Shiller had secured the next round's Immunity Right, hence drawing countless envious, jealous, and hateful stares, for the upcoming round was evidently going to be even tougher.
When subjected to extre psychological stimuli, humans can experience transient amnesia, and under imnse pressure, they often can't concentrate well—at least so are this way.
And the ntal stimuli and pressure they were enduring here clearly exceeded the threshold that the human race could bear. More than two hours had passed, and they simply couldn't rember what the second dish was.
The aperitif was the first to be discussed; although bewildered at the ti, everyone was relatively energized and listened attentively. But the story was too long, and listeners grew drowsy towards the end, so fewer people paid attention to the second story.
Among those who did listen, so had forgotten everything due to the passage of ti, while others, overco by pressure, struggled to recall the details. Therefore, the overall situation was worse than during the aperitif segnt.
The previous round claid the lives of 16 people, but this ti, the head chef announced an even more despairing number—this round would eliminate 20 people.
Everyone watched as the waiter brought out the cold dish, an Iberian ham with figs. But if they rembered correctly, the chef had said the worst ten people would be turned into ingredients. Whose flesh was this ham made from?
No one could answer their question, but their current predicant was such that they couldn't recall much of the backstory, which ant they had to focus more on the taste of the food and write extensively about that, praying that padding their word count wouldn't be detected.
A woman with uneven teeth was the first to grab the ham with her hand and stuff it into her mouth, oblivious to the astonished looks of those around her. It seed she was not from this social class at all, having sohow made her way in, so she lacked the usual considerations.
Her action served as a signal, and others seed to exhale in relief, also beginning to eat with fork and knife. For a mont, the dining room fell silent, save for the sound of tal clinking against china.
Shiller didn't eat. He didn't trust anything served here, just as he wouldn't casually drink water. Besides, the rules didn't require tasting before writing, so he simply pushed the ham aside and started to write feverishly.
The head chef seed to imply with his gaze that Shiller was skipping this part, but Shiller pretended not to see. He was like a literary giant struck by inspiration, periodically looking up to ponder, smiling or showing a sad expression, then continuing to write, deeply imrsed and engaged.
But in reality, Shiller was using the monts he looked up to observe Jero across the table. There was no doubt that if there was a second person in this restaurant who could survive, it would be Jero. The Valoska brothers were both geniuses, and morizing each dish's presentation and backstory was hardly a challenge for them.
Jero was writing sothing with his head down too, but due to the angle, Shiller couldn't see his writing, or else he might have been able to judge his education level from his handwriting. However, judging by the movent of his hands, his pen control was competent; he didn't look uneducated.
Shiller wrote at length, while the lady beside him kept throwing coquettish glances at him. As ti was running out, the woman looked at him with pleading eyes and said, "Oh my God, sir, if you intend to participate in this round, could you possibly give your Immunity Right? I'll pay any price, I'm just so scared, I can't rember much."
Shiller looked up at her, then down at what he had written, as if weighing his chances of passing this ti, but soon seed to soften. He called over a waiter and whispered a few words to him.
The waiter walked over to the head chef, apparently relaying Shiller's words. The head chef frowned and looked over, and at Shiller's shrug, the chef reluctantly nodded.
Turning to the weeping woman, Shiller said, "There you go, madam, you've got the Immunity Right. You're safe this round."
As he said this, everyone's gaze converged on the woman. She imdiately perked up, thanking Shiller with a smile, "Thank you so much, sir. I rember a bit about the later content, so I should be fine now."
She wore a grateful and apologetic smile, dabbing at her tears with a handkerchief, still sobbing, evidently not yet recovered from her panic.
Thus, she failed to notice the dark shadow behind her.
Thwack!
A dining knife plunged directly into her chest, and a large man pulled it out, then repeatedly stabbed her with force. Amid the blood splattering, the woman collapsed weakly onto the table.
He looked nacingly at Shiller and said, "Now that the person's dead, the Immunity Right is aningless. How about giving it to ?"
It seed like a question, but it was a threat. However, Shiller displayed no fear, replying, "You think you can kill , and then the head chef will reassign the Immunity Right, but in reality, you can't do that."
"Of course, I can."
"No, you can't. Are the rest of you confident you rember the specifics of the next five dishes? Well, it just so happens that I'm a historian with an excellent mory, who listened attentively to all the stories of the dishes. I might be the only one who knows the correct answers."
