Sehuan chose [All for One].
As soon as he returned, the oppressive heat of seething anger enveloped him, stifling and suffocating. The atmosphere was heavy as if the air itself was filled with resentment, pressing down on him from every direction. Then came the barrage of voices—sharp, heated, cutting into him like jagged shards of hot iron.
"Bro, what the hell? You could've saved all of us if you had just chosen the food."
"How selfish can you be? We're all starving, and you picked something for yourself."
Sehuan's brows furrowed, his confusion growing with every accusation. The crowd surrounded him, their faces twisted into grotesque masks of anger, eyes glinting with hunger and hatred.
'I thought they weren't supposed to see my reward,' Sehuan thought, his eyes flickering across the crowd. Each step he took was met with glares, faces lined with exhaustion and malice. His mind raced, but his expression remained cold and unreadable.
A chilling laugh erupted behind him, sharp and gleeful. The sound sent a shiver down Sehuan's spine, drawing his attention.
The demon stood there, hovering just above the ground, its twisted form shrouded in shadow. Its lips curled into a wicked grin, fangs glistening in the dim light. "Oh, I couldn't help myself," the demon said, its voice dripping with sadistic glee. "You chose something only for yourself. Naturally, if the pigs found out, they'd squeal. And the best part? More suffering means more viewers."
The demon's laughter echoed in the stale air before it vanished, leaving Sehuan standing amidst the simmering hostility. But he didn't care. Ignoring the gnashing teeth and desperate pleas, he turned his back on the crowd and walked, each step deliberate and silent, his boots crunching on the dry earth. The cries and demands faded into the background, drowned by the rhythmic beat of his heart.
Inside his room, he slammed the door shut, the noise outside muffled to a dull hum. His sanctuary was dark, only the faintest shafts of light filtering through the cracks in the wall. On the table sat a small bag that hadn't been there before.
'The reward,' he thought, eyeing it with mild disinterest.
Opening it, he was greeted by the pungent smell of dried shiitake mushrooms. Disappointment surged through him. A measly pound of mushrooms. He scoffed, tossing the bag onto the table, but hunger gnawed at him, persistent and relentless. He boiled the mushrooms using a single bottle of water he had been given, watching the dark liquid bubble and swirl, the thin steam rising in ghostly tendrils.
Outside, the wails and cries of those still hungry and thirsty seeped through the walls like a creeping disease. The sound clawed at him, scratching at his ears. Even as he sat down to eat, the constant, pitiful begging continued. Desperate. Pathetic.
Lying on the bed afterward, Sehuan stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. The cries outside grew louder, more frantic. He sighed heavily, pulling the pillow over his head to drown them out. Their suffering didn't matter to him. He was alive—that's all that mattered. "Annoying fuckers," he muttered under his breath before closing his eyes.
Morning came, bleak and unforgiving. Sehuan rose from his bed, still feeling the weight of fatigue pressing against his muscles. The smell of old, dried sweat clung to the air as he rummaged through the bag once more, pulling out a couple of sausages. 'At least I got something decent,' he thought, tossing them onto a makeshift stove to cook.
After eating, he felt the looming presence of time hanging over him. There were hours left until the next wave, and he had no intention of wasting them. Strength was key. Without it, he wouldn't survive long in the death waves. His body ached, and his muscles were sore from inactivity and weakness.
'The stronger the body, the higher the chance of living,' he reminded himself.
He sat down, pulled out a worn scrap of paper, and began sketching a workout routine. It was simple but brutal:
Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday:
25x Push-ups
25x Squats
25x Sit-ups
1-minute plank
Rest days:
Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday
His first attempt left him gasping for air, muscles trembling. Sweat dripped down his brow, pooling on the cold stone floor beneath him. "Was I always this weak?" he muttered, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he lay sprawled on the ground.
Time ticked by, but Sehuan didn't care. He would rebuild his strength. He had to. His hand reached for his phone, checking the time. Five minutes left before the wave began.
"Hmm," he mused, wiping the sweat from his brow, "maybe I'll skip this one. No sense in overdoing it."
He stepped outside, seating himself near the edge of the crowd. Immediately, he felt their eyes on him—burning with hatred, suspicion, and envy. He could see it in their gaunt faces, their hollow cheeks, the tremor in their hands. But he didn't care.
People moved away from him as if he were diseased. The circle of isolation around him widened, a silent acknowledgment that he was not one of them, nor would he ever be again.
He saw the sick and the broken lying among the crowd—hollowed bodies that barely clung to life. Eyes sunken, bones protruding from emaciated frames. They turned their heads toward him, pleading with their eyes, silently begging for help. Their skin stretched thin over their fragile bodies, each breath a struggle.
Sehuan glanced at them, his gaze cold and unfeeling. He knew their pain, but it wasn't his problem. They hadn't earned their keep.
Before long, a group of teachers, led by a woman who looked just as starved as the rest, approached him. Her voice was weak, trembling as she spoke. "Mr. Sehuan, please… share some food and water with your classmates."
He turned his icy gaze on her, studying the hollow look in her eyes, the way her hands shook. "No."
Her face crumpled as she continued to plead, "Please, have mercy. We haven't eaten in days. The water fountain may stop soon, and your classmates… they'll die without food or water. What would your parents say if they saw you like this?"
Sehuan's response was loud, sharp, and final. "Those who fight in the wave earn their food. If you're so desperate, go to the center and fight for your share."
Silence. The crowd couldn't argue. He was right.
But desperation knows no reason. Three malnourished souls lunged at him, their eyes wild with fear and hunger. They tried to grab him, their fingers weakly clawing at his clothes, but their strength was laughable. Sehuan easily knocked them back with swift, precise punches. Each one crumpled to the ground, clutching their faces, sobbing.
"Please… don't let us die."
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again, just… please."
"Hungry… so hungry…"
Their pathetic cries reached his ears, but he felt nothing. Above, the demon's laughter rang out again, louder this time. The twisted creature hovered in the air, clapping its hands and feet in sick amusement.
"Ahh, wonderful! Time for the next wave!" it announced with glee, its black eyes glinting with malice.
Sehuan remained seated, unmoved.
The demon's grin faltered. It floated down toward him, confusion written across its face. "Hey! Aren't you going in?"
Sehuan stretched his legs out, reclining back. "Nope. Just worked out. I don't want to overdo it. Get those starving bastards to fight—they're desperate for food."
The demon blinked, its smile fading. "Listen, kid, I've got a lot of eyes on you. Viewers from all over want to see what you're made of. If you fight in today's wave, I'll finally break into the top 10% of streamers. How about doing me a favor, huh?"
Sehuan's eyes narrowed, a spark of calculation flickering behind them. He saw an opportunity.