Infinite weird games

[The fire jumped into the study, and the remaining manuscript paper was stained with sparks, flying in the rapidly heating air. Charlie threw himself into the fire, trying to grab some more manuscripts, but was pushed to the ground by the leaving soldiers. He never got up again, whether he was unable or unwilling. 】

[The blazing flames scorched every inch of the land. The red-eyed puppet stood quietly in the firelight, looking at his creator, his eyes blank, as if he had never been alive. 】

[Charlie (staring at the puppet): Ah, you are the only one left with me in the end. No audience, no show, I had nothing. (Sigh) I once imagined that when I was about to come to the end of my life, I would hold a grand performance to end it. Could this fire be the stage given to me by God? 】

[The puppet remained silent as the flames made a crackling sound of wood breaking. 】

[Charlie (groaning in pain): We can't get attention together, we can only go to destruction together. What a pitiful tragedy this is, a tragedy in which the protagonist dies and the villain wins...]

[Playwrights who write tragedy end their lives with tragedy. This is not beauty, but a greater tragedy. 】

The Scarlet Theater was engulfed in flames, and the playwright Charlie died along with his life's work.

Fortunately, he still had a box of manuscripts that he threw out the window in advance and did not burn with the theater.

Charlie, who was burned alive, was filled with resentment and turned into a ghost circulating among the remains of the theater and the lost manuscripts.

He hopes, he expects, and he waits persistently for future generations to read.

He thought that after thousands of years, even if only one person could find the plays he wrote, collect them carefully, perform them, understand them, and love them, then he would die without regrets.

But it's a pity that Charlie is not a genius with great talents but is just a madman with some small talents but paranoid stubbornness.

His name was lost in history, and with his death he was no longer known.

Silence, silence, silence, silence...

Maybe this is the so-called reality. A poor, boring playwright doesn't have much fame even during his lifetime, let alone after his death?

Charlie waited in agony, watching as his manuscript was covered in dust.

People come and go, but no one ever lowers his head and notices those painstaking words. The papyrus was buried deeper and deeper, and they stepped on the accumulated mud, making the mud more and more solid.

The manuscript and the theater are but two dry tombs that will never be visited again.

Thousands of years are a short time for a ghost, but too long for a playwright waiting for recognition.

Charlie fell into despair as he waited day after day, and gradually began to resent.

He resented the king who banned his plays, resented the soldiers who burned his theater, resented... the people who couldn't understand him.

The ghosts filled with hatred were imprisoned in the theater that was charred by the fire. They haunted the dead building as phantoms of the past, making bursts of shrill screams.

His voice could not travel too far and could not even penetrate the door wall. It could only scare a few children who came to play adventure games in the theater and spread a lie that not many people believed.

No one responded, no one witnessed, and the time stretched out in the silence. Only the puppet sometimes spurted out a few sneers that seemed real and illusory, but they were like auditory hallucinations made by the wind.

If nothing unexpected happens, Charlie will die in unwilling loneliness.

But in a silent night, God seemed to finally hear Charlie's call and respond.

A golden beam of light falls from the sky and shines into the theater through the gap in the dome, illuminating a small area of ​​land.

The light was so bright that Charlie, who was already a ghost, felt hot and dazzling just by looking at it from a distance.

He subconsciously covered his eyes, but involuntarily walked towards the light.

There was no reason, and I couldn't explain what I was thinking. It seemed just because... it was light.

The shadow of the vines climbed up the light and grew throughout the theater. A figure with black clothes and black hair walked out of the light, with golden eyes that opened like the sun and moon.

The moment he saw the man, three words appeared in Charlie's mind -

"He is God."

God said to Charlie: "I can see your desire. You hope that your play can be staged and receive applause and praise from the audience."

Charlie subconsciously realized that a turning point was just around the corner, and he asked desperately: "Then can you fulfill my wish? I am willing to pay any price!"

"Price?" God smiled, "Now you have nothing and no value to pay. I am here just to make a deal with you."

"trade?"

"You will sacrifice your freedom and be trapped in this theater forever; and I will send you a steady stream of audiences and actors."

