The pencil scratched across the A4 paper, writing and sketching. Its rustling sounded like a harbinger of death, howling relentlessly at Chris as he held it.
+Hungry. I want food, food...+
Chris scratched his head, utterly baffled by the requests to increase or purchase food supplies.
Were the players in the Mountain Tiger Warband all pigs? How could every last one of them eat so much?
Chris was puzzled, but he did not dwell on it. After all, the Mountain Tiger Warband had to spend its merit points and money to buy all that food.
This week alone, for example, the members of the Mountain Tiger Warband had topped up their accounts with over a million in cash. Most of that money had then gone toward food, with a small portion spent on basic medicines, bandages, and other medical supplies.
Chris did not care what Little Knife and his friends were planning. As long as they paid, he lost nothing even if they fed the food to pigs. In fact, it was only thanks to the Mountain Tiger Warband's collective frenzy of spending that he had enough funds to support the refugees and prisoners of war under his care.
So what were players?
Players were his bread and butter.
That was why Chris wished the Mountain Tiger Warband would keep spending... whatever they wanted to do, he would leave them to it, so long as it was not some monstrous atrocity. He had neither the time nor the energy to interfere.
He was far too busy.
How should he put it? Chris had underestimated what the players could do. The army of players he had unleashed seemed to have switched the map into a paint mode, rapidly eating away at the white that had belonged to the Republic and turning