The Novelist Forced to Become Famous

You participated in a reality show, thinking it was a game for a million dollars, but little did you know that the story would take a 180-degree turn at the end.

Terrifying tentacles appeared on the luxury cruise ship, seemingly a mutant squid monster that went on a killing spree, treating people as food. It could suck a person dry in one gulp, worthy of the name "corpse-sucking octopus."

Hm? Don't ask why it's sometimes a squid and sometimes an octopus, either works.

Which movie monster isn't a patchwork creature?

Faced with this bizarre scenario, you and your companions worked together, going through common plot points like infighting, drama, and cooperation, before finally sinking it in the ocean.

However, the erupting waves engulfed the survivors. Some were abandoned, some retained their kindness, everyone holding on to their last breath, enduring the tragic end of drowning.

Dawn broke, a ship came, and you were rescued.

Sunrise, fishing boat, hot water, blankets, bed.

What a classic ending scene, the next second the credits could roll.

But—

Isn't this strange?

Is reality really like a Hollywood movie, with such a perfect plot structure? If anything, it's more like a Korean disaster film. The initial distress call was odd, the power system failure came without warning, not to mention Jenny's sacrifice...

There's a conspiracy.

Jian Jing felt the ship arrived too conveniently, so much so that she wouldn't be at ease without investigating.

She didn't drink a drop of the water the crew gave her, but instead drank the freshwater from the life raft before boarding. She even munched on the meal replacement bar she had won at the gym years ago and never had the chance to eat, somewhat regaining her strength.

Someone was patrolling outside.

Jian Jing wiped the cookie crumbs from her lips and rolled her eyes: You call yourself a fishing boat? These crew members exude an aura of toughness, could they really be fishermen?

It's not like it's a pirate ship.

She muttered to herself, becoming more cautious in her movements, clinging to the railing as she carefully crept towards the most heavily guarded room.

She activated her heightened senses, amplifying her hearing.

Korean, she couldn't understand. Quickly, she used a card and once again received the system's thoughtful [Prop Card - Voice Pack].

"Have you confirmed everything?"

"Yes, all survivors are asleep."

"What about that Chinese girl?"

"She's sound asleep. I saw her drink the water with my own eyes."

"Good, the boss specifically mentioned to keep a close eye on her."

"She's just a woman, how smart could she be?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"Understood."

The unidentified individuals disguised as crew members finished their conversation. The one with higher status entered the room to report: "Boss, everything is ready. We can begin at any time."

"Very good," an elderly voice replied.

Jian Jing couldn't identify who it was. She hooked her toes onto the railing, bit her braid, and flipped upside down to take a peek.

The old man was short, his hair seemingly black but with snow-white roots. His plump face sagged slightly, and the air he exhaled carried the decaying scent of rotten cotton.

This old geezer looks familiar.

She remembered—he was the Chairman of 3Q Group.

Let's repeat that: 3Q Group, one of the sponsors of this "The Reasoning King" show, a well-known Korean chaebol. The sunken "World Cruise Liner" was his private yacht.

Alright, following the Korean drama formula, he's definitely the mastermind behind all this.

But Jian Jing still didn't make a move.

The Chairman of 3Q said, "Start the preparations."

"Father," a middle-aged woman in a suit next to him, with short hair and diamond earrings, her face seven or eight parts similar to his, spoke humbly, "Do we really have to do this?"

The Chairman gave her a stern look, his severity incongruous with his aged body: "What are you trying to say?"

"I absolutely do not mean to question you, Father," the middle-aged woman said, terrified. "It's just... is it alright to entrust such an important ritual to outsiders?"

The Chairman's expression softened slightly: "You've witnessed the Master's power with your own eyes. If it weren't for him, I would have been dead already. Besides, I have no other choice left."

A deathly pallor crept across his face: "Of the three-month time limit, only ten days remain."

"I understand," the woman said respectfully. "I'm willing to sacrifice everything for Father's cause."

"Very good," the Chairman nodded, closing his eyes to rest.

More people gradually entered the room, all dressed in identical black suits, impeccably groomed as if ready to embark on an international diplomatic visit at any moment.

They nodded to each other, apparently familiar with one another.

The middle-aged woman picked up a plate from the table and distributed prepared white strips to everyone.

They accepted them, tying the red-striped handkerchiefs around their wrists, binding their hands tightly together. Then, following a certain order, they silently knelt on cushions.

Forming a circle.

The middle-aged woman drew the curtains, lit candles and incense in the room. A hazy fragrance wafted through the air, rich and intoxicating, involuntarily creating a sense of dizziness.

The elderly Chairman rose, leaning on his cane, and sat at the twelve o'clock position of the circle. He slowly said, "Today is the most important day in the history of the Spirit Descent Society. I'm very grateful that you all were willing to participate in today's prayer."

The others bowed low, showing utmost respect: "Our reverence for the divine has never wavered."

The Chairman nodded and said hoarsely, "Perhaps you've already heard. Three months ago, my heart suddenly stopped beating. They couldn't resuscitate me for half an hour. Fortunately, a Master intervened and saved my life."

His slow, measured tone, mingling with the sweet, stuffy incense, carried a peculiarly persuasive power.

"Which Master was it?" asked a middle-aged man to the left. "The Spirit Descent Society must thank him."

