Ten Day Ultimatum

If the saying {the rules are absolute} still holds true, then what’s written on the mask must be the key to the solution. But how can it be deciphered? And when will the harpoons be launched?
{Time will not stop even for one quarter}... Could this be interpreted as ‘a quarter after one’?
Qi Xia turned to the desk clock. It was already five minutes past one. If a quarter after one marked the launch time, then less than ten minutes remained.

{Circle in the direction of home a hundred times}...
The nine individuals present hailed from diverse hometowns. Moreover, {a hundred times} was a significant number. If they chose the wrong direction, they could easily waste the remaining ten minutes. But aside from themselves, was there anything else in the room that could {circle}?
Qi Xia's gaze settled on the desk clock in the center of the table. He leaned forward and reached out to gently touch it, only to discover it was firmly affixed to the table and couldn’t be moved. ‘The clock can’t be moved. Could it be the chairs?’ Qi Xia lowered his gaze to the chair beneath him. It was an old, ordinary chair that exuded a musty odor. It sat plainly on the ground, with no hidden mechanisms to be seen.

In that case, all that remained was...
Qi Xia reached out and tried turning the table. Sure enough, a faint sound of chains came from inside. However, the table was incredibly heavy, thwarting Qi Xia’s attempt to rotate it more than a few centimeters, even with great effort.
‘One hundred times…’

The magnitude of the task clearly exceeded the capabilities of one or two individuals; the collective effort of all nine was essential if they hoped to turn the table and survive.
Upon witnessing Qi Xia’s actions, Lin Qin quickly drew everyone’s attention. They gathered around the table and found that it could indeed rotate.
“You’re truly amazing, swindler,” Qiao Jiajin said with a nod. “If we turn this table a hundred times, maybe an invisible door will appear.”

Qi Xia stole another glance at the ticking clock. Despite the dwindling time, the task seemed more manageable now. When rotating the round table a hundred times in the direction of {home}, there were only two viable options: left or right. Yet the real issue was that each person’s hometown lay in a different cardinal direction. How, then, could they determine whether to turn left or right?
“Qi Xia, do you know when the harpoons will be launched?” Lin Qin asked, still covering her mouth and nose.
“The note stated that {time will not stop even for one quarter}, so the launch should occur at one-fifteen,” Qi Xia replied calmly.

Qiao Jiajin’s face shifted visibly. “So we’ve got less than ten minutes left? Then let’s start spinning right now.”
Doctor Zhao moved the body lying on the table to a corner of the room, then slowly sat down. He reached out and tested the table’s weight. “We only have one shot at this. If we have to rotate this massive table a hundred times, what happens if we turn it in the wrong direction?”
“There’s still a fifty percent chance of survival!” Qiao Jiajin exclaimed, growing anxious. “If we don’t move, we die for sure. But if we start turning, we’ve at least got a fifty percent chance of living. So hurry the hell up!”

With firm determination, he threw every ounce of his strength into forcing the table to rotate left. Despite Qiao Jiajin’s slim build, his latent strength was formidable—he single-handedly managed to turn the table halfway around. “Why are you all just standing there?!” Qiao Jiajin’s frustration erupted in a heated outburst. “Shit! Come on, give me a hand!”
The rest of the group acknowledged the logic in Qiao Jiajin’s argument. With no better options, they stepped forward to help.
Now faced with an unknown outcome, they found themselves forced to gamble.
However, amid the uncertainty, Qi Xia remained motionless. His hesitation mirrored the uncertainty lingering in his mind over the correct direction. Left or right?

Why the word {home}?...
Considering we’re all Chinese, perhaps the intended direction is {eastward}...
Up represents North, down is South, left is West, and right denotes East. Hence, the answer could be {right}. But what about those whose homes lie in the West?

Perhaps the hometown of each person present is connected to the narrative of the {Zuo Zhuan} from the Spring and Autumn Period, implying the answer lies to the {left}.
Qi Xia’s eyes narrowed slightly as he continued contemplating the situation. He had initially thought about using two corpses as a shield—but if everyone else died and another game followed...
Now is not the time to abandon them, Qi Xia told himself. With resolve, he reached for a sheet of white paper from the rotating table. Grasping a pen, he stood and walked to an empty spot. Sitting down, he began to write.

Though collectively perplexed, the group’s hands kept moving, and the table had already been rotated more than ten times.
“If he hadn’t labeled himself a {swindler}, I’d think that kid was a mathematician,” Qiao Jiajin muttered to Tian Tian.
Still dizzy from her earlier spinning, Tian Tian could only manage a half-nod.

This time, Qi Xia didn’t jot down any vertical calculations. Instead, he began sketching a rough map of the country. The direction of home... His thoughts surged, and suddenly, a realization struck.
Wait a minute… Qi Xia’s eyes widened. If the {organizer} has the power to gather individuals with shared experiences from across provinces, then perhaps the {province} is part of the answer too? Qi Xia turned and looked at the group, who were still turning the table. “Did anyone fabricate your {hometown} earlier when you spoke?” he asked solemnly.
Everyone shook their heads. After all, a person’s hometown is often revealed through their accent and mannerisms, making it hard to fake.

“Excellent,” Qi Xia gave a slight nod. “Now, please go around and repeat where each of your hometowns is.”
Police Officer Li went first. “I am from Inner Mongolia.”
Qi Xia reached out and marked a black dot on Inner Mongolia.

“Sichuan Province,” Lawyer Zhang Chenze said aloofly.
“I’m from Shaanxi Province...” Tian Tian added.
“Dali City, Yunnan Province,” said Kindergarten Teacher Xiao Ran.

“Guangdong Province,” Qiao Jiajin stated.
“Ningxia (autonomous region),” said Counseling Psychologist Lin Qin.
“I work in Jiangsu,” Doctor Zhao remarked.

Qi Xia marked each person’s hometown on the map, then added his own: {Shandong}.
At that moment, everyone turned to Han Yimo, the writer, who had yet to speak about his hometown.
“Han Yimo, are you from Guangxi or Taiwan?” Qi Xia inquired.

Han Yimo, caught off guard, asked, “How did you know?”
“Time is running short. Answer quickly.”
“I’m from Guangxi Province...”

Qi Xia nodded in acknowledgment.
There were only two real possibilities for Han Yimo’s origin: Guangxi Province or Taiwan Province. Had he said anything else, it would have revealed a lie. Fortunately, he told the truth.
Qi Xia marked the final province on the map. Nine black dots in total. As expected. Qi Xia muttered to himself before calling out to the others, “Stop! Start turning it to the right.”

“Right?”
Qi Xia quickly rushed over to the table, flung the white paper down onto its surface, and initiated the rotation in the opposite direction.
Despite their initial confusion, everyone followed his lead.

Doctor Zhao glanced at the map on the table, his gaze falling on the nine black dots.
“Why is it {right}?”