced down at his blood‑stained hands, disappointment in his voice, "what a pity…"
Though he left the rest unspoken, the meaning was clear: lose, and you die. There was no option to walk out alive. Either become the God he promised, or end up like the young man whose skull was splattered across the table.
"If you understand, then this 'game' begins now. It is called 'The Liar,'" Goat‑Head said, pulling a stack of papers from his coat. He laid one before each person, then handed out pens.
The table's surface was spattered with blood; as each sheet touched the tabletop, red smears spread like paint. Wiping their hands only made the stains grow.
"Next," Goat‑Head continued, "each of you will tell a story of the last thing that happened to you before arriving here. But beware—among you is one liar. After all nine have spoken, you will vote. If eight correctly identify the liar, that liar is out, and all the rest live. If even one vote is wrong, the liar survives—and everyone else dies."
"A liar…?" the group murmured, puzzled. Would anyone really lie at a moment like this?
"Wait—can we discuss tactics?" the muscular man suddenly asked.
"By all means," Goat‑Head replied. "Before the game starts, you have one minute to confer. Shall we begin now… or later?"
"Now," the muscular man said without hesitation.
"Very well."
Goat‑Head stepped back from the table.
The muscular man pursed his lips, swept his gaze across the others—careful not to look at the headless corpse—and spoke: "I don't know who among us might lie, but these rules are too arbitrary. If one vote fails, we all die. And even if we choose correctly, that one liar dies. Either way, death is guaranteed. But I've thought of a way for everyone to live…"
All eyes turned to him. Could such a thing be possible?
"Simple: none of us lie," he declared before anyone could object. "We all tell the truth, and then we write 'No one lied' on these sheets. That doesn't break the rules, and we all survive."
The lab‑coat man tapped the table thoughtfully, then said, "That's a clever plan—so long as you're not the liar yourself. How do we know we can trust you? If you are the liar and we all write 'No one lied,' only you would live in the end."
"What kind of accusation is that?" the muscular man bristled. "If I were the liar, why would I suggest this? I'd only look out for myself."
Goat‑Head waved a hand. "Time's up—stop talking."
The two men snorted but fell silent.
"Now, draw your cards," Goat‑Head said, pulling a small deck of cards from his pocket. Each card was the size of a playing card, with the words "Nüwa's Game" printed on the back.
"What are these?" the muscular man asked.
"Identity cards," Goat‑Head replied with a laugh. "If you draw 'Liar,' you must lie."
The muscular man gritted his teeth. "You're mocking us! Why didn't you say that up front?!"
"To teach you a lesson," Goat‑Head sneered. "You asked about tactics before I'd finished explaining. You wasted your minute—my fault was none."
The muscular man's face darkened, but he swallowed his anger as he remembered Goat‑Head's lethal strength.
Within moments, all nine had drawn a card—but none dared peek. If yours read "Liar," you'd have to decide whose life matters more—yours or the group's.
The four women's hands trembled; the men's faces were grim. They weren't drawing "identities," but "lives."
Qixia took a deep breath. Nonchalantly, he brought his card forward and flipped it.
In stark, ominous characters it read: "LIAR."