Jonathan darted across the fractured landscape, bare feet kicking up dust and broken glass. The field was a graveyard—twisted bodies, shattered ruins, and, bizarrely, clusters of animals gorging themselves on what was left behind. None were sentient—just wild, hungry beasts drawn by the scent of death and opportunity.

  A pack of tusked, six-legged brutes caught his scent and charged. Jonathan’s first instinct was to run—but this is practice, he reminded himself. No more hiding.

  He let the formless Ryun swirl in his hands—black and red, electric, alive. He imagined it as whips, then lances, then storm-blades. When the first beast lunged, he slashed with a crackling arc of Ryun, carving straight through muscle and bone. The animal collapsed in a heap. The others circled, eyes wild, and Jonathan struck again—darting, blasting, weaving through their attacks with a growing confidence.

  It was nothing like swatting a mouse or even fighting a human. The creatures were huge, primal, and every kill was a surge of adrenaline and guilt. But if I don’t do it, I’m dead, he told himself. They’re not people. Besides, whoever did this wouldn’t hesitate to put me down, either.

  He kept at it, taking on packs, driving himself to exhaustion and back. Each fight honed his Ryun—pushing his imagination, speed, and reflexes. Sometimes he got clipped, sometimes he missed, but every minute was a lesson. And every victory was another step toward survival.

  After a few hours, sweat-soaked and sore, Jonathan scrambled atop a jagged boulder and sat, panting. The field was quieter now. He looked out at the ruined valley, the bodies, the broken earth, and beyond it—into the deep, waiting forest.

  Getting better, he thought, flexing his hand, Ryun flickering around his knuckles. But not good enough. Not yet.

  Jonathan couldn’t help but wish for a stats screen—a glowing HUD, a quest log, anything to keep track of progress. He missed the party, too; they were strangers, but good ones, and he hadn’t realized how much comfort a British-accented bear brought to apocalypse survival.

  No time to dwell. Plan: gems first, everything else later.

  He tore across the ruined field, every sense on high alert. Suddenly, a blur of motion—a massive shape shot toward him, aiming to blindside. He ducked left, heart slamming, and turned to face a monstrous armored tiger, its scale-patterned fur shimmering metallic gold and black in the sunlight. Its eyes glowed with hunger and cruel intent.

  Finally—a real challenge.

  The tiger lunged, so fast it left an afterimage burning in the air. Jonathan conjured a dome-shaped shield of red-and-black Ryun just in time—the beast’s bulk crashed into it, sending cracks spidering through the energy. He pushed out a pulse of electrical Ryun, but the tiger only grew heavier, slamming its paws down, shattering the ground.

  Jonathan rolled aside, flinging twin bolts of red-black lightning at the tiger’s flank. The creature barreled through, slashing at him with a paw that left burning, claw-shaped arcs of energy in its wake. Jonathan dove, the earth behind him erupting in splinters as he narrowly escaped each swipe.

  It was a brutal back-and-forth—the tiger pressed the attack relentlessly, using its weight and energy-claws to drive Jonathan on the defensive. Jonathan improvised—leaping, dodging, shielding, and tossing wild Ryun projectiles that barely slowed the beast.

  He sprinted through the rubble, the tiger right behind, unleashing claw-shaped shockwaves that tore apart broken buildings and sent dust flying. Jonathan dashed up a chunk of collapsed wall and vaulted off, summoning two spears of crackling red-black lightning. He conjured energy thrusters behind them, sending the projectiles rocketing down toward the tiger.

  The beast reared up, jaws wide, ready to devour him— but both spears rammed straight into its mouth and detonated in a burst of crimson-black thunder.

  The blast tore half the tiger’s head and torso to dust. At the same moment, one of its claws raked across Jonathan’s stomach—a sharp, fiery pain as blood spilled. He staggered back, half-laughing, half-wincing, already pressing his hand to the wound, channeling blood and Ryun to heal.

  He looked down at the smoldering tiger, then at the rising suns, and grinned wide.

  “That was fun,” he panted, feeling a rush of satisfaction.

