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There were only a few more days left before the competition officially ended, and the final hand-in of the Illusion Room was necessary if one wanted to be included in the competition.
With the most recent decision of the ragtag duo of reincarnated idiot and painter idiot to include a full-on, large-scale, experiencer-adaptable and controllable war scene, they had shovelled onto themselves one last load of torturous labour before they could finally taste the sweet, sweet taste of deat- vacation.
All-nighters had become something common reaching up to this point, but now, when they'd decided to fill the last few days in which they would have been doing minor revisions, including one last epic and modular scene, the all-nighters of the past were something that they looked at fondly.
Now they were pulling All-nighters, followed by all-dayers, followed by all-nighters, and so on.
If there was one thing about cultivation that Jin hated, it was the fact that it increased his stamina. Not just how far and how long he could run, but also how long he could stay awake while still being productive.
In his past life, there would have been no point in pulling all-nighters simply because they actually lowered productivity in the long term.
Now, there was no such excuse left for him to use.
He was a mental cultivator, which meant that if he wanted to, he could set himself apart with complex topics and issues for days on end without rest. The biological prerequisites were there, and all the meditation practice one got as a cultivator provided the necessary skills to use one's mental focus.
Days turned to night, and nights turned to day. Smaller issues in the script were brushed up, such as a smaller focus on the issues of authoritarianism in times of crisis depicted in Boston. Figures of authority were put in a slightly better light by simply receiving less screen time. Some dialogue lines fit better with a cultivation perspective. For example, Ellie's jokes had to be changed for the most part, as there was no cultural context to make them funny.
Instead, she would say things like: "Why did the cultivator cross the road?" "In search of the dao." "Why did the other cultivator walking down the road kill him?" "Because of the dao." "What does this tell us?" "The heavens are mysterious."
Some gems, such as "Why did the scarecrow get a promotion? Because he was outstanding in his field" and "I was wondering all night where the sun went, then it dawned on me," naturally remained.
Jin transcribed the soldier's style of fighting, and Hashimi used the modularity of adding or subtracting zombies to the last battle after one redid it.
The girl did the last brush-ups on the architecture, and Jin did the last brush-ups on the zombies.
Then, finally, the day of submission came.
What was left after months of work were two desiccated corpses staring down at a fancy glowing metal box.
The male mummy smacked his lips, causing some dust to fall down from where his hand met his face.
"We did it," he crowed triumphantly.
"If only we had more time," the female mummy said weakly, raising up a shaky, thin and malnourished hand before lowering it again as it cost too much energy.
"The great equaliser, time, everyone has the same amount at the end of the day," Jin muttered as his eyesight became blurry.
"Except for those with portable time dilation chambers, the truly immortal and those who can afford to hire others," Hashimi retorted.
"We have to go hand this in," Jin said raspily, ignoring her refutation.
The girl sitting on the other side of the Illusion Room suddenly swayed from left to right. "You go without me," she said as she dramatically fell to the side.
A tear ran down Jin's face. "No, we started together; we have to finish it together."
Hashimi weakly struggled against the floor. "What did you say all those days ago?"
"I don't know what you mean."
Hashimi forced herself to her knees and picked up the Illusion Room as much as she used it to hold herself up.
"Fuck it, we ball," she said as she righted herself, standing from Jin's position right in front of the window, the sun illuminating the back of her head.
"Nah, I'd win," Jin managed to utter as tears started flowing indiscriminately down his face.
He extended a hand, and the girl clasped it weakly. With his efforts combined, he also managed to get up.
They stumbled towards the door.
"Apes together, strong," they said in unison and faced the challenges ahead.
-/-
The morning of the deadline was a solemn affair for the entirety of the Illusion Room Sect's inner circle. Even those few disciples who had not participated in the competition were gripped by a previously unseen solemnity as they witnessed the ritual of the competition coming to a close.
Inner disciples, or as one could better call them, husks of their former inner disciple selves, breached for the first time in weeks into the sunlight.
"Hiss, it burns," they growled with incredibly dilated pupils as they weakly clutched the Illusion Rooms containing their blood and sweat in their decrepit and trembling arms.
Dozens, no hundreds, of these walking dead stumbled, shambled and dragged their way through the streets.
Their emancipated forms formed cliques that delineated who had worked in a team and with whom. Groups of two, three, four, five and six made their way towards the library, moaning the cursed chants of the dead.
"Deadline, deadline, deadline, deadline."
"Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee."
"Programmer socks, programmer socks, programmer socks."
Jin and Hashimi joined the procession, not hiding anymore that they had worked together, that the soon-to-be-famous dumbass duo had finished their first collaboration.
They, too, were broken, bowed and beaten, only able to drag their feet instead of using them, holding their creation as if it were a dead child with its legs blown off. To show the world, see, this is the cruelty of cultivation, the massacres committed by the Illusion Room Sect on the psyche of their initiates.
The disciples congregated in a moaning, groaning, and hissing circle around the library, which was to be their Mecca. This ever-tightening circle signalled their worship of the elder gods they hated: the CEOs.
The Elders stood, some floating, proud and unbowed, in front of the quivering masses. They had erected a grand wooden podium in front of the library.
These Asian faces with long hair, short hair, white hair, and black hair would be the wretched gods who would decide the fate of the disciples today. A word of them could either serve as a guillotine or a delivery of providence. Jin recognised Elder Qin from the outer circle, Elder Flower, and Elder Lung. There was also the very old female sect leader and General Shroud. Together, they formed the pincer of five that would pinch and prod at their creations.
