The story of a poor soul thrown into a survival show where humanoid robots hunt you down.
"Testing, testing — can everyone hear me~?"
Click. The dark banquet hall lit up in sync with the host's microphone.
The venue looks like it could comfortably hold around 1,000 people.
The people in the hall are busy squinting and blinking, adjusting to the light.
"Wonderful, sounds like you can all hear me. Nice to meet you! And welcome~"
"To the greatest Butterfly Show on earth!"
Cheers and thunderous applause erupt from the 2nd and 3rd floors.
Meanwhile, the 1st floor — the ground level — is eerily silent.
The 1st floor, where everyone wears all white with black restraints, stands in stark contrast to the 2nd and 3rd floors, where the crowd sports everything from glamorous outfits to casual everyday clothes.
And I am
"Oh, f**k."
on the 1st floor.
-
The rich people in this world are overflowing with money. So much that they build chocolate bathtubs or create potato chip flavors that don't exist in the world when they're bored. Then some crazy billionaire started rambling about wanting to go back in time and whatnot, and that's how they created the Butterfly Show.
They dress it up with a pretty name, but it's really just making humanoid killing robots fight each other. Since they're not human, it sidesteps ethical issues, and since you can bet money on it, the economic inequality... blah blah blah, anyway, that's the gist.
The problem is that middle-class speculation has gotten out of hand. The wealthy just watch it like a musical and throw pocket change — what amounts to their dog's monthly treat budget — but for the middle class, it's become something like the lottery. 100 humanoid killing machines enter each round, and since the upper class enjoys the atmosphere, the prize pool keeps climbing.
Anyway, none of this has anything to do with me...
The problem is that I'm a human,
and I've been thrown in as a butterfly on the 1st floor.
I'm currently staring at the insane killing robots on either side of me. To my left is a female-type robot with saws attached to its arms. To my right is a male-type robot, 5 meters tall, that breathes fire from its mouth.
The young master said his family needed to participate but didn't have the money, so he told me — in all seriousness — to enter in place of a robot. I had no choice but to agree... He did promise to secretly pull me out after Round 1, but... you want me to survive Round 1 where 50% are eliminated? Oh dear God.
