I've been informed that my next Game is in three days. That means I'll start with a 46-day timer. For now, all I can do is sit and wait.
The cell is eerily quiet compared to the roaring crowd I remember from the colosseum. The faint, muffled cheers trickle through the stone walls, a haunting echo of their twisted excitement. My thoughts wander.
Saxumidian, renowned for its strength and magic, is sorely lacking in culinary skill. Each meal they've served me is the same gruel—a brownish-gray sludge that smells faintly of dirt. Its texture is like sand, grinding between my teeth with every bite. I can't say I'll miss this when Tsuki and I make it out of here.
Tsuki… Will we make it out of here?
My chest tightens. I shake the thought from my head, clenching my fists to ground myself. No. I can't afford doubt. Not now.
I glance at my timer: 46 days and counting. It's a fragile comfort, like holding sand that slips through my fingers no matter how tightly I clutch it. At least it's more than what I was exiled with. But even that feels hollow. Every second was bought with someone else's time—with Chichien's time. His final words replay in my mind, a whispered plea: "Please win this, and tell Dezirae that Chichien always loved her."
Chichien's death wasn't necessary. The elf's death wasn't necessary, however deserved. But this world thrives on unnecessary cruelty. The Game, these nobles, even the king—they revel in it. They turn survival into a sport, a spectacle for their twisted amusement. How did this kingdom fall so far?
I think of Alstidon, the vibrant streets, the orphanage, Prince Ramidion's cold logic. That life feels so distant now. Days? Weeks? I've lost track. My timer has fluctuated so much I barely know how long I've been here. How long have I even been in this world?
This world...
I've spent so much time surviving that I haven't stopped to question why. Why am I here? What purpose does this serve? Am I just a pawn, like Tsuki believes, destined to fulfill some prophecy I never asked for? Or is there something more—something I can choose?
I lean against the cold stone wall and close my eyes. Memories flicker like candlelight.
-----
Alstidon's bustling town square, filled with the hum of life and the scent of baked bread. I remember how it all shifted when the time bandits attacked. That was when I learned wind magic, the first glimpse of this power I never asked for. I remember Alondra's laughter in the orphanage, how she cried with the children she later betrayed. Her words come back to me, unbidden: "Oh, come on, Solice. Don't act so surprised. You're nothing but a pawn in a bigger game. Always were."
My chest tightens at the thought of her. Alondra, who taught me the history and culture of this world, who nursed me back to health. Alondra, who betrayed me.
And then there's Tsuki. Cold, methodical Tsuki, who swore an oath to me without question, who's remained steadfast through it all. He claims to follow me because of the prophecy, but sometimes I wonder if there's more to his loyalty. Does he see something in me that I don't?
-----
The cheers grow louder, jolting me from my thoughts. Another Game is beginning. Someone else is fighting for their life, just as I did. The crowd's feverish cries feel like a blade against my skin, a reminder of the blood they demand. My body tenses instinctively.
This kingdom thrives on bloodshed, but even so, I find myself wondering: Can it be changed? Could I, somehow, turn this tide of cruelty into something better?
Do I even want to?
The thought clings to me like a shadow. Is there even a part of me left that cares about justice, about peace? Or have I already sunk too deep into this world's darkness, becoming what I despise? My fingers trace the jagged scar on my chest, and for a moment, I can't tell whether it's a reminder of survival—or surrender.
The nobles demand blood, and I give it to them. The crowd cheers for my pain, and I fuel their delight. Am I really so different from them? Or am I just another cog in this endless machine of cruelty?
I lie down on the cold stone floor, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. My chest throbs faintly with every beat of my heart, the pain grounding me. Despite everything, I'm still here. But the question lingers, gnawing at me, unanswered: Why?
For Tsuki? For Chichien? For Dezirae?
For myself?
The silence of the cell presses in around me as my thoughts swirl in an unending storm. If this world wants me to become the Dark Deity, then so be it. But if I am to destroy something, maybe it won't be the world. Maybe it will be this broken system, this twisted game that feeds on suffering.
But those are just whispers of a desperate mind.
For now, I survive. Just survive.
-----
Kicking, screaming, pleas. The sound drags me from restless slumber. My eyes snap open, and I move closer to the cell bars, the cold metal pressing into my palms.
According to my timer, three hours have passed. What the hell is going on?
The sounds grow louder, reverberating down the stone halls. It's a woman's voice, frantic and pleading, each word laced with despair.
"No, Jacques, please! I didn't mean to! I did my best! I really did!" Her muffled sobs claw at my chest, stirring an ache I don't fully understand.
"I tried! I did! I did what I was supposed to! I brought them to you!" The voice pierces through the dim, humid air like a blade.
My chest tightens. That voice. I know that voice.
Down the hall, the figures come into view. Warden Jacques is leading the charge, his devilishly wide grin as sickening as ever. Behind him, two guards drag a woman, her face obscured by a burlap bag. She kicks and struggles, her cries echoing off the walls.
The warden stops directly across from my cell and swings open the door to the cell opposite mine. The two guards shove her inside without a moment's care. Her body hits the ground hard, and a fresh wave of sobs spills from her.
"Please! The village needs me! They'll all die without me! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!" Her cries shatter what little composure I have left. My hands tremble as I grip the bars tighter, my nails digging into my palms. Chichien…
The warden's gaze shifts, and for a moment, his eyes lock with mine. His grin widens, and a cruel laugh escapes his lips. The sound is vile, triumphant, like he's savoring a meal he's been waiting all day to devour.
One of the guards removes the bag from the woman's head before slamming her cell door shut with a deafening clang. My breath hitches.
There she is. Small and trembling, her golden catlike ears drooping low, her tail barely twitching with fear. Her short, messy blonde hair, tied up with a red bow, is a stark contrast to the dirt and grime on her tattered clothes. But her golden eyes—eyes that once shimmered with practiced gratitude and calculated emotion—are now filled with raw, unfiltered terror.
The warden steps closer, peering at me with gleeful malice. "Don't act so surprised, boy!" he sneers. "It's your next opponent! I told ya you'd win!" His laughter echoes down the corridor like nails on stone.
I can't look away from her. This nekoman who led us to betrayal, who fought for her village's survival, now lies crumpled and broken before me. Just behind the warden, in a cell identical to mine, sits the woman whose name echoes in my mind like a curse.
Dezirae.
The Game never spares anyone.