Chapter 173: The Fury-Fueled Revenger: Burnout
Gathering and analyzing information is a critical action in conquering any game. So let's summarize the commonalities and differences between me and Miss Sylvia Goldberg, who appears to be the same type of gamer as me. First, our fundamental playstyles... We're the same here. We're both tension fighters whose mental state directly reflects in our performance. And more specifically, we're the type who can deal with most attacks on intuition alone. The kind of gamer who, where Katzo and Pencilgon would advance by cold logic, just charges ahead and somehow makes it work—no, forces it to work. Usually, these types reliably stumble the moment puzzle-solving elements show up. Regarding that gatling gun just now—unbelievable as it is, it seems she's pulling off the trick of "predicting the approximate impact time and location from the bullet velocity, muzzle angle, and firing sound, then charging right through"—all by raw instinct. Her baseline gamer specs are probably just that high, but more than that, the seed of that circus act is her profound depth of knowledge about this game.
Barring some revolutionary technological leap, the technology used in games doesn't fundamentally change that many times. And in a numbered title from the same company, even if the graphics or system infrastructure change, the underlying programs, along with anything that doesn't need alteration, are often carried over wholesale. Unlike a gamer like me who hops from one trash game to another, if someone is my direct superior—having poured heart and soul into this single game—then their level of familiarity with it can be considered on par with a computer-optimized AI. After all, there exist people in this world who can pull off tool-assisted superplay using nothing but their own two hands.
And more than anything... she herself has a complete grasp of Cursed Prison's performance...!
Sylvia: "Absorbing that fire truck was a poor choice. You're already slow-footed against Metius to begin with, and now you've gone and narrowed your operational range on top of that."
No Face: "You've got some nerve saying that..."
I was clearly being corralled in the latter half. It wasn't the pattern where you suddenly realize you've been maneuvered into a kill box, the way Pencilgon does it. No, my options were narrowed, and I was forced to move that way—I had no choice. Before I knew it, I'd been made to select an external module that restricted my movement, and the punching bag outcome was sealed. And seriously, this fire truck module—its main weapon can't even be used unless you connect a hose to a fire hydrant! Talk about useless trash! Sure, I can use the ladder as a blunt weapon, but how effective is a big, slow weapon against someone like her? You'd have better luck blasting a sutra at a horse with explosive noise... at least you'd be attacking the horse's auditory senses.
Winning from here is going to be tough... No, but as a time-stalling tactic, this is pretty damn good, isn't it? By feel, I've held out for over five minutes at least. Besides, Pencilgon already secured the bare minimum quota; I'm just the sideshow of sideshows, the opening act for the Katzo vs. Sylvia Goldberg main event. Ah, the moment I think of it that way, my motivation starts plummeting...
Sylvia: "Hah. When you challenged me with Cursed Prison, I thought there might be some surprise in store... So you're just stalling for time."
No Face: "Ngh."
She kicks me.
Sylvia: "It's way too weird that Kei hasn't shown up after all this time. I don't know the reason, but your group's objective is to buy time until Kei gets here."
No Face: "Ngh, ngh."
Slammed against the wall, a roundhouse kick drives into the nape of my neck.
Sylvia: "In other words, you picking Cursed Prison was just a performance to buy time. Isn't that right?"
No Face: "Ngh, ngh, ngh, ngh, ngh, ngh."
Sylvia: "Phew... Well, let's have a good match, shall we?"
Just as I'm frozen in hitstun, Metius leaps. Kicking off the air into a somersault, she unleashes a flying kick. The expression she wore at the moment of impact—probably only I could see it.
Yes, I recognize that expression. It's exactly like my own face when I've just confirmed I'm in for a long grind session.
I see. Yes, of course—when your opponent shows up with zero will to win and pulls a disrespectful time-stalling strategy on you, it's only natural to feel disgusted. And for me, the one doing the disrespecting, whatever I say in response will carry no weight. I see. Yes, that is, indeed, the generally accepted "correct" answer. I see, I see, I see... In that case, what exactly is this switch that just clicked inside my head? This feeling, as if someone dumped doubanjiang into the magma already coursing through my veins alongside caffeine? This simple directive, floating up in my strangely, unnaturally clear mind—what the hell is it?
Going out of my way to travel all the way here, cramming the game system and everything else in one frantic night, being forced to eat a ludicrously sized parfait, being forced into a hospitality match against a monster on par with Wethermon, being exposed to the entire world as a scumbag of the same ilk... and on top of all that, the image of me currently getting my ass kicked by Metius is being broadcast right now to the entire world... And after shouldering all that suffering, the expression she directs at me is "fed up" and "disappointed"?