  Finally crossing the threshold into the forest, the devastation behind him fading into a memory of charred earth and broken stone. Here, the air was cooler, thick with the scent of sap and moss. Sunlight lanced through emerald leaves, painting shifting patterns on the forest floor. Birdsong threaded the silence, and the hush of distant water hinted at hidden streams.

  He let himself breathe, wandering under ancient trees draped in hanging vines, marveling at flowers the size of dinner plates and the faint shimmer of Ryun-rich spores swirling in shafts of light. For a while, the world almost felt peaceful. Almost.

  After an hour or so of careful trekking—always alert for predators or contestants—Jonathan’s foot caught on something half-buried near a cluster of ferns: a simple wooden box, old but not rotted. He crouched, curiosity and caution warring inside him. Could be a trap, he thought, and sent a ripple of aura across the box, feeling for any reaction. Nothing triggered. He found a sturdy stick, poked the lid open, and flinched in anticipation.

  Inside, three gleaming golden gems lay nestled in a bed of dried grass. His heart leapt. Jackpot.

  He grinned, scooping the gems up. The wheels started turning—could he use the gems to make some kind of Ryun tracker, to find more? He sat against a tree, experimenting, channeling his energy into the gold. After some trial and error, the gems responded, faintly tugging his senses toward their kind. The feedback wasn’t perfect—sometimes it led him in circles or toward old traps—but after a few hours of patient work and plenty of close calls, he’d managed to collect thirty in total.

  Jonathan slumped at the roots of a wide oak, smiling through a wince. All this moving, all this fighting—the wound from the tiger’s claw still throbbed with every breath. But he’d survived, learned, and stashed away more gems than he’d dared to hope.

  “Not bad for a first day,” he muttered, letting the forest’s calm wrap around him.

  The forest’s serenity shattered in the distance—first the echoing rumble of explosions, then a series of bright flares not so far off, making the trees shudder with shockwaves. Jonathan could tell, from the flicker of Ryun in the air and the staccato roars, that people were fighting hard and dirty out here.

  He clutched his thirty gold gems, wincing every time a branch scraped his bare skin. I look like I crawled out of hell—and with these gems, I might as well have a neon “rob me” sign on my back.

  He pressed on, weaving through the trees, mind on high alert. The sound of running water drew him, promising a chance to clean up and get some blood off him. But as he broke through the undergrowth and came to the stream, he skidded to a halt. There, on the pebbled shore, were three humanoids—two tall, armored figures and one owl-headed man with golden feathers and a predatory stare.

  Jonathan silently cursed himself for not scanning for auras. That has to become automatic, he chastised himself. Next lesson—always check before you step in.

  The owl man tilted its head, almost unnaturally, eyes wide and unblinking. It was an eerie, alien motion—curious, hungry, maybe both.

  “Um… hi?” Jonathan tried, raising a shaky hand in awkward greeting.

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  That was all the invitation they needed.

  With a screech, the owl man lunged—talons flashing, a cyclone of Ryun swirling around him. The other two charged right after, blades drawn, teeth bared.

  Jonathan braced himself. So much for a peaceful rinse.

  He dropped gold gems down in the grass, he used some blood from the tiger slash, and sprinkled it on the gems. Then jumping back using Ryun to extend the distance. As he expected, the two humanoids immediately lunged for the pile, greed overriding caution. The owl man, meanwhile, seemed to care only about him, stalking forward with a predatory grace.

  He dropped into a boxer’s stance, feet light, eyes narrowed. Electricity crackled in red and black webs around his fists—his Ryun sparking alive at the promise of a real fight.

  The owl man attacked with a strange, fluid style—its golden wings folded into armored arms, feathers hard as daggers, slashing and jabbing with unnatural speed. Jonathan ducked under a razor-edged swipe, pivoted, and aimed a right hook at the creature’s chest. But the owl simply floated backward, wings flaring, weightless and taunting.

  It lashed out with a hooked talon aimed at his throat. Jonathan twisted aside, the blow grazing his shoulder, then countered by blasting a jet of Ryun lightning straight at its chest. The air popped and hissed, feathers singed and scattered, but the owl was already circling, eyes unblinking, sending golden wind arcs of Ryun.

