Simultaneous Transmigration: We Share a Role-Playing System

"What, are you surprised?"

Stan nodded. "A little. I was going to ask you how you got in, but then I realized it didn't really matter."

Then, he raised his glass, gesturing as if to say:

"Want some drinks?"

"Great, we have plenty of time tonight anyway."

Upon hearing this, Stan got up to get Locke a cup, as if he were having a drink with a long-lost friend.

Locke's gaze was sharp and fixed on Stan, but the other remained unmoved, showing no sign of pleading for help. A sense of surprise arose in Locke's heart, and he said in a deep voice:

"You don't seem afraid of me at all."

"What, you think I'd kneel down, weep, hug your ankles, kiss your boots, and beg you to have mercy?"

Stan's voice carried a hint of cold mockery. He reached for the crystal wine glass on the table, walked slowly to Locke, and handed it to him. Then he straightened the hem of his suit jacket with a noble and composed gesture before settling down in the chair opposite him.

"I was born in the 1960s." He looked up, his gaze sweeping over Locke and landing on the deep night outside the window. His voice was low and deep, carrying the vicissitudes and indifference honed by the years. "Back then, we people of color had only just been legally defined as 'human beings,' only just grasped at those so-called human rights. But what was the truth? The future of this country never truly belonged to us."

Locke rested his elbows on the table, his hand under his chin, his gaze fixed intently on Stan, a question nagging at him: Was he making excuses for himself, or whispering his last words? Or perhaps... both?

"I've gotten to where I am today because I know clearly that I can't act like a spoiled madman. That's a privilege reserved for white people, not mine."

Stan has led Wot for half his life, working his way up from the bottom to the CEO position. He has lost count of how much untold effort and how much bloodshed he paid.

He wasn't inexperienced in failure, nor had he ever made a comeback on his own. But this time, he knew perfectly well that he had no chance of turning things around.

He saw in Locke a resemblance to the ruthlessness and decisiveness of his youth. And that meant the other party would never spare his life.

"The only thing I learned from childhood is to always maintain elegance," Stan said in a deep and steady voice, each word firm and resolute. "Because dignity always belongs only to the winners."

He tilted his head back and downed the wine in one gulp, the bottom of the glass slamming heavily against the marble table with a crisp sound. Without beating around the bush, he cut to the chase, looking directly at Locke:

"Let's be frank. I know you'll never let me go, and I'm not stupid enough to be like Cipher, trying to wag my tail and beg for forgiveness."

"So?" Locke raised an eyebrow, his tone carrying a hint of amusement and scrutiny.

"So, let's talk business."

When the word "deal" was mentioned, the somber feeling of having fallen from the pinnacle of power instantly vanished from Stan's demeanor.

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes regaining the sharpness and confidence that belonged to the leader of Walter. His words were filled with precise and alluring temptation. At the negotiating table where interests were at stake, in the field he had cultivated for half his life, he had never been intimidated in the slightest.

"I know what you want. You want revenge. You want us to feel your pain. But I also know that you are not a short-sighted person who only cares about immediate gains. You deserve a grander future."

Stan's voice remained calm, with a seemingly gentle and kind smile playing on his lips.

That smile, which he had been wearing for half his life, was etched into his very bones. Now, it bloomed on his face, so genuine that it was without the slightest flaw. It seemed like a sincere greeting, but in reality, he was subtly handing bait to Locke, leading him step by step into the trap he had set, all to achieve his ultimate goal.

"You want me dead? Fine." He looked up at Locke, his tone resolute, each word clear. "But my death must have value. Even if I die, it must be as the CEO of Water International—I've dedicated my whole life to it, and this is the dignity I deserve."

"But the question is, what gives you the right to negotiate with me?" Locke's voice turned colder, carrying an undeniable air of authority. "And what gives me the right not to finish you off today?"

Upon hearing this, Stan chuckled softly, the smile spreading into his eyes, brimming with absolute certainty, as if everything was under his control.

