S?urtinaui wouldn’t let it go. “I swear someone in the evaluation hall nearly knocked me over with their aura. You really didn’t feel that, North?” She eyed Jonathan suspiciously, almost as if she could pry the answer out of him with enough persistence.

  Jonathan kept his expression bland. “No clue who it was. Maybe it was Bourage.”

  She didn’t look convinced, but before she could push further, Bourage gave a gentle but firm rumble—his British accent somehow making the admonishment sound even more polite. “Let the man breathe, S?urtinaui. We’ve bigger things to worry about. What’s the plan, Senten?”

  Senten, always steady, turned his attention to Jonathan. “Quick question—what’s your style? Are you an imaginer or a reality shaper? And… if you’re part of Narloic, what rank?”

  Jonathan hesitated, pulse thumping, then decided honesty was the best chance he had. “Not part of Narloic. And I’m an imaginer.” He hoped that was the right answer—he didn’t know the difference and, for sure, had no clue how to shape reality.

  Senten gave a curt nod, not pressing further. “Good. That’ll fit.” He immediately began outlining what the starting area might be like, rapid-fire and precise. Jonathan listened, awed. How many contestants could even fit in a place like this?

  His answer arrived as Xizelen’s voice boomed throughout the cavernous hall, echoing from everywhere at once. “All contestants, please make your way to a transport dais! You’ll be sorted into your initial sector.”

  Jonathan turned—and saw a sea of metal platforms, each the size of a football field, each crowded with at least 10,000 people. And beyond them, dais after dais stretching out into infinity. Tens of thousands. Maybe more.

  His stomach twisted in knots. The event felt more than a tournament—it was a world in miniature, and he was a single drop in a storm.

  Around him: warriors with runic armor, wizards looking fellows sparking with power, military units moving in perfect formation, beastfolk and strangers from stories and nightmares alike. He wondered how many were outlanders, like him. He wondered how many would survive. He wondered, too, what Jafar hoped he’d learn here, and what part of his “self” he was really meant to discover.

  But as the crowd moved, Jonathan steeled himself—nervous, yes, but the thrill of possibility burning just beneath his skin.

  As they took their seats on the massive metal dais, Jonathan found himself next to Bourage, the big bear somehow fitting his hulking form comfortably onto the bench. The bear glanced down at him with a gentle, almost motherly concern. “Any allergies, illnesses, or curses we should know about?” he asked, accent crisp. “I find it’s best to get these things out of the way before any real trouble starts.”

  Jonathan blinked, then let out a laugh. “Just hay fever. And a slight curse of being in way over my head.”

  Bourage grinned, teeth flashing. “Good sense of humor, that’ll help.” He nodded toward the gator-bird woman who sat on Jonathan’s other side. “That’s Tyzel, by the way. She doesn’t speak much, but she’s the strongest among us. A Ranker.”

  Tyzel caught Jonathan’s look and gave him a wide, toothy smile—warm, oddly reassuring. Jonathan tried not to stare at the talons or scales, just nodded back. “Nice to meet you, Tyzel.”

  He wanted to ask what “Ranker” meant, but something about the way Bourage and Senten acted told him to just play it cool for now. Instead, he changed the subject, leaning in. “Anything I should really watch out for once we drop in?”

  Bourage gave a low rumble. “Depends. Outlanders, natural predators and otherwise. The terrain shifts—sometimes literally. And the locals have been known to… take offense at strangers.”

  S?urtinaui, eavesdropping on the entire exchange, jumped in. “And don’t forget the bounty markers. If you get flagged, the other teams might target you. Stick close until you know the lay of the land.”

  Before Jonathan could reply, the entire dais shuddered—the mechanisms below humming to life. The surface began to descend, taking thousands with it, lowering into the churning light below. Around them, every platform in the hangar was doing the same.

  The atmosphere grew tense—voices dropping, hands tightening on weapons or gear, everyone alert and ready as the world below revealed itself: a wild, breathtaking landscape of forests, mountains, rivers, and ruins, stretching to the horizon and beyond.

  Jonathan swallowed hard. The nerves were back, sharp and electric.

  Senten caught the look and nudged him with a wry smile. “Not nervous, are we?”

  Jonathan flashed a crooked grin, trying to summon some bravado. “Naw. Just excited as hell.”

  As the dais touched down and the Fortune Holder truly began, Jonathan felt—despite everything—almost ready.