In Charlie's opinion, this transaction was beneficial and harmless.

His soul was trapped in the theater, and could only wander around attached to the manuscripts; and those manuscripts had long been buried deep in the ground. In other words, even if there was no transaction, he would never see the light of day.

"I do, I promise you!" Charlie responded hurriedly, fearing that God would regret it.

God chuckled, raised his hand and waved his sleeves, and gave Charlie the identity card containing authority.

The space of the theater is like an old piece of human skin, which has been extracted from the charred ruins and restored to its former glory under the weaving and sewing of golden vines.

The blinding spotlight illuminated every corner. Charlie put on black clothes and a white mask at some point, unable to hide under the light and shadow.

Charlie asked God, “What am I going to do after you send us the audience and the actors?”

God says, “Let them suffer, and fear, and sin.”

Charlie was puzzled, but he still followed God's instructions and created a series of levels.

Over the decades, countless players with original sins were sent into the dungeon, the dead became spectators, and the living fled in haste.

Whether it was because of hypocrisy or cowardice, Charlie was never willing to personally lead the feast of sin. Just like in life, he left everything to the puppets and watched from the dark.

As time went by, he gradually understood the role of evil, and vaguely understood that it was something similar to "power".

He didn't care at first, until he discovered that the dead began to cheer for his play, and a box of manuscripts he left outside was unearthed by the archaeological team and studied carefully.

He could feel the belated praise of the people across the space; his discovery was accompanied by flowers and applause, and people called his name: "Charlie! Charlie! We need Charlie!"

The accumulated resentment dissipated, replaced by an eagerness. Charlie is eager to meet the audience who finally understand him, and to follow the manuscript freely around the world.

But he can't.

Due to his deal with God, he was trapped in the conscious space of the theater and lost his freedom forever.

In his despair, he thought again of the sins which were promised to God.

He thought, since sin means power, then as long as he collects enough sin, can he have the power to break the deal?

How to secretly squeeze evil out of the transaction is a question worth thinking about, but this is not difficult for Charlie as a playwright.

The structure of the copy is similar to that of the script. Charlie quietly modified the original design of the copy, nesting rounds after rounds, scene after scene, in the original play.

His little move went undetected until Zeiss showed up.

…

"Although I don't know why you need sin, from the perspective of poaching the Lord God, our positions are consistent. What I want to say is - you might as well make a deal with me."

"You give me the maximum benefit you are willing to pay, and I, as the agent of another higher god, will continue to deceive the gods for you."

"When the god behind me returns to his throne, all past transactions will be abolished, and you will gain the freedom you have dreamed of."

The young man spoke calmly, followed closely by the threat, and seemed to have no room for rejection.

But Charlie couldn't help but think of the transaction with the Lord God many years ago.

It also seems beneficial and harmless, and it also seems inevitable, but who knows if it could be a trap full of malicious intent?

Qisi saw Charlie's hesitation and sighed softly: "I'm not discussing with you."

He covered the destiny pocket watch on his left wrist with his right hand and said with a smile: "I know the name of that existence. It only takes one thought to attract His attention. You have to know that maintaining not thinking about a certain word is It’s a very difficult matter. If I delay it for a little longer, I’m afraid I won’t be able to bear it anymore.”

Charlie asked coldly: "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm just analyzing the pros and cons objectively." Qisi's eyes were sincere. "To be honest, I had a grudge against that existence. Once I disturb him, I'm afraid I won't be able to survive. This is something neither you nor I want to see. It’s something, isn’t it?”

Charlie smiled "ho ho" and said nothing, but raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

In an instant, the darkness sprouted claws from the cracks in the ground in all directions like twisted ghosts, rushing toward Qisi openly, swallowing him from beginning to end in complete darkness.

Qisi's hand was always pressed on the destiny pocket watch, ready to launch a backtracking if something went wrong.

In the silent silence, time passed by minute by second, and suddenly there was a glimmer of light in the darkness.

Zeiss found himself standing under the stage, with pages of paper spread out under his feet into a long road, leading to the center of the stage.

He walked forward along the road.