"If you were truly the kind of reckless brute blinded by rage, my plan would have succeeded from the very beginning." He leaned forward slightly, speaking slowly and deliberately, each word hitting the nail on the head. "You should know that I hired mercenaries, bribed the police, and sent Xuanse to cause trouble for you, all to force you to go on a killing spree."

"Once you've stained your skin with blood, I can immediately label you a terrorist with superpowers. At that point, I'll manipulate public opinion, get the government involved, and completely push you to the opposite side of everyone."

"But you didn't." He changed the subject, his gaze sharply locking onto Locke. "You suppressed your anger, made the wisest choice with reason, scared off Xuanse, didn't kill anyone, and even got the Superhuman Affairs Bureau involved, cleanly extricating yourself from the situation."

"You are calm, intelligent, decisive, and have patience far beyond that of ordinary people." Stan's voice was not loud, but every word was precise, as if he were reviewing a chess game that he had already seen through. "If your goal is simply revenge, then you can kill me now, spend some time finding... finding Cypher, and then disappear without a trace, so that no one in this world can ever find you again."

"But you didn't do that." He paused, his gaze fixed on Locke, a determined look of certainty surging in his eyes. "So you must have other plans in mind. And that means there's a basis for cooperation between us."

"I still have resources, and the entire Walter platform." Stan's voice suddenly deepened, each word carrying a do-or-die determination. "As long as you guarantee the safety of my daughter and granddaughter, and let me die with dignity in this chair—the chair that belongs to the Walter CEO—I can get you anything you want. It's clearly a much better deal for you than wasting my still-useful life, isn't it?"

Locke remained silent.

He just stared intently at Stan, the murderous intent surging in his eyes almost tangible. That cold, oppressive feeling was like a dense net, instantly enveloping the entire office, causing cold sweat to instantly seep down Stan's back, and his fingertips to tighten almost imperceptibly.

But he didn't show the slightest fear.

Instead, facing this suffocating pressure, he slowly raised his hand and reached it towards Locke. That hand, which had once ruled the Water Empire, trembled slightly, but his voice was clenched tightly, carrying a resolute determination born of desperation:

"So, cooperation?"

A few seconds later, Locke finally moved. He didn't shake Stan's hand, nor did he even get up. He simply leaned forward slightly, rested his elbows on the table, and crossed his hands under his chin, pushing that overwhelming sense of control to the extreme.

His voice was low, with an unyielding coldness, as if issuing an order rather than a discussion:

"Take your hand back first."

Stan's shoulders suddenly felt heavy, as if a thousand-pound burden had been lifted, or as if his last bit of confidence had been drained away.

He obediently withdrew his hand, his fingertips clenched until they turned white. As he sat up straight, he subconsciously adjusted the hem of his suit jacket, but the composure he had shown earlier was gone, replaced by a cautious humility. At this moment, he was no longer the helmsman of the Water Empire, but merely a survivor who depended on others for survival.

Just as Stan slowly closed his eyes, his fingertips slightly curling, preparing to calmly face death, Locke's voice suddenly pierced the silence, cold and hard like metal tempered with ice:

"I've changed my mind."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Stan's tense profile, each word carrying an undeniable air of control: "I want you to witness Walter's destruction—this is the exchange, your bargaining chip for the time being."

Upon hearing the word "annihilation," Stan's heart sank, then began to pound wildly. A surge of ecstasy, like a scalding tide, instantly overwhelmed the last shred of composure he felt before facing death.

He suddenly opened his eyes, a genuine light flashing in those eyes that had once concealed scheming. The next second, his signature smile returned to his lips. Beneath that refined and masterful gentleness lay an impenetrable cunning, but now with a sharp edge born of a narrow escape.

"Of course, no problem at all." He answered very quickly, as if afraid Locke would change his mind. "Since I can't save him, then... let him burn brightly like a dazzling candle."