  A few things set this year’s Fortune Holder apart, and the air on every descending dais hummed with uneasy expectation. For centuries, the event followed a predictable chaos: millions of contestants dropped into random, lawless pockets of the realm, each one racing for survival and victory. This time, though, the numbers had exploded—over 490 million entrants from across the realms, every power and nation sending champions, hopefuls, or wildcards.

  The terrain itself was chosen with care—and a hint of mischief. These battlefields were territories that had resisted the reach of the great empires: pockets of independence, borderlands, or lands once considered too wild, too proud, or too stubborn to kneel. In this cycle, the chosen region was Curtenail the size of three North Americas,—infamous for having defied not just one, but two of the mightiest—Vari and Jafar—on separate occasions. Their spirit of rebellion had kept them free, but also made them a perfect arena for the world’s greatest gamble.

  The rules, on the surface, remained simple. At its heart, the event was a bounty hunt: scatter precious fortune gems across the landscape, drop in an army of would-be legends, and watch the chaos unfold. The gems—rare, radiant, and fiercely protected—would decide everything. Collect as many as you could before the time ran out. At the end, those with the highest total would claim victory.

  It was brutal, but direct. Win, and you soared in rank if part of Narloic, gained unimaginable wealth, earned access to secretive circles and powerful patrons. Play your cards right, and you didn’t just survive—you thrived, made connections that could last lifetimes, maybe even eras.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  But the rumors said this year would be different. The numbers, the sponsors, the chosen land, the political undertones—all pointed to something more. Something no one, not even the veterans, could quite predict.

  Thousands of dais platforms hovered across a massive, sprawling field, like war barges set gently upon the back of a sleeping titan. At the center of it all stood a cluster of old buildings—ruins by the look of them, relics of a city that had once challenged empires.

  Then the sky shifted.

  A platform, elegant and weightless, formed from nothing but royal red mist and air woven with intent, rose high above the crowd. On it stood three divine figures—Xizelen in the center, flanked by the two women who had judged Jonathan earlier. They didn’t glow. They didn’t shout. And yet, when X began to speak, the entire field fell silent.

  Her voice was gentle, clear—and terrifying in its clarity. She didn’t speak louder than necessary. She didn’t need to.

  Jonathan’s heart skipped.

  It dawned on him in that moment—X is the strongest being here. By far. No posturing, no aura flares. Just presence.

  “There are gems of fortune scattered throughout Curtenail,” she announced. “Your goal is to collect enough to reach hundred-fifty billion points before the cycle ends. In four months.”

  A murmur rippled across the platforms.

  “Each gold gem is worth 50 million points. They are the most common… and indestructible. Black gems, worth 450 million, can shatter under great force. Purple gems are worth 750 million, but they are fragile—more so than black.”

  Then came the shocker.

  “Red gems are worth two billion points,” X said. “They are the most fragile. Delicate as an egg. And there are only thirty total in the entire region.”

  Gasps followed. Jonathan’s stomach tightened. Thirty red gems. Out of nearly 500 million contestants.

  “The game has changed,” she continued. “This year, we will also introduce a spontaneous rule on the eighth day. Its effects will not be announced until then.”

  Her golden eyes passed over the crowd. They landed, for half a second, on Jonathan.

  Did she just wink at me? he thought, blinking.

  And then, just like that, the three vanished—gone in an instant, leaving nothing but mist and silence behind.

  A giant timer flared to life in the sky.

  30… 29… 28…

  Everyone tensed. Weapons drawn. Ryun sparked. Prayers whispered. Jonathan felt his blood surge.

  Senten leaned in, voice like steel wrapped in calm: “Remember. Stay close. Don’t chase gems blindly. Move how we discussed”

  Jonathan just grinned, adrenaline surging and nodded.

  As soon as the timer hit zero, chaos erupted. Tens of millions of teams and solo contestants scattered across the field—some sprinted for the tangled woods, others leapt skyward or flickered into mist, while the bulk surged toward the ancient cluster of buildings like a tidal wave of ambition and desperation.

  Jonathan’s team didn’t hesitate. They launched themselves forward, a tight unit with just enough distance to avoid tripping over each other. Senten barked a quick command—“Grab what you can, meet at the rock outcrop!”—and everyone was off.

  Jonathan exploded into motion, shock jolting through him as his feet tore up the grass. He was moving faster than he’d ever run before—faster than should be possible for a human. The adrenaline, the strange gravity of this place, and the pulse of Ryun in his veins made every stride feel effortless. The 400-yard stretch to the nearest building vanished beneath him, the wind whipping past, heart thundering with excitement and disbelief.

