Chapter 23
Group B had to tackle the second problem at a clear disadvantage. Ten people had been eliminated in the first round, and B Team had lost more than A Team. Under the rules where a tie meant a loss, that gap hurt like hell. But elimination wasn't the end. The host announced,
"I'll give you one minute. There's a basket up front, so anyone among the eliminated who wants to rejoin, please remove one piece of clothing and place it in the basket."
It was short and sweet. No time to agonize. Sure, stripping off a top wasn't a big deal at this point, but what if it came time to ditch underwear? Could anyone decide that in just one minute? Everything was moving at breakneck speed.
When the minute was up, there were no holdouts. Or more precisely, no remaining holdouts. Every single eliminated participant had stripped off their top and tossed it in the basket. Not one had given up.
Men's bare torsos and women's bras flooded my field of vision all at once. It was a terrorist attack on my retinas mixed with some kind of twisted purification ritual. A guy's naked upper body? Just a dude. From slight beer guts to scrawny frames—nothing to see, and nothing I wanted to see. But the women? Totally different story.
Black, white, beige. Bras in every style and color imaginable. Some with lace trim, others simple sports-bra vibes. Their bare skin from the collarbone down was on full display, shoulder straps taut, backs completely exposed—and they were all casually heading back to their seats like it was no big deal.
I was lost in a haze, ogling the women's bras when—
"Aaack!!!"
My scream echoed through the entire hall, silencing everyone. It felt like my side was on fire. I glanced over to see Ha-young pinching my side with her thumb and index finger—not pinching, twisting the flesh.
All forty-something pairs of eyes snapped to me, including those of the women I'd just been staring at in their bras. Ha-young looked startled by the volume of my yell too.
"Uh... that was just to snap you out of it..." she mumbled shyly, her ears bright red.
Let me break down the situation: I'd been checking out the girls' bras, got pinched by my female friend for it, screamed like a banshee, and now forty people were staring at me.
"Sorry..." I apologized, because it felt like the thing to do. Hell if I knew what for exactly.
"Ahem... One minute's up, so here's the next problem," the host said, drawing everyone's gaze forward again.
Thank you, host.
"The area of Oeyeon Island is 0.5 square kilometers. True or false? You have one minute."
Oeyeon Island? One of those islands out in the West Sea, maybe? The name rang a vague bell, but no way did I know its area. I scanned B Team. As expected, no hands went up. Knowing the island's name didn't mean we knew its size. We weren't AIs or anything.
At least everyone was still in. But dividing into odds and evens again would cluster people who'd gone the same way in round one together. Two wrong answers in a row, and you'd already be down to underwear. We needed to mix it up.
"Numbers 1 through 9 go to True, 10 through 18 to False!"
This would split up anyone who'd been together in the first round. It kept everyone who'd already stripped from bunching up and wiping out again. No time to waste—I bolted to the True-side pull-up bar. I was number 1: True. Ha-young was 9: True too.
We grabbed hold and hung there. Twisting my head while dangling, I saw Ha-young on the lower bar due to our height difference. Then I looked ahead.
It hit me with a wave of awe. Five or six women in bras were hanging from the False bar. Arms raised, their skin stretched smooth from shoulders through underarms and up over the ribs. Bra straps pulled tight, breasts shifting slightly under their dangling weight—
Underwear views all day yesterday and today, and I still wasn't tired of it. I felt like trash even thinking it, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.
"Time's up. No eliminations this round. Now, 30 seconds."
Snapped back to reality. I hurriedly counted the people on False: exactly 18. A Team had split evenly too. They'd fumbled in round one but quickly learned the half-and-half strategy. Lucky for them—their random cluster had been right.
30 seconds flew by. No one dropped.
"The answer is... False."
...Ah.
Bodies on True sagged down in defeat. Wrong again. But no time to dwell—I rushed to the basket and yanked off my top. Time was tight. Upper-body exposure was whatever now.
Cool air hit my bare skin. I tossed the shirt in and turned, spotting women hesitating by the basket. Four from B Team had to strip a second item—pants next, leaving them in full underwear. A Team had two in the same boat.
The difference was stark. B Team's four women stripped their pants without a second thought, sliding them off, dropping them in the basket, and strutting back to their seats in bras and panties. No hesitation.