"He is already a member of the Spirit Descent Society. The elders should remember, twenty years ago..." the Chairman alluded vaguely, "Back then, the Spirit Descent Society was still called the Heart Redemption Society. Under my father's guidance, we once held a ceremony to cleanse our sins. He was the officiant."

Several older members suddenly realized: "So it was Master Qi Tian."

"He's been gone for too long," sighed an old lady with sleek white hair. "I had almost forgotten about him."

The Chairman said, "Master Qi Tian traveled across the ocean, all to seek traces of the divine. Although he paid an unimaginable price, he still succeeded."

The others immediately became excited.

"He succeeded?"

"Did he successfully perform the ritual?"

"Did the divine descend?"

The Chairman said, "Yes, he succeeded. I witnessed the miracle with my own eyes." He looked around at everyone and slowly said, "I know you have doubts. I will prove it to you."

He coughed twice, unbuttoning his shirt. One button, two buttons, the expensive custom-made shirt opened, revealing the old man's aging body, and the "heart" exposed on his chest.

It must be a heart, it was connected to all the blood vessels in the body, beating rhythmically, pumping blood throughout the body. But it was certainly not the heart people were familiar with.

Black roots coiled around it, like welded metal parts, connecting the heart to the major blood vessels. Blood soaked the roots, making them shine red and black, with newly grown roots still quivering slightly with each heartbeat.

"This is—"

The Chairman buttoned up his shirt and slowly said, "Ladies and gentlemen, from the time my father established the Heart Redemption Society forty years ago until today's Spirit Descent Society, we have been through so much. People have joined, some have betrayed, some have doubted, but only we know that all sacrifices will be rewarded—the divine will not abandon anyone. As long as you are devout and humble enough, you will surely receive guidance when the time comes, leading us to the land of bliss."

He drew a circle on his chest with his hand, then clenched it into a fist and pressed it against his chest.

The others made the exact same gesture.

"Today, as written in the Holy Scripture, I will spread the divine's gospel to every devout person," the Chairman said. "Let's begin."

"Yes, Father," the middle-aged woman went out for a moment and brought back a familiar face.

It was the screenwriter who had been saved earlier by Raj and Andrei. He was specially hired by "The Reasoning King" in Asia to localize the story, and he was responsible for writing the witchcraft parts of the content.

He addressed the Chairman as "Uncle."

"Did you get it?" the Chairman asked.

The Screenwriter nodded nervously and pulled out the safe from his chest—this was the box used to draw the capsules at that time. For the sake of creating a secretive gimmick, "The Reasoning King" had specifically chosen this safe, touted as the world's most secure, to store the items.

After the drawing was over, the safe was set aside and hidden by the Screenwriter.

He opened the safe, revealing a mass of struggling tentacles. No, at this moment, it wasn't difficult to see that the so-called tentacles were actually still roots.

The roots had parasitized a soft-bodied creature similar to an octopus. The tentacles were merely a layer of armor, now tattered and transformed into rags, unable to conceal the parasitic entity inside.

"What is this thing?" the Old Lady asked.

The Chairman said, "The awakened divine guide. It's the only medium for summoning the god." He was reluctant to say more and gestured for the Screenwriter to bring the thing over and place it on the altar.

"Let's begin."

Soft music filled the room, and a new stick of incense was lit.

The elderly people chanted the scripture in unison: "Oh ancient and distant deity, please bless your faithful followers on earth. We have cleansed ourselves of sin, and we yearn for the holy kingdom—"

Wisps of white smoke rose, enveloping the room in a hazy mist.

Those participating in the ritual fell into a dreamlike state.

The roots broke free from the soft-bodied creature's armor, expanding in all directions, quickly growing from the size of a basketball to an unfurled fishing net.

The tendrils wrapped around the seated people, who remained motionless, their faces adorned with dreamy smiles.

The Middle-aged Woman kneeling behind the Chairman slowly raised her head, her hands clasped tightly together, blue veins bulging on the back of her hands, indicating her effort.

After about two breaths, she slowly stood up and walked to the door, opening it.

She bowed low: "Master."

The Screenwriter, who had disappeared at some point, pushed in a wheelchair. Seated in it was Qi Tian, wrapped from head to toe like a burn victim, watching with interest as the roots enveloped his food.

They had fallen into a deep coma, feeling neither pain nor consciousness. The anesthetic contained in the roots was enough to let them die without knowing or feeling.

"Master," the Screenwriter asked, "shall we proceed?"

"No rush," Qi Tian waved his hand. They were just a bunch of greedy and shameless old fools, flocking to him like flies at the slightest hint of sweetness, extremely stupid.

He was more concerned about another matter: "Did you get what I asked you to bring?"

Without hesitation, the Screenwriter took out a sealed bag from his chest: "As you instructed, I found Jian Jing's hair in her room. As for blood, I'm sorry, I couldn't obtain it."

"This is enough," Qi Tian pinched the strands of hair in the bag. After several days of game time, there would be no less than a hundred naturally shed hairs.

He took out a pre-cut paper doll from his sleeve, pressed the hair with his fingertip, bit his finger, and dripped a few drops of blood onto the paper doll. Strangely, his blood did not soak through the paper, but instead formed a water-repellent film on the doll.

"This time, you won't escape," Qi Tian said, his face contorted as he firmly stabbed the golden needle in his hand.

Almost simultaneously, an arrow pierced through the gap in the window, passing between the curtains, and accurately struck his chest.