I see. I see. I see. I see. I see... Ha. Ha. Ha.
Round 2.
No Face: "I'll crush you!!"
Stalling for time? Katzo's arrival? Hospitality? Who gives a shit! None of it matters anymore! Any consideration for that fish fated for mediocrity—read: that idiot Katzo, who can’t even trigger a Unique Scenario on his own—can go straight into the gutter!! Ohhh, yeah, sure, you're absolutely right, Sylvia Goldberg, that's the logical argument. But let me tell you something: knowing it yourself and having someone else say it to your face are two completely different things! Nobody knows that better than me! What's this "Goldberg" crap?! What's this "America's Number One" bullshit?! I'll peel that title off you like gold plating!! What is this...? My vision is strangely, incredibly clear. A sense of exhilaration like waking up after ten-plus hours of sleep to the morning sun. Except, within me, a single order shines with blazing intensity. Namely: "Make that hero-wannabe bitch eat her words."
No Face: "Yeah, that's right... Going by your character lore, having some pathetic, half-assed face be the thing that beats you is what pisses you off the most, isn't it...!"
In terms of roleplay, the previous round was nothing short of pathetic. Dealing with Sylvia Goldberg, I didn't have the luxury of even pretending to act like Cursed Prison. But now, my heart is moving on pure, thick, viscous hatred for her—no, for the hero Metius. No, that's slightly wrong... Ah, yes. It's that. That feeling when an event battle forces you to lose to an enemy that's canonically weaker than you. That feeling of watching the ending cutscene show you battered and exhausted after you just cleared the final boss taking zero damage. That's it: rebellion against sheer irrationality. Anyway, I'm running on that sort of sludge-like emotion now.
No Face: "Bring it on. That's exactly how I want it. Yeah, hell yeah!"
I've found it. To oppose her speed, I need a bare minimum of proper gear myself. A fire truck is shit. Pure shit. Why the hell should I have to put a collar and leash on myself? Am I an idiot?
No Face: "Hello, motorcycle police officers. Mind donating one of your bikes to a heartbroken guy? You don’t get a say."
I'm gonna make her howl.
Equipment trouble. A dead-heat battle. The commentator rambling on for absurdly long stretches. The accumulated weight of all these things made my return terribly, terribly late. Slipping out of the awards ceremony, Kei was handed a helmet because having "Uomi Kei" show up in person would cause problems. Then the Assault Company manager had the gall to ask, "Mr. Uomi, wouldn’t this suit you better?" Kei hurled the helmet straight into the manager’s face and ran. Pushing past backstage staff who stare at him with startled expressions, and for some reason receiving mysterious inquiries from several staff members asking "Is your butt okay?", Kei finally arrives on stage... and seats himself in the last remaining chair of Nitro Squad, the home he's finally returned to.
Kei: "...Huh?"
He hadn't expected cheers, but he'd at least anticipated some kind of reaction directed at him. Yet Kei notices that the audience, StarRain, the commentators... virtually no one's eyes are on him.
No Name: "Showing up this late to work—honestly, I'm almost impressed."
Kei: "...Honestly, I'm sorry. Is San—Face-Hider No-Face's turn now?"
No Name: "If you'd gotten here just a little sooner, it might've stayed peaceful..."
Kei tilts his head at Pencilgon—no, Name-Hider No-Name—who, for some reason, is wearing a dry, humorless laugh. Surely the reason lies beyond that screen. In the scene—presumably the Sunraku vs. Sylvia showdown—being displayed before StarRain. And yet, what is that...? That great roar of laughter, threatening to shatter the speakers, that's been echoing for a while now? The sound of tires grinding and scraping against asphalt? That deranged, unhinged, screws-blown-wide-open laughter rings a bell. It sounds terribly like—no, it's exactly like—the laugh of that one friend of his, the one who does nothing but outlandish things, when he's crossed the point of no return and decided to just let everything burn...
No Name: "Well, I mean... our side was pulling a disrespectful stall strategy, so we're not entirely blameless, but..."
Kei: "Ah, I've mostly pieced it together. Summarize, please."
No Name: "Various things happened, and he snapped."
Kei: "That's a little too summarized."
Against the undefeated champion, the enraged challenger laughs wildly. Heartbroken (his blood boiling, spewing curses born of misplaced rage, heavily contaminated by caffeine).
Riot Blood Tonight