"Thank you, boss, cough... let me know how I should cooperate in a bit... cough cough... just give your orders."
The wheelchair-bound boy replied to Wang Zhifan, and as he spoke, he couldn't help but start coughing. A few strands of bright red blood trickled from his pale lips.
"This boy really seems like he won't live for many more days; perhaps becoming a player is wiser than waiting to die at home."
Wang Zhifan somewhat understood the boy's choice upon seeing this. He had more compelling reasons than others to become a player, but the hope of survival was extremely slim.
After talking with the determined wheelchair-bound boy, Wang Zhifan looked towards the other side, at the bald, vest-wearing old man squinting at something in the sky.
The sixty-five-year-old man with a large machete seemed to notice the shift in attention towards him and quickly spoke:
