Chapter 69: This NPC Has Gained Sentience

At first glance, Chen Fan couldn’t believe it.

A haystack barely covering his shoes, a brick wall overgrown with moss, and a tiny window in the wall—so small that not even a head could fit through it. Beyond the iron bars, a full moon hung high, its cold, pale light filtering in. Chen Fan tried moving about, only to realize his hands and feet were shackled, chains heavy as if weighted with lead balls. The door was locked, save for a small opening; crouching by the window, he could see nothing of the outside.

“I’m Number 6. Is this a prison?” Chen Fan glanced down at the number tag on his clothes—a standard black-and-white-striped uniform, seemingly barely worn, not a wrinkle in sight, a crisp ‘6’ marked on his chest.

“Hey, hey, it’s time to eat.” Someone seemed to be at the iron window outside. Chen Fan brushed off the straw from his clothes and approached. The figure was dressed like a police officer from the Republican era, a baton at his waist—clearly not the kind that delivered electric shocks.

“What are you looking at? Hurry up and eat.” The officer opened the viewing window a bit wider and handed in a bowl of rice.

Staring at the rice, Chen Fan asked, “Is dinner just plain rice? No chicken drumstick? Not even some greens?”

“Just eat what you’re given—don’t ask so many questions. There’s even dessert afterward.” The guard, impatient, handed him a bowl of water, signaling for Chen Fan to take it.

A bowl of plain rice and a cup of cold water—this was Chen Fan’s dinner.

“What did I do to end up here?” Chen Fan pressed against the door, curiosity in his voice.

“You really are forgetful. There was a murder in the concession, and you’re one of twelve suspects. The inspector will question you tomorrow morning. Now eat, enough with the questions.” The guard, irritated, pulled his baton from his belt, brandishing it in a clear threat.

“Are you an NPC or a player?” Chen Fan couldn’t help but ask.

“NPC. Here to serve the story.” The guard tapped the brim of his hat with the baton, then suddenly struck the iron door with it, snapping, “Suspects don’t need to know these things. Once the crime is determined, you’ll be waiting for the gallows.”

“Oh.” Chen Fan took the rice and water and sat back down.

The rice was sour, the water stale from the night before. After just a few bites, Chen Fan was wracked with nausea and diarrhea. He dumped the rest into the corner and covered it with straw.

“The NPCs are so advanced, they’re almost sentient. If only the next game scenario could have a better plot—like a battle for the throne or something. At least it wouldn’t be so miserable—I’m afraid to sleep with my mouth open, worried a rat might crawl in.”

After grumbling about the game experience, Chen Fan gathered the hay into a bundle for a pillow and lay down to sleep.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It felt like less than three minutes had passed before someone was banging on the door.

“Sleeping at a time like this? The inspector wants to see you.” Before Chen Fan could react, two guards armed with Hanyang rifles barged in, dragging him out by force.

The interrogation room looked like a courthouse from ancient times, though the decor was more in the style of the Republic era. There were historical inconsistencies, but that wasn’t what Chen Fan cared about most.

No chairs at all, even in a game. Chen Fan was thrown onto a stone brick with a red-painted ‘6’—thankfully, the paint was dry, or else he might have hit his head with the force of the throw. Classic kneeling treatment.

Scanning the atmosphere, Chen Fan felt as if he’d stumbled into the infamous White Tiger Hall.

The other players fared no better—each dragged or carried in, none entering on their own.

“First time seeing NPCs in a game, but they don’t seem too friendly,” Kang Jixuan struggled. While the others wore handcuffs, his own hands were bound tightly with hemp rope, the knots so tight they could squeeze oil.

“Brother, this is actually kind of fun. I’ve never played a scenario like this before,” his sister, Kang Jixuan, chimed in, jingling her handcuffs and delighting in their melodic clatter.

“Silence, you rabble,” came a shout.

Chen Fan inhaled sharply, glancing up at the dais. The inspector’s corpulent frame strained his police uniform out of shape, his uneven willow-leaf eyebrows arched above yellowed teeth, bits of vegetable still stuck between them.

“This inspector is so dark—it’s like he spent a few nights in a coal pile,” Chen Fan thought with a smirk.

“Someone, slap Number 6,” the inspector barked, banging his gavel. Two men closed in on Chen Fan.

“What’s with the gavel? This is so sloppy—hey!” Chen Fan’s left cheek was struck before he could protest, quickly followed by a blow to the right.

The inspector adjusted his clothes and carefully took his seat.

Chen Fan gritted his teeth, two red palm prints blossoming on his face, but dared not laugh.

“The facts have been verified with the foreigners. Among you twelve, four are criminals and eight are innocent. But none of you are willing to admit it, so what can I do? You'll have to decide amongst yourselves: each day, select one suspect to be executed. Is that clear?”

The rules, though rephrased, were essentially the same. Chen Fan pondered the situation and decided to push his luck.

“There’s a problem,” he said, raising his hand like an eager schoolboy.

“Slap him,” the inspector said coldly, lighting a cigarette.

Smack. Smack.

Chen Fan laughed foolishly as two more handprints appeared on his face.

The inspector stubbed out his cigarette, surveying the crowd. “Any more questions?”

After a long silence, the inspector smiled for the first time in ages. “You can discuss and decide who dies first. Today, pick a spokesperson—they’ll speak last and count as one and a half votes.”

He sipped his tea and continued, “I hear there’s a genius among you, maybe even a sorcerer. I don’t care about that. I just want you to find the killers. That’s all that matters. Also, the killers know each other. Use your brains and help the police solve the case—whether you survive is up to you.”

Chen Fan sneered, “What an interesting NPC—he’s got the rules down pat.”

“Someone, slap Number 6 for contempt of court,” ordered the inspector.

Chen Fan hesitated, and two more crisp slaps landed on his cheeks.

“You’re quite the NPC, Inspector. Very spirited.” Chen Fan, clutching his face, still managed a grin.

“Indulge him—two more slaps.” This time, blood trickled from his nose.

“I’m done. Time to focus on finding the criminals.” Wiping away the blood, Chen Fan shifted from kneeling to sitting cross-legged in meditation.

The inspector walked behind him and gave him a kick with his leather shoe. “You’re still a suspect. Know your place.”

Chen Fan, puffing up his cheeks, reluctantly resumed kneeling.

“All right, suspects who wish to run for spokesperson, raise your hands,” the inspector drawled, sprawling across a pearwood chair like a languid fat pig.

Chen Fan paused. He hadn’t picked up any information last night, so he was probably just a regular civilian. Since he was a blank slate, he decided to spectate.

“Someone, slap Number 6 for not cooperating with the investigation,” the inspector ordered. Two burly men approached Chen Fan again.

“What kind of logic is this?” Chen Fan looked around and realized he was the only one kneeling.

Smack. Smack.

PS: Experiencing all sorts of murder mystery scenarios—much more fun than playing the usual roles.