  Jonathan dodged the arcs as they came at him. After flipping over one, he squared up. Ready for the owl’s next feint, Ryun building in his fists and a sharp, reckless grin on his face.

  Meanwhile, the gem thieves scrambled, stuffing gold into sacks, but Jonathan didn’t spare them more than a glare—or miss a beat. With a flick of two fingers, he detonated the pile of gems behind him—Ryun flaring and blood-spiked energy tearing through the clearing. The gold itself didn’t even scuff, but the two gem-thieves weren’t so lucky. The blast was like acid C-4: his blood, mixed in, became a corrosive force, searing into them and weighing them down. They shrieked, collapsing, their own Ryun desperately fighting the invasive, burning energy—but Jonathan’s cocktail held fast, pinning them like iron weights.

  The owl man froze, eyes wide with a flash of genuine fear—too late.

  “THUNDER LANCE!” Jonathan roared, driving forward in a blur, his body a streak of red and black. He cocked back his fist and rammed it straight through the owl man’s shoulder, a shockwave blasting them both across the stream. They tore through the water and into the far bank, slamming into a wall of stone with enough force to shake the trees. The ground split in a ragged line behind them, feathers and blood spraying across the rocks.

  Feeling the surge, Jonathan grinned like a madman. Broly moment, for real.

  He hurled the stunned owl man away, then snapped his arms wide, conjuring two spinning disks of Ryun lightning. He flung them hard, both striking the owl man mid-flight—detonating in a thunderous explosion that echoed through the whole valley.

  Feathers rained down. Silence followed.

  Jonathan threw his head back and howled in triumph, fists crackling, heart pounding with wild, dangerous joy.

  “HELL YEAH!” he shouted, laughing at the sky, the river, the stunned bodies behind him. He didn’t just survive—he dominated.

  As the roar of battle faded, a strange clarity crept in. The thrill ebbed, leaving Jonathan standing in the battered silence, heart still racing. That was loud. He’d made enough noise to wake every beast, bounty hunter, and bored demigod within a mile. Something was almost certainly on its way.

  And then there was the other realization: the way he’d felt taking down the owl man—almost too good. The violence had been easy, instinctive. The owl had come for him, sure, but it was still a person, wasn’t it? Maybe not human, but thinking, fighting, trying to win just the same. He grimaced, pushing the thought aside. Survival meant making those choices. But I’ll need to remember I’m not just killing mobs out here.

  He spared a quick look at the smoking crater where the owl man had landed. Not worth the risk to loot—especially with the two wounded humanoids on the far bank, one unconscious, the other still howling in pain. Jonathan moved fast, stripping what he could from them: a torn satchel, a makeshift knife, a few scraps of cloth, and—luckiest of all—two gleaming black gems. He bundled his own gold haul into the scavenged bag and knotted it tight.

  No sooner had he finished than he felt it—a wave of approaching auras, fast and numerous, closing in from the woods. Jonathan didn’t wait to see if they were friend or foe. He bolted, feet barely touching the ground, vanishing into the thickest shadows.

  As he ran, he tugged at the remnants of his ruined robe. All he had left were the shorts, frayed and barely decent. First priority: food. Second: actual clothes. Third: don’t get murdered by the next boss fight.

  He grinned in spite of himself, darting through the forest with a bag full of gems, blood still drying on his hands.

  ——

  Another explosion rumbled in the distance, sending a flock of ash-grey birds scattering from the rooftops. Ashantiana winced but didn’t flinch; the city had been quaking with tremors and distant screams ever since this farce of a “game” began. The Supreme Families, and the so-called Emperor Jafar—tyrants, all of them—had decided to turn Curtenail’s resistance into a stage for their bloody entertainment. What war couldn’t settle, humiliation would.

  Ashantiana Zarget—Dorferan, born and battle-bred in Vinniex—walked the fractured streets in full armor, halberd balanced across her shoulders. Her people’s skin bore the grain and color of sunbaked sand and red stone, her hair a cascade of white streaked with gold. Around her, the battered city limped through another day of occupation, the buildings pocked with blast scars, the air heavy with tension.