A Team's two lingered, clutching each other's hands, faces anxious. Only when the host started counting down from ten with his fingers did they grit their teeth and drop trou. Hands immediately clamping over their panties, they scurried back to their seats.
This was a far cry from the morning. Morning A Team would've stripped panties to finger-write their names, bared their breasts to help the team, handled nude confessions like business. Shame seemed evaporated.
But now? Hesitating over a single pair of pants. I was convinced: the real drug went to B Team. A Team's morning dose had worn off, and we'd gotten it in the afternoon. That's why B Team stripped without flinching, while A Team's shame had returned.
I reflected on myself. I'd taken the drug—should be feeling something. But nada. Was I unchanged because I'm a guy and shirtless isn't a thrill anyway, or the drug? Hard to tell. Hell, I wasn't even sure if I could perceive its effects on myself.
Then Ha-young returned to my side. Bra on top—light green—pants below. The temperature contrast between exposed upper and clothed lower was insane. Bare shoulders. Collarbones. Goosebumps on her arms. The gentle swell of her breasts cresting over the bra cups.
Why did my female friend's underwear look so damn captivating, no matter how many times? Four women in full undies right in front of me, and my eyes kept drifting back to Ha-young.
"Tidy up that gaze before I gouge your eyes out..." Her voice was low and icy.
Busted.
"Ahem..." I cleared my throat awkwardly and whipped my eyes away.
Before the next problem, I shook off the daze and assessed the situation. Two guys down to boxers—double eliminations stripping shirts and pants. Four women in full underwear—one more miss and they'd be nude.
And somehow, I knew: guys or girls, they'd strip. To win. Drug or no drug, no one here was quitting on the prize money.
Should we split to minimize damage? Or gamble on luck to keep everyone covered? As I pondered, the host spoke.
"Next problem."
Third round.
"The Imjin War was in 1592, the Jeongyu War in 1597, and the Byeongja Horan in 1628. True or false? One minute. Choose wisely."
Wait—this one seemed familiar. I racked my brain and scanned B Team.
"Imjin and Jeongyu are right. Anyone know Byeongja Horan?" someone called out.
Brief silence. One guy raised his hand. "Not a hundred percent, but... I think Byeongja Horan was 1627."
1627. The question said 1628. "Not sure" was iffy, but one thing was clear: Imjin and Jeongyu were correct, so Byeongja was the key. Two right, one wrong? Probably false.
No one else chimed in. Time ticking. Time to bet big. Nail this, and B Team survives intact while A loses half—instant reversal. Miss, and all 18 of us strip. High stakes.
But half-half forever wouldn't close the gap.
"Everyone to False."
Decision made. Even if we all stripped once more, boldness was key now. Hesitation loses games.
No pushback from B Team. We all knew: move fast. Bars weren't spacious.
18 from B Team surged to the False bars. I glimpsed a panty-clad ass jiggling ahead, bouncing rhythmically with each step—
Ha-young's glare bored into my back. Didn't see a thing. Nope.
A Team split half-half again. Nine from A, 18 from B—27 total storming False. Crowded chaos. Guys and girls shoving in, skin brushing skin—no qualms. Money makes monsters.
I gripped a bar and hung. Packed tight, no room to twist. One minute up.
"Time. The five who couldn't grab on are out."
Five. I craned my neck: three A Team women, one A guy, one B guy left standing. B lost 1, A lost 4. Best-case so far—if False was right.
Eliminated trudged away, pissed.
"30 seconds."
Third round, and my arms screamed compared to before. Crammed posture had hands nearly touching. Muscles burned. Groans leaked everywhere.
"Nngh..."
"Haa..."
30 seconds felt eternal. Palms slick, fingers stiffening. Somehow held on.
"Answer time."
The host's voice boomed. My heart leaped to my throat. Wrong answer, and 18 B Team stripping.
"The answer is..."
Breath caught.
"False."
"Wooo—!!!"
"Hell yeah!!!"
B Team dropped cheering. I clenched my fists without thinking. Nailed it. Byeongja Horan was 1627, not 1628.
One problem flipped the board. B Team: only 1 out (couldn't grab bar). A Team: half wiped on True, plus 4 more on False—huge losses. B Team now firmly ahead.