Countless fragments were flying around him, turning into phantoms from time to time and sinking into his body, then passing through him lightly.

The fragments carried scattered words, and after contact with each other, they were connected into a picture, which he knew.

…

In the dilapidated wooden house, the fire was tremblingly extinguished without any firewood.

In the cold wind, the old man held the boy in one hand and held a quill in the other hand, writing lines of words on the papyrus.

The boy quietly and laboriously read the words written by the old man.

Those stories were not beautiful, even ugly, and not as interesting as fairy tales, but the boy could always watch them intently for a whole day.

The old man kept writing, and the boy stayed with him all the time.

He saw the old man shivering due to the cold and sluggish due to exhaustion, and he couldn't help asking with distress: "Grandpa, what's the use of writing this?"

The old man touched his head and said: "Maybe it's useless, but someone must write these inappropriate words."

…

A coffin contains the burial of an old man who died of illness in the winter.

People say that in his later years, the famous comedy master became obsessed with some unknown evil and began to write boring tragedies, which made him impoverished.

The boy was young enough to hear people's taunts, but also sadly aware that he no longer had any relatives.

Fortunately, he learned everything quickly and could always make a living, so he grew up into a young man with every meal he had.

When he was free, he often took out the manuscripts left by the old man to read, took out the old puppets and clumsily operated them, and performed the plays written by the old man.

He had a dream during his performances. He wanted to write similar plays so that those who laugh at the old people would see and fall in love with them, telling them:

"The plays written by grandpa are not boring."

…

The boy gradually grew into a young man, and then into middle age. He finally saved enough money to build a theater on flat land.

Full of dreams, he wrote a play that his grandfather taught him, hoping to be seen by more people.

But comments such as "boring" and "incomprehensible" hit him one after another, making his blood run cold. Along with it was the king's ban, and he realized how heinous the dramas created by his grandfather were.

Everyone has to live. After all his money was gone, he thought hard about how to attract the audience.

The audience likes to watch comedies and light-hearted things. There is no doubt that this is something he would not write.

He began to think about how to add something to the original script that would attract the audience.

——Furious and bloody.

This is the answer he came up with after trying it over and over again.

He knew this wasn't right.

But he wanted to be seen so much...

…

Zeiss reached the end of the road.

In the faint light, an old man wrapped in white hair and white beard sat crookedly holding a thick piece of manuscript paper.

There was a black card in his hand. A figure in black robes stood on the pile of skeletons, holding a black leather notebook. Blood flowed from the spine of the book and gathered into a stream at his feet.

[Identity Tag: Desperate Screenwriter]

[Effect: The plays you write always make people feel pain, sadness, fear and despair]

The old man's face and body were covered with burnt ashes, and his original appearance was almost unrecognizable. Only one of his hands was still intact, holding the quill tightly and writing furiously on the manuscript paper.

Beside him, there were more than a dozen pairs of eyes, all focused on the paper in his hand, like spotlights on a stage.

Zeiss knew that this was the real Charlie.

"I thought I was a great screenwriter who recorded the times, but in the end, I turned myself into a clown on the stage who couldn't take the curtain call. What a wonderful absurd comedy."

He mocked, with a half-smiling look on his face: "What's the use of showing those to me? Do you want me to sympathize with you?"

Charlie did not answer, but said calmly: "I promise to trade with you."

Pages of papyrus are arranged in the void, and a quill writes ink writing on them.

The bright red scroll floats leisurely, and the golden vines are transcribing the characters on the papyrus, and the short and powerful words are outlined as finely as embroidery thread.

[The contract has been signed. This contract is guaranteed by the rules of the world and cannot be violated by any existence]

………………

[Note] "Confessions" records Rousseau's life experience for more than 50 years from his birth to his forced departure from the Island of Saint-Pierre in 1766. He recounted the rough treatment he received as a child, described the abuse he received after entering society and all the darkness and injustice he heard and witnessed, and angrily exposed the society's "law of the jungle", "might makes right" and the abuses of the ruling class. Ugly and rotten.

A small plot was added to the previous article, so there is an extra chapter. This chapter has been set as a free chapter. There are two more chapters today.