The Demonic Games (Disgardium Book #7): LitRPG Series, Dan Sugralinov [the read aloud family TXT] 📗

“As you know, we cursers can set whichever voice commands we like. ‘Hope you die!’ activates a curse that disables the enemy’s skills.”

“Wow!” Octius said, looking impressed. “Roman, your class is rarely encountered and not particularly popular due to its penalty against combat abilities. What you’ve just told us is sure to amuse our viewers. Want to share some other voice commands? Maybe something…” The gamesmaster twirled a finger in the air. “Catchier!”

“Of course!” Roman beamed. “I know a curser girl from the Russian district who tells her victims to eat a… um, she refers to a certain human organ.”

Octius turned around and looked at his behind, then leaned down, adjusted his trousers and asked in surprise:

“Eat a human organ..?”

“Yeah, kind of! She says, ‘go eat a’ — and then names the organ.”

“Which organ is it?”

“I can’t say,” Roman said, blushing. “There are kids watching.”

“Then tell me, which curse are these words linked to? I admit, you’ve intrigued me!”

“The curse is called Suicide. The victim starts running at full speed into the nearest wall.”

“Whatever for?” the gamesmaster asked in even greater surprise.

“So they hit the wall at full speed…”

Maybe because of this performance, Roman was named the best player of the day. After studying the results of the viewers’ vote, Octius chuckled and glanced at me. I filled with apprehension.

“To be honest, the results of the vote have me at a loss,” Octius said. “No, I’m not referring to Roman. That has happened several times in my memory — unable to choose between leading players, the viewers simply pick someone memorable. Clearly, by almost sending Scyth home, Roman has thus found his way into the viewers’ hearts. But, speaking of Scyth, can we really call his performance boring?” He shook his head. “I do not understand it! Yes, my dear contestants, the worst player of the day, for the third day running, is Herald Scyth!”

I expected as much, but I hoped up to the last moment that the audience vote might be legitimate, because otherwise I had no chance to win: the corporation had enough power to twist facts and hide behind their beloved excuse, ‘it’s all part of the gameplay.’

The mages and the Readers who had fallen victim to Spirit Shackles crowed the loudest, even jumping up from their chairs and telling me they hoped I died in various disgusting ways. They made enough noise to put football fans to shame. The holocube showed twisted faces and insulting gestures directed at me. The rest of the hall reacted less loudly than in the first days.

While Octius wound things up and wished everyone a nice night, I tried to figure out what was going on. Did the viewers really hate me that much? I didn’t believe that. Sure, maybe my performance wasn’t the most exciting — I hadn’t even killed a single mob so far, — but was there really nobody worse?

“At least half the people here had a far less successful day than you,” said a tremulous voice behind me.

Turning my head, I saw Joseph Rosenthal, the jeweler Meister. The old man wasn’t looking at me, but was standing nearby and was definitely talking to me. What, was he reading my thoughts? Or was it all clear enough on my face?

I answered the same way, raising my head to stare at the holocube as it showed the contestant leaderboard:

“Then why am I the worst player again?”

“Because you, my young man, made an impression. Dullness isn’t memorable. If you don’t remember someone, you don’t vote for them.”

Meister fell silent, and when I glanced over, he had already moved away to embrace a black-haired lady of around eighty, her lips painted brightly. Despite her age, she had a figure fit to compete with young models. The comm gave me a hint: Clarissa Giovanni, also known as Laurie the fairy chef. I remembered her; she’d called me a ‘brainless freeloader’ while I registered with the royal scribe Ravencrow. Now she was gushing with admiration for Meister the ‘white knight.’ Clarissa’s hat was so big that when she turned around, she blocked the jeweler’s head from view.

Rising silently, I found Kerry and went with her to the media center. There I answered my share of the journalists’ questions and took part in a couple of streams. The viewers asked my favorite color, what kind of music I listen to, whether I could lend them ‘a little gold…’

The journalists weren’t much more interesting than the viewers, asking what I ate, how I’d slept and whether I was planning to continue the aborted fight against Coover. One flashy-dressed girl even asked me whether I was having an affair with my assistant. I couldn’t resist making fun of her question; I asked her if she wanted to join in and make it a threesome. Why not? Ask dumb questions, get dumb answers. But the trouble was, she agreed and kept following us until the droids ‘neutralized’ her.

Once we were rid of the horny reporter, Kerry suggested we unwind — check out the night club, go to the spa or the gym, or even an intimate relaxation chamber.

“Or we could go socialize, make some friends,” she added, running out of suggestions.

“Are you kidding? Make friends in this viper’s nest? Two guards won’t be enough for that. I’m going to my room.”

There was a lot to think about. I had to check the net too, see what people were saying. It was already obvious that I wouldn’t get far without the viewers’ approval. The more fans I had, the less Snowstorm would be believed. Two days had passed, and I was still at level one! And any death would be my last…

Kerry walked with me to my room. We stopped outside. The security droids rolled up into orbs,