One by one, a procession of disciples humbly and with great difficulty ascended the steps of the podium, reverently holding out the Illusion Rooms in their hands for a core disciple serving as the servant of the day to stack in front of the Elders on carefully prepared wooden pillars.
There were precisely 27 of the pillars, equalling the number of submissions.
The only group that stood out was that of Lung Junior and his ilk, who walked onto the podium instead of crawling, with healthy jade-like skin, sublime muscles and long and lustrous hair. They didn't look like they'd worked a day in their life.
The walking dead hissed and exclaimed at the sight of their fellow sufferers, who had obviously not suffered and did not know their pain. Tired and broken, they now had nothing to lose and instinctively recoiled from those spoiled by heritage, ruined by dependence on their ancestors.
"Silence!" the old sect leader Chun shouted dramatically, stepping forward and sweeping out her hands.
The disciples quieted down. Lung Junior and his group, who had been the last to submit their work, reluctantly got off the platform and stood a few meters away from the crowd.
"You all have toiled and suffered for the greater cause of humanity these past few months," the sect leader started in her iridescent white robes. There was nothing grandma-like about her imperial tone of voice, contrary to her appearance. "But now, your efforts have come to an end!" She swept out her arms dramatically. A large, hazy screen appeared above the heads of the Elders. "Judgement!" she screamed. "Who amongst you has contributed, and who has failed? This will be decided today at the greatest possible expediency, but remember, even when walking away with your heads bowed, as long as humanity lives to see another day, we are all victorious," she stepped back after this announced, clasping her hands in front of herself and seeming pleased at her address.
It was then that Elder Lung stepped forward. "I will act as the judge of terrain," he said in an arrogant voice before stepping back.
"And I of combat," Elder Flower said, taking a step forward.
"Details," Elder Qin.
"Integration," the sect leader.
"Strategic value," General Shroud announced.
They formed a row again, and it was then that Jin noticed the guard at the camp gate that he'd met when going to the army encampment standing behind General Shroud, looking as unassuming as ever.
With his stubble and face, Yang looked like he wanted to be elsewhere.
"Considering that this is a commission that we've received from the army, intended for the purpose of training their mortal soldiers, it will be one of them going through the Room as we spectate," the sect leader informed the waiting disciples.
"Private Yang has been kind enough to volunteer," General Shroud said happily. Private Yang, for his part, looked forlornly at the sky. If anything, he looked like he'd picked the shortest straw.
"The illusion hovering above our heads will show the situation in the Room in real-time," Elder Qin said, pointing at the screen above their heads, which was covering up the view of the library behind them.
"Without further ado, let us begin," the sect leader announced.
Private Yang, with all the required military decorum and enthusiasm but still somehow managing to look like he wanted to die inside, stepped forward and touched the first Room.
What followed was something that Jin had never expected.
It was a feeling that he'd never associated with Illusion Rooms before.
It was the feeling of absolute boredom.
There were 27 Rooms to be tested today, and by the second one, Jin was almost on the verge of falling asleep.
Private Yang would enter a Room, fight a bunch of zombies alone or with artificial teammates, die a few times, and exit the Room looking exhausted. The Room would then get disqualified. The disqualification, if anything, was the most interesting part of the process as the wooden pillars supporting the Room would shrivel up into nothingness and deposit the artefact gently onto the ground.
It was literally the same thing over and over again. Not only that, but Yang had to repeat a scenario several times before the judges were satisfied.
The zombies were all the same, obviously, as they'd been moulded from the same template. The terrains were indistinguishable in their blandness. Sometimes a field of grass, sometimes a field of mud. Wow, such variables, so amazing.
"Jin," Hashimi hissed at him.
Jin realised he'd said that last part aloud, drawing some aggro from the crowd around him. The other disciples were throwing him dirty looks.
The reincarnated man, for his part, refused to lower his head. The others hadn't even managed to make their zombies better than the ones he had rightfully stole- "cough," acquired- through a fair and just trial from Lung Junior.
What had they been doing for the last weeks? In addition to the fact that the zombies weren't even anything special, they'd also just slapped on what was obviously a template for the surroundings. Some had even used a template for the soldiers, and those who hadn't had obviously never even seen the soldiers fight.
Why even bother participating at this point? He asked himself.
"Jin," Hashimi hissed more urgently.
Jin shook his head; apparently, he'd asked himself out loud. The other disciples were now glaring at him. "Sorry, I'm tired and grumpy. Please give this brother some face," he said to his friend, loudly enough for others to overhear him.
Meanwhile, the boring extravaganza on stage continued.
Yang went in, died, died, died, died, went out, sighed at his lot in life, and then went to the next room while the judges gave their critiques.
It wasn't even interesting as an industry insider to spectate the scenarios; they were literally just all the same.
It was all a mix-up of a beat-em-up format. The only variables were the surroundings template, the ally template, and the number of zombies, or if they came in waves.
The comments from the judges also started to become repetitive. "The zombies move in a way reminiscent of a Jiangshi, despite them being a new form of enemy. The template for the soldiers was ill-picked: Why are they arriving in this formation? It is not something that would naturally occur in the field of battle…" and so on.
It was a gruelling two hours and twelve disqualifications later that they reached an interesting part.
It was time for Yang to go through Lung Junior's Room.
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AN: In hindsight I probably let the Last Of Us arc drag on too long. Sorry bout that. Anyway, I am making some ads for this story and will be having a vote for the winner in two weeks. Also, there are some images I already dumped on Patreon from failed illustrations that wouldn't fit, I turned them into memes. Also advanced chapters! Next arc already started. Have a great week