In Erangel, which was crushed beyond recognition by war and time, the air was always filled with a turbid smell of dust, like a long-deposited sadness. The abandoned gas station stood there, rusty, as if countless breaths were painful. Suddenly, a bright red sign caught my eye. It was KFC, shining abruptly in this desolate place, like an untimely joke, and also like a long-lost sigh.
The players in the game, crawling in the grass, holding their guns tightly, with a mask-like indifferent face, were attracted by the red sign. The self-service ordering machine stood coldly and mechanically, waiting for its moment. Just press the button lightly, and the player’s name will flash on the screen, and then a heavy fried chicken meal will slowly appear, as if it is some unexpected gift in life.
This meal is not just a simple supply. The golden chicken leg is like a dream mixed with dust and sweat. The moment the character bites it, the action is solemn and has a helpless sense of ritual. French fries are given the identity of bandages, and drinks become energy supplements, as if all vitality is quietly injected into this small food. Players struggle in the gunfire, but at this moment they try to find that kind of warmth, that sense of life that seems to have long been away.
Each person can only use each KFC once, and they can only regain this redemption-like gift when the game enters the fourth stage. This restriction is like the shackles of reality, reminding people of the finiteness of life and the restraint of desire. The fried chicken meal is no longer just a combination of chicken and French fries, but has become a symbol: the obsession with living and the remembrance of life.
This red light not only burns in Erangel, but also illuminates the ruins of Miramar, Sanhok, and Vikendi, and even flutters on the plane flying to the battlefield. The banner flutters in the wind, like a silent letter, conveying warmth and sorrow, penetrating the boundaries between virtual and reality.
The players’ backs sometimes run and sometimes stop in the broken world. Their eyes are empty but deep, mixed with the desire for survival and the longing for human affection. The aroma of fried chicken diffuses like a ghost, swaying in the ruthless gunfire, outlining a fragment of life, absurd but real.
Perhaps, the real battle is not only the collision of guns and bullets, but also the cry of the soul for warmth. On this desolate wasteland, a red fried chicken meal is a silent revolution, which reminds us that living is not only breathing, but also the persistence of beauty and warmth.
It is bitter and sweet, just like the forgotten tender moments in our hurried life. No matter where we are, the red light will always illuminate the softest corner of our hearts and teach us how to find a trace of our own peace in the storm.