The world has turned into Hell's Game, why should I stay human? Chapter 217 - 216 What to do when you’re exposed in front of

"Quill" Club’s entrance, the novelist waited quietly.

She was wearing a black furisode today, the most formal attire for an unmarried young woman, with black being the most noble of them all.

The furisode was elaborately embroidered with gold thread and colored yarn, the patterns of birds and beasts pulsating with the ebbs and flows of the moonlight, as if they were alive.

But the novelist’s hair was not styled in a high bun; instead, it hung loose behind her head, with the front cut in a princess style.

Her fair complexion was expressionless, like a delicate Japanese porcelain doll.

Yet her gaze was as dark as a deep well, emitting an aura that was both authoritative and enigmatic.

In the distance, a woman dressed in a Western-style formal gown hesitated for a long ti before finally coming over to say hello.

"Great Izanami..."

She had barely started speaking when the novelist interrupted her.

"Don’t call by that na, I am now known as the novelist," she said in a stern tone.

"Ah, yes, Great Novelist. Why are you not going inside? Are you waiting for soone?" the formal gown woman asked.

"Yes."

The novelist nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"To have a lady wait outside for him, your male companion is not very gentlemanly," the formal gown woman complained on her behalf.

"It was my own choice, he doesn’t know I arrived early," said the novelist, her shake of the head also barely noticeable.

"Ah... this..."

The formal gown woman was at a loss for words.

Who on earth was this person who commanded such esteem from her, that she would humbly wait outside for him?

The novelist used to be one of the top figures in tropolis’s short story scene, having published several stories with readerships in the hundreds of millions and won multiple short story gold awards from the writers’ association.

If it hadn’t been for so unfathomable reason that compelled her to stop writing short stories and attempt a novel—which didn’t yield results—she wouldn’t even qualify to strike up a conversation with the novelist.

As for the novelist’s other backgrounds, the formal gown woman wasn’t quite sure, only vaguely hearing that they were distinguished.

"Then, I’ll wait with you," the formal gown woman said eagerly.

She too had been writing short stories for several years now, without ever making it big.

Actually, she did have the talent, but what she lacked was a bit of luck and support.

After all, short stories do rely quite a bit on platform promotions for traffic.

The formal gown woman’s intentions now were two-fold: firstly, she wished to rekindle the novelist’s dwindling popularity and build a rapport.

What if the novelist returned to writing short stories one day?

Secondly, she was driven by curiosity, wanting to find out just who the novelist’s companion was.

At last, the novelist turned her head and examined her with a gaze devoid of any emotional color.

The formal gown woman felt a chill run down her spine but managed to resist the urge to turn and flee.

"You may."

Finally, the novelist gave a slight nod.

The formal gown woman sighed with relief, yet felt a tinge of displeasure.

It seed the novelist’s actions were ant to assess whether she posed any threat.

Now that the novelist had allowed her to stay, it ant that in her eyes, she posed no threat whatsoever.

After her response, the novelist paid no further attention to the formal gown woman, instead turning her gaze calmly forward.

As ti went by, the moonlight seed to solidify along with the air.

The formal gown woman felt as if her throat was obstructed by a lump of iron, wanting to scream yet unable to make a sound.

"This is terrifying, is this the pressure once exerted by the top short story writer? I am still too weak," the formal gown woman exclaid in shock.

In her own studio, she was a figure of so significance, daring to have a debate with the second-class shareholders.

But should she clash with the novelist, she might not even be able to conjure up the thought of rebellion.

The sensation of being completely suppressed filled her with intense fear, while the novelist’s lofty attitude excited her beyond asure.

In this mix of fear and excitent, she felt like she might lose control at any mont.

Indeed, the lady in the ball gown approached the novelist for another reason—she too was a lesbian.

"No matter who you are, hurry up and co. If you don’t, I won’t be able to hold on any longer,"

her cheeks flushed an abnormal red as she murmured to herself.

If she were to reveal herself in front of the woman she adored, it would be the end of her life.

Finally, within her expectant gaze, two blazing headlights shot towards her from a distance.

The deep and stable sound of the engine advanced slowly through the peaceful night, echoing like a piano concerto by Bach.

"What a luxurious car,"

she couldn’t help but exclaim when she saw the dazzlingly bright reflection of the car’s body.

And her pupils dilated even more when she saw the driver sitting at the wheel.

Her eyes, having undergone costly transformation surgery in the hospital, could perceive the driver against the backdrop of artillery fire and the torrent of steel, even from hundreds of ters away.

Even the head of the hospital security departnt, whom she had seen, didn’t possess such a formidable aura.

Given such a being driving for her, just how noble must the novelist’s male companion’s status be?

The lady in the ball gown’s curiosity elevated to a new level.

Alas, a specially made screen blocked her view, preventing her from seeing the person in the back of the car.

However, it wasn’t long before the Platinum Phantom arrived in front of them.

The car door opened automatically, and a tall figure stepped out from the cabin.

With the appearance of that figure, the previously stagnant moonlight once again poured freely over the area, and the air finally began to circulate again.

And all this happened because the novelist smiled.

She smiled as if she were a cherry blossom blooming at the most beautiful ti of the season.

"Senior,"

she trotted forward to et him.

The lady in the ball gown subconsciously followed, but as she was about to take a step, a sensation of imminent death flashed through her mind.

Startled, she quickly abandoned all distracting thoughts.

"I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,"

Liu Zheng said, with a hint of apology.

"It doesn’t matter, I’m willing,"

the novelist’s eyes curved into a smile, like crescents in the sky, but they were brighter and purer than the crescents.

With her experience, she naturally realized how much preparation and what great sacrifices Liu Zheng had made for this ball.

Although she knew the novelist was no saint, Liu Zheng was still affected by her smile and couldn’t help but reach out and gently rub her head.

His eyes were also smiling, but unlike the novelist’s simple joy, his smile was heavy and strained.

It was like the last breath of clear air squeezed from the lungs of a person crushed under a mountain in the filthy depths of Hell.

But for that very reason, it was all the more precious.

The moonlight caressed his resolute profile, reflecting in the eyes of the lady in the ball gown.

Liu noticed her gaze and turned his head to look at her.

The words "Virtue," "Benevolence," "Honesty," and "Righteousness" shimred in his eyes, igniting a fire that ward the lady’s heart.

"Ah!"

She gasped softly, her face flushing.

Feeling that indescribable moisture, the lady in the ball gown realized sothing.

She wasn’t attracted to won; she was simply drawn to beauty.

"Hmm?"

The novelist humd through her nose.