The first sign of morning in the Fold wasn't sunlight. It wasn't even warmth. It was the blaring sound of sirens ripping through the air, startling Benson awake with a jolt.
He sat up in his narrow bunk, the chill of the room biting through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Around him, others groaned and shuffled out of their beds, moving like ghosts through the dull light.
Malik was already up, lacing his boots with the precision of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.
"What the hell is that?" Benson muttered, running a hand through his hair.
"The morning call," Malik said, his voice flat. "Means there's an announcement. Get up before someone drags you out."
The atmosphere in the dormitory was suffocating. People moved quickly but without life, their faces pale and eyes hollow. Benson couldn't tell if they were half-asleep or just empty.
He followed Malik into the common hall, where the air buzzed with tension.
A massive screen hung on the far wall, flickering to life with static before settling on the image of a stern man in a black uniform. His face was sharp, his expression colder than the air Benson breathed.
"Good morning, players," she began, her voice clipped and emotionless. "Today marks the beginning of the quarterly tournament. Participation is mandatory."
The word mandatory hit Benson like a punch. His stomach twisted as murmurs rippled through the room.
"The rules are simple," the man continued, ignoring the unrest. "Survive. Eliminate your opponents. Earn points. The top fifty players will be rewarded. The bottom fifty…" She paused, her lips curving into a cruel smile. "Will face the consequences."
The screen went dark, leaving the room in a stunned silence.
Benson turned to Malik, his throat dry. "What… what happens to the bottom fifty?"
"You don't want to know," Malik said, his jaw tight. "Just focus on not being one of them."
Benson's mind raced. A tournament? He wasn't ready for this. He barely understood the Fold, let alone how to fight in some twisted death match.
As the crowd began to disperse, Malik clapped him on the shoulder. "Eat something. You'll need it."
Benson nodded numbly, following the flow of people toward the mess hall.
The food was as lifeless as the people who ate it—grayish slop that tasted like cardboard. Benson poked at his bowl, his appetite nonexistent.
"Eat," Malik said, his tone firm. "You don't want to pass out out there."
Benson took a reluctant bite, his mind still stuck on the announcement. Around him, the room buzzed with hushed conversations.
"Another tournament already?" someone muttered.
"Heard they're putting us against the elites this time."
"They're thinning the herd."
The words sent a chill down Benson's spine. He glanced around, his eyes catching glimpses of players who looked far more experienced than him. They moved with confidence, their bodies lean and muscular, their eyes sharp and calculating.
And then there was him—skinny, awkward, and utterly unprepared.
"I'm going to die," he whispered to himself.
"No, you're not."
The voice in his head wasn't his own. It was colder, deeper, laced with an edge of hunger.
Benson froze, his spoon hovering in mid-air.
"Greed?"
"Yes," the system purred, its tone dripping with amusement. "You're finally listening."
"What do you want?" Benson whispered, keeping his voice low.
"I want more."
Benson felt a sharp pang in his chest, like something clawing at his insides. It wasn't pain—not exactly. It was hunger. A deep, gnawing hunger that made his stomach churn.
"I don't have anything to give you," he hissed, his grip tightening on the spoon.
"Not yet," Greed replied, its voice a whisper that sent a cold down his spine. "But you will. Soon."
The training yard was a sprawling, open space surrounded by high walls. Dozens of players milled about, some sparring, others testing their abilities. Benson stood at the edge, watching in awe—and terror.
One player summoned flames from his hands, the fire dancing around him like a living thing. Another moved with inhuman speed, dodging attacks with ease.
How is it possible they're so skilled with their abilities?
And then there were the weapons—gleaming blades, crackling energy whips, even firearms that looked like they belonged in a sci-fi movie.
Where did all of this come from? Benson's mind was reeling.
Benson felt like an ant in a world of giants.
"Stop gawking," Malik said, nudging him forward. "You'll only make yourself a target."
"I don't belong here," Benson muttered.
"No one does," Malik replied. "But we're here anyway. So get used to it."
Benson's hands trembled as he stepped into the yard. He didn't have flashy powers or advanced weapons. All he had was Greed—and he didn't even know how to use it properly.
"Focus," Malik said, standing beside him. "The tournament starts tomorrow. If you want to survive, you need to figure out what you're capable of."
Benson nodded, swallowing his fear. He closed his eyes, trying to summon Greed.
The hunger surged again, stronger this time. His vision blurred, the world around him fading into a haze.
"Consume," the voice whispered.
Benson's eyes snapped open, and he stumbled back, his breathing ragged.
"What happened?" Malik asked, his brow furrowed.
"I… I don't know," Benson said, his voice shaking.
Malik frowned. "You'd better figure it out fast. Because tomorrow, no one's going to care how new you are. They'll just want to tear you apart."
Benson's stomach turned, but he forced himself to nod.
Tomorrow. The tournament.
He wasn't ready. Not even close.
That night, Benson lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling. The room was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the metal frames and the soft breathing of the other players.
He couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the red moon, the chaos, the faces of people who wouldn't make it through tomorrow.
And then there was Greed—always there, always hungry.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered into the darkness.
The system didn't answer.
But Benson could feel it, lurking in the corners of his mind, waiting.
Tomorrow, he would have to fight.
And somehow, he would have to survive.