  He darted a glance at his teammates—Bourage lumbered forward like a freight train, S?urtinaui slipped through the crowd with uncanny grace, Tyzel bounded ahead, a blur of claws and feathers. All around, the stampede of other contestants shook the ground, shouts and battle cries echoing under the suns.

  A grin split Jonathan’s face. This was insane—terrifying, overwhelming, impossible—and for a moment, he absolutely loved it.

  Let’s see what this new world’s got, he thought, as the first building loomed up in front of him and the hunt truly began.

  Above the carnage, a figure hovered—wreathed in flames and searing, living script. Their eyes blazed red, and every inch of exposed skin shimmered with infernal runes, as if their body itself was an arcane furnace. They wore the mask of a demon and the mantle of a king, convinced that this world, like their old game, belonged to them.

  In Requiem, outlanders weren’t exactly rare. But they weren’t beloved either. The natives, especially those bound to the sprawling Rituain family, ruled the land and watched the sky. Outlanders were, more often than not, hunted—coveted for their magic, and eliminated as a threat. It was tradition; it was also survival. After all, three of the Four Kings and ten of the Eleven Supreme Family heads were outlanders once. They’d all clawed their way up believing, often rightly, that they could be the main character here.

  But the figure high above had decided on something even harsher: they weren’t just the protagonist. Everyone else was an NPC.

  And why not? They’d come to this world from their favorite video game, and their avatar’s power had crossed with them. Here, the boundaries between story and reality bent to their will.

  They waited until the chaos below peaked, until the crowd thickened around the buildings and the desperate scramble for gems turned frenzied. Then, with a single thought, they raised flaming hands. The air warped, infernal symbols blazing brighter, runes cycling in a language of destruction.

  Power rippled—a nightmare triangle formed between their hands, and reality split.

  The blast didn’t travel like a fireball or a bolt. It simply was, and then it wasn’t—a shaft of annihilation, vertical, instantaneous, raining doom straight down. The ground ruptured, buckling, cracking like thin ice under a hammer.

  In four seconds, everything underneath them was obliterated.

  The field, the buildings, the scrambling contestants—8% of the entire zone simply gone. 490 million became 320 million in a heartbeat.

  Jonathan barely registered the flash—a tremor, a scream of pressure—before darkness swallowed him. He felt himself wrenched through the air, flung like a doll in a hurricane, as the world beneath him caved and chaos reigned.

  Cawren drifted above the carnage, basking in the aftershocks of devastation. To him, the screams and silence below were intoxicating—a symphony of power, proof that he was the true main character in a world of extras. He savored the death in the air, the knowledge that with a single attack he’d rewritten the odds for millions.

  But Requiem didn’t play by ordinary rules.

  From the shattered world below, three titanic auras erupted—monstrous, defiant, unbowed. A golden-grey brilliance soared upward like a flower breaking stone. Another, red and seething, crackled with furnace heat. And the last, a tidal surge of deep purple, radiated a chill that sent a ripple through the area.

  Cawren felt their challenge and grinned, his own aura flaring black shot through with moldy, poisonous yellow. He wasn’t intimidated. If anything, the thought of a real fight—of worthy foes—only thrilled him further. To Cawren, this wasn’t a contest for gems. It was a culling. He would kill his way to the top, and the world would know it.

  He waited, high above, savoring the anticipation. This was what he’d been waiting for.

  ——

  Beneath the earth, buried under a mountain of debris, Jonathan clung to the thin thread of life.

  His world was darkness and agony. One eye was swollen shut, throbbing with pain. His arm—was that his arm?—was crushed beneath a boulder, numb and slick with blood. Every breath was a desperate, ragged effort, grit and blood filling his mouth. He tried to move and fresh spikes of pain sent him spiraling.

  Shock dulled the edges at first, but as his mind spun, panic broke through. Air, he needed air. He couldn’t breathe. The rubble pressed tighter, the dark closing in. His heart thudded wild, frantic, useless.

  What happened? How did this happen? He tried to remember—the race, the sky, the flash of annihilation—but it was all a blur, an impossible nightmare.

  His thoughts scattered. Blood dripped somewhere he couldn’t see, and every heartbeat sent fresh agony through his body. A scream built in his chest, raw and silent. He tried to call for help, but nothing came out.

  His chest clenched. The weight. The suffocation. His vision tunneled, black creeping in from the edges. Each frantic gasp only made the wounds bleed faster, the world spinning away.

  Not like this, he thought, as the cold dark took him.

  Not like this.