Emern's grip tightened on Emai's shoulder as she staggered, her body trembling under the relentless force of his blows. Her knees hit the ground with a dull thud, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and for the first time in their rivalry, her defiance cracked.
She looked up at him, her green eyes dull, the fire that once burned so fiercely now extinguished. Her lips parted weakly.
"I give up," she muttered.
Before Emern could process the words, a drone shot across the sky, moving with impossible speed. It zipped toward Emai, and in the blink of an eye, sliced cleanly through her neck. Her body slumped forward, her head hitting the dirt with a soft thud. The sight was surreal—her expression frozen in a faint grimace, disconnected from her form.
& For surrendering, Emai is given the penalty: Vines Hurt To Pull &
The panel's announcement was cold, mechanical, like the world itself had become indifferent to life and death. It felt like she hadn't even died, with the tone of the voice.
Emern's breath caught in his throat as he took a step back, his mind struggling to reconcile what had just happened. He had expected her defeat, but not like this. Not with her lifeless body sprawled before him, as if all the fire, all the rivalry that had defined them, had been snuffed out in an instant.
His mind churned, memories of their clashes flashing before his eyes—her sly smirks, her relentless pursuit to one-up him. But now, those memories felt distant, faded, like the echoes of a life he no longer lived.
"Is this really where it all ends?" he thought. "Maybe if I had stayed with my friends, I could have convinced them all to surrender… Maybe then, I wouldn't be alone."
But that thought was hollow. He knew deep down that no amount of friendship could have changed this outcome. The prideful and the determined—people like Emai—would never submit without force. And even if they had, this world's twisted laws seemed to demand a price for everything.
He let out a sigh, his humanity slowly slipping away as the battle continued to rage around him. His allies, obedient and ruthless, carved through the opposing forces like knives through cloth. There was no honor in their victory, only cold efficiency. The fortress above the mountains, perched on the jagged peaks, loomed in the distance—a silent witness to the carnage.
"We won!" one of his allies shouted triumphantly.
The panel flickered to life once more.
& Team B has won. For winning as a secondary team, you are awarded one extra perk. Choose wisely. &
Emern's eyes narrowed as the panel filled with options. Strength, speed, agility—traits designed to turn anyone into a killing machine. Yet, one choice stood out, whispering to him from the dark corners of his mind. It wasn't about raw power, but something far more insidious: charisma. The ability to sway the strong to your side, to manipulate the tides of battle without lifting a finger.
He hesitated. Charisma had never been his strong suit. Even as a child, he had been manipulated by others—those who wore fake smiles while controlling his every move. When his parents were alive, they had shielded him from the shadows of the world, but even they couldn't protect him forever. The shadows crept closer with every step he took, whispering promises of power.
Emern knew the allure of manipulation, and for a moment, he wondered if he should resist it. But resistance felt futile. There was no one left to convince him otherwise. His friends were gone. His family was gone. The only thing left was his own ambition, and the truth that had always been gnawing at him—that in the end, the strong would prevail, and the weak would be forgotten.
"Perhaps it's not wrong," he thought. "If I can survive... if I can rise to power, who can judge me but the gods themselves?"
He selected the trait.
As the choice locked in, a strange awareness settled over him. Not everyone here was from his world. Some of the combatants spoke of distant nations, like the Republic of Thuned, while others talked about vanished civilizations such as Austria-Hungary or Bengal. Their words painted a picture of worlds torn apart, where governments crumbled and wars reshaped the very fabric of society.
The panel flickered again, this time slower, as if it were processing something deep within its code. Then, the screen displayed a new message:
& Kingdom of the Underworld / Special Talent: Soul Manipulation. &
Emern's heart sank. Kingdom of The Underworld? The weight of the words pressed against his chest, and for the first time, he felt a true sense of dread. There was something about this place, this test, that twisted everything it touched. He clenched his fists, cursing himself for not thinking through his choices.
"I will never choose without understanding again," he muttered, the bitterness lacing his voice.
His breath came harder now, each inhale scraping against his lungs like sandpaper. He shut his eyes, focusing on calming himself. When he opened them again, the world around him had changed.
He was standing in the middle of a grim street, surrounded by men in black medieval armor. They marched with a harsh, mechanical precision, dragging behind them lines of chained people—captives with dirt-smudged faces and hollow eyes. Each one gripped a pickaxe tightly, their fingers trembling as they shuffled forward. The clanking of chains filled the air, and every few moments, one of the guards yanked at the captives' bindings, forcing them to quicken their pace.
The bystanders on the street moved cautiously, keeping their heads down as they passed. Every now and then, a glance was thrown toward the armed guards, but no one dared make eye contact for more than a fleeting second. The guards sneered at them, their amusement barely hidden as they tugged on the chains again.
Emern stood frozen, taking in the scene. This wasn't some battlefield filled with warriors and glory. It was something far more sinister. The world had shifted, and with it, his place in it. The weight of his choices bore down on him, but there was no turning back now.
This was his reality. And perhaps, in time, he would have to accept that the cost of survival was more than just fighting battles—it was the slow erosion of everything he once held dear.
A small, cold thought flickered in his mind as he watched the chained captives being led away: Was Emai's fate truly sealed by surrendering? Or was this place determined to crush them all, no matter what they chose?
He exhaled, and as the grim march continued, Emern realized that his journey had only just begun—and the path ahead would not spare the weak.