The air in the ruined throne room was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint whistle of the wind through shattered windows and crumbling walls. Dust motes danced in the dim light that filtered through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the faces of those gathered there. Each one bore the same expression—a mixture of confusion, fear, and disbelief.
Luka leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed as he surveyed the group. He wasn't sure what to make of any of them, but he kept his observations quiet. The place itself was unsettling, the throne at the end of the room cracked in two as if some great force had cleaved it apart. The red-stained marble beneath their feet hinted at violence, though none of them could recall how they got here.
In a corner, a wiry man in simple, worn clothes rubbed his temples as if trying to remember something. He wore a loose, dirt-stained tunic and frayed pants, his hands rough and calloused. Luka pegged him for a farmer before the man spoke, confirming it.
"Name's Garrett," he said, his voice unsteady. "I... I was a farmer. Grew wheat. Took care of my kids. Then... then the fever came, and…" His voice faltered, his eyes glazing over. "I died. I remember dying. But now I'm here. What is this place?"
Next to him, a woman dressed in light armor stood with her arms crossed, her sharp eyes darting around the room. Her leather gear was scratched and scuffed, and a short sword hung at her side. Her posture screamed confidence, but her clenched jaw betrayed her unease.
"Mercenary," she said bluntly, ignoring the farmer's question. "The name's Serra. Not that it matters anymore, I guess. Pretty sure I bled out on some battlefield. Damn arrow went right through my chest." She tapped her sternum, where her armor bore a deep, jagged dent. "This some kind of afterlife?"
Beside her, a burly man with thick arms and a soot-streaked apron stepped forward. His face was set in a grim scowl, his deep-set eyes scanning the room as if searching for answers in the ruins. The hammer at his side and the scorch marks on his sleeves marked him for what he was.
"I'm Baren," he grunted. "Blacksmith. Made swords, axes, armor—anything that paid well. And yeah, I remember dying too. Smoke and fire. Damn chimney collapsed right on me while I was working. And now I'm here."
The others began to chime in—each one recounting their last moments, their voices tinged with disbelief. A healer spoke of succumbing to plague while tending to the sick. A merchant described being stabbed by a highwayman on the road. Another mercenary admitted he couldn't even remember how he died, only that it was fast.
They all shared the same story: death, and then the screen. The words had burned into their minds: "The winner has a second chance at life."
Luka listened in silence, his arms still folded. His gaze flicked from one face to the next, taking in every detail—the nervous fidgeting of the farmer, the tight-lipped scowl of the blacksmith, the way the mercenaries kept their hands near their weapons. They were all uneasy, their fear barely hidden beneath their words.
The room itself did little to calm their nerves. The throne room was massive, but it had the air of a place long abandoned. The walls were cracked and stained, the tapestries torn and faded. The throne at the far end was a shattered ruin, its jagged edges glinting in the dim light.
"Where the hell are we?" Serra muttered, her sharp eyes darting to every shadow. "This doesn't look like any afterlife I've heard of."
Before anyone could answer, a sudden rustling filled the air, followed by the faint sound of wings. The group froze, their eyes darting upward as the noise grew louder.
Out of the shadows, a bird appeared—a sleek, black creature with feathers that shimmered like oil under the light. It was no ordinary bird. Its eyes glowed faintly, and when it opened its beak, a voice emerged that was far too human.
"What kind of nonsense are you all on about?" the bird snapped, its tone sharp and mocking. "Didn't you all receive the notification? Didn't you choose to play the game?"
The group stared in stunned silence as the bird swooped down, circling the room before landing on the armrest of the broken throne. Its glowing eyes scanned them with what seemed like disdain.
"The game?" Baren growled, stepping forward. His large hands balled into fists. "What game? Are you the one who dragged us here?"
The bird tilted its head, its feathers ruffling. "Dragged you here? No, no, you brought yourselves here. Or rather, your pitiful little souls did. Not my problem if you didn't read the terms and conditions."
Baren's face darkened, his expression twisting with rage. "You think this is funny? You don't want to answer me, huh? Fine. I'll make you spit it out."
Before anyone could stop him, the blacksmith lunged at the bird, his massive hand reaching to grab it.
It happened in an instant.
A glint of light. A sickening sound like tearing fabric.
Baren froze mid-step, his eyes wide with shock. For a moment, the room was silent. Then, slowly, his head tilted to one side... and toppled from his shoulders.
Blood sprayed in an arc as his body crumpled to the ground, the sound of it hitting the stone floor echoing through the room. The others recoiled in horror, their screams and gasps filling the air.
The bird hopped off the throne and onto the ground, pecking idly at the pooling blood. "Let that be a lesson," it said calmly, its voice cutting through the chaos. "Attack me, and you'll end up like him."
Luka's stomach churned as he stared at the lifeless body of the blacksmith, the man's unseeing eyes wide with disbelief. He had seen death before, but this... this was something else.
"W-what the hell are you?" the farmer stammered, his voice shaking.
The bird flapped its wings, a sound that seemed almost like laughter. "What am I? Oh, I'm just your friendly guide, here to explain the rules of the game you so foolishly agreed to play. And rule number one?" It glanced at the corpse. "Don't piss me off."
The room fell silent again, the air thick with fear. Luka's hands trembled as he clenched them into fists. He didn't know what kind of game this was, but one thing was clear: they were all playing for their lives.