Everyone's gaze upon the man holding the dinner knife began to darken, for, as Shiller had said, no one was confident they could rember the stories of the last five dishes completely. If they couldn't recall a story, they might still seek Shiller's help, but if Shiller were dead, then no one would have the correct answers. Could they possibly ask the head chef?
The man also knew he couldn't make a move; otherwise, he would incite public outrage. He glared fiercely at Shiller, then sat back down in his seat.
Just then, a young man sitting a bit further back stood up, raising his hands and saying, "Don't co at , I'm not trying to run. I just have sothing to say. I can say it standing up, right?"
The head chef glanced at him with a foreboding look, like a bloodthirsty beast ready to snatch his spine at the first sign of wrongdoing.
Clearly frightened, the young man still stood his ground, not sitting down until the head chef gave a nod.
"I have thought of a fairer thod," he said. "We could have Mr. Sophop, who rembers the answers, tell us the stories again. We didn't pay attention last ti because we had no idea about this ga. We will listen carefully this ti and let our mories determine the outco, what do you think?"
Clearly attempting to salvage the situation, an elderly lady with silver hair said from her seat, "No, that isn't fair. You young people have better mories. We can't compete with you; the older ones among us are dood to be eliminated."
All the older individuals looked at the youth with resentnt, echoing the old lady's sentint. The inevitable decline of the human brain's capabilities can't compare to the mory of soone who is young and strong. If the answers were to be repeated, they would rember less than the younger ones. Wasn't that just courting disaster?
So people cast wary glances at Sophop, fearing he might agree with the young man's suggestion. The head chef hadn't said it was forbidden, but they absolutely would not allow such a possibility.
Shiller watched the young man with a hint of regret. He was thoughtful and trying to take control, to reconstruct the rules, but sadly, he was oversimplifying the situation.
As the young man was about to speak again, a burly man with a big beard tackled him from behind. The old lady picked up her dinner fork and plunged it into his neck, and blood gushed out instantly. After convulsing on the table for a few monts, the young man lay still.
"That's not a solution," said a middle-aged woman dressed and behaving elegantly. "Even though it's a bottom-elimination rule, can we really be sure what we've written won't end up in the last twenty?"
The restaurant fell silent; obviously, no one was sure. When everyone's knowledge was hidden, one might think they had written plenty, but others might have noted down even more. So might feel they hadn't written well, only to find it was quite good compared to others and narrowly escape elimination.
"What do you suggest we do?" Big Beard asked.
"Maybe we could do this," the woman proposed. "We throw everything everyone has written into a box and then draw lots in turn. Whatever paper you draw out is considered what you wrote. After signing your own na on it, you hand it in."
"Then it becos purely a ga of luck," the old lady objected. "I do not agree, because I believe I can at least survive until the fourth round."
Others had their personal calculations. They couldn't rember nothing at all, but so rounds were clearer in mory than others. If they proceeded this way, wouldn't they be giving away the rounds they rembered clearly to soone else?
"So the order of drawing is not completely random," the woman continued. "Since the first round has already been completed, discussing it is pointless. Let's consider it as the first of the six remaining rounds, and label them with the Arabic nurals 1 to 6."
"You can rank the numbers 1 to 6 according to how clearly you rember them. For example, if I rember the fifth dish the clearest, followed by the fourth and third, then the second and first, and the sixth the least, then my order would be 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 6."
"After the results are collected, the rounds with numbers you placed earlier, you draw first. Say you put the fifth round as the first; then your priority for round five is 1. In the fifth round, all those with priority 1 draw first, then priority 2, then 3."
"But that still depends on luck..."
"Yes, it's only slightly fairer because obviously, aside from Mr. Sophop here, no one is certain they can rember every round clearly. So this might actually be fairer."
"No, there are still issues," a woman with a baby face said. "The last six dishes are through a knockout system. If you can't survive the first dish, the following five rounds are aningless. Then everyone would prioritize the nearest round, increasing the probability of survival."
"But it's not a 100% chance because you're just drawing first, and what you end up drawing is unpredictable," the woman said. "If you sort by the order of rounds, then you're dood to have no choice in the last few."
"So it's still a pure ga of luck?"
"I'm rely trying to resolve an obvious paradox. If we're using the draw thod, surely soone will want to draw first, even if it's aningless. They trust their luck more than facing a lack of choices at the end."
After she finished speaking, the restaurant fell into silence again as they all pondered the feasibility of her thod.
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