The corpses were dragged away, and amid a fresh wave of terror, everyone began a new game. This time, they had to write the story of the main course, but in this round, they had more ideas.
After the results of the previous elimination came out, they realized their earlier strategy had worked. Those whose slips had been taken away, leaving them unable to write new answers, had all been eliminated. In other words, they really could determine the winners in advance by destroying other people's answers.
Only twenty people remained in the hall now, and ten would be eliminated this time.
The number of eliminations seemed to follow no particular pattern. Sometimes there were more, sometimes fewer; it seemed entirely dependent on the chef's mood. Thus, no one could rationally judge whether they would be eliminated in the next round.
Half the people were about to be cut again. The remaining twenty had lost all reason. They only wanted to destroy each other's answers as quickly as possible, and roars, screams, and cries of murder rang without end.
The chef was unmoved by the chaos in the restaurant. Schiller was still eating, as though the uproar had nothing to do with him.
With fewer and fewer people, stealing slips became much easier. Before long, all the answers had been collected. The chef entered the back room again, and when he emerged this time, he paused for an extra moment.
"Now I will announce the list of those who will become ingredients." The chef delivered the familiar opening line, but his tone had grown heavy. Then he spoke a name no one had expected.
"Neog Sohip."
The others were only startled for a moment before quickly understanding. Schiller's elimination was only natural. He had written nothing in the previous round;