  The contestants were the worst—freelancers and monsters, heroes and horrors, all treating her home like a level to be cleared or a puzzle to be solved. To them, the locals were just extras in the world’s cruelest tournament.

  She paused at the southern wall, ten feet high and rimmed with rusted spikes. With a practiced hop, Ashantiana channeled Ryun through her legs, vaulting easily to the top. The city spread out before her: market squares turned triage centers, half-collapsed towers, and the winding silver ribbon of the main river, blackened by recent battles.

  She crouched, scanning the treeline and the shattered roads for threats—or survivors. Every day, more of her friends vanished into the chaos, and every night the city shrank a little more.

  Let them play their games, she thought, jaw clenched. Curtenail has survived worse. We’re not pawns, and we’re not prey.

  A shadow moved at the edge of the wall—another Dorferan soldier, armor dulled by soot and fatigue, climbed up to crouch beside her. He wore the sash of a patrol leader, eyes hard and restless.

  “Report, Zarget,” he said, voice low. “What’s the state?”

  Ashantiana swept her gaze over the battered blocks, the empty alleys, the distant plumes of smoke. “We’ve moved most of the civilians to the safe zone. The eastern barricade held through the last push, and I haven’t seen any more runners cross the river in the past hour. Quiet for now.”

  He nodded, jaw tight. “Orders just changed. Command wants us to eliminate or capture any outsiders who make it past the cordons. Especially the ones with those glowing gems.” His lip curled, bitterness leaking through. “Word is, they’re hunting for points—doesn’t matter if it’s from beasts, buildings, or our people.”

  Ashantiana’s grip tightened on her halberd. The anger in his voice matched the storm in her chest. Maybe the “eliminate” part wasn’t official—maybe there’d be questions if anyone survived to ask—but she didn’t care. She’d seen enough of what these invaders brought: blood, ruin, disrespect.

  “Understood,” she said, her voice even. “If any outsiders cross my path, I’ll deal with them. Personally.”

  She cast one last look at the horizon, determined.

  The patrol leader paused, eyes sharpening. “One more thing, Zarget—if you see the flaming outsider, the one with sigils all over their body… avoid direct contact. High command thinks it’s one of the outlanders, and they want to let the other contestants wear him down first. Don’t engage alone.”

  Ashantiana’s mouth twisted into a grimace, but she nodded. “Understood.” The officer slid off the wall, hurrying off to deliver his report to the rest of the local defense. Ashantiana watched him go, jaw tight.

  Outlanders. Always at the center of every disaster. Always with their magic and their arrogance—like our world is their stage.

  Her hand tightened on her halberd until her knuckles showed pale through the sand-colored skin. She muttered a curse under her breath, grinding her teeth. That’s when she heard the scream—a raw, desperate sound that cut through the smoke and dust.

  She launched herself from the wall, Ryun surging through her legs, making her weightless, then propelling her forward in a streak of speed. She covered the distance in a blink, wind roaring in her ears, the world blurring.

  A cluster of civilians, faces twisted in terror, fled past her. Ashantiana dropped into a defensive stance, halberd flashing. Three contestants stood ahead—armed, tense, eyes flicking from her to the fleeing locals. They barked something in their own tongue, raising their hands in what almost looked like a plea.

  “We just wanted some gems—no harm meant—”

  But Ashantiana didn’t care. Not anymore.

  She moved, a sandstorm in steel and Ryun. The first contestant reached for his weapon; she swept his feet with a flick of her halberd, driving the spike through his chest. Blood sprayed, painting the cobblestones. The second tried to conjure a barrier, but Ashantiana was already inside his guard, halberd spinning, slashing his throat with brutal efficiency.

  The third ran, hurling a desperate blast of Ryun over his shoulder. She vaulted the attack, landed behind him, and drove her halberd through his spine, pinning him to the ground. He spasmed, gurgled, and went still.

  Ashantiana straightened, breathing hard. A cold smile crept onto her lips as she wiped the blade clean on a fallen cloak. No more mercy for outsiders.

  She turned to the civilians, voice iron-calm: “You’re safe. Get to the safe zone, now.”

  They fled, and she watched them go. A smile still on her face. Maybe she would stay behind a bit longer and deal with a few more outsiders.