29

  LEVEL ONE: THE DRAGON STONES

  REMAINING CONTESTANTS: 8,999,004

  TIME UNTIL CULLING: 47 days

  NAME: JACK REN

  CURRENT RANK: 43,777

  I start to stagger toward where Cole and the others are still bound, but I only make it around ten steps before I fall to my knees. My vision grays out. I’ve lost—and am still losing—a truly dangerous amount of blood. The adrenaline is fading from my veins, leaving me feeling empty, little more than a husk. The berserker's rage, meanwhile, is long gone. There’s none of that hot, comfortable fury. Only a numbness that doesn’t extend to cover the pain of my wounds, all of which are now punishing me for my carelessness.

  Even still, it’s amazing I’m alive at all. Single-handedly, I just wiped out an entire group of thirty—minus one person, who I’ll no doubt run into again soon. The sheer amount of death I’ve just dealt out with my bare hands…and the thing is, it’s getting easier. Each life that I take now has less of an impact on me than the last. I’m numb to it. Desensitized. They don’t matter anymore. It’s difficult to even still see them as people.

  I need to be very careful. I don’t want to be a monster.

  Even if I suspect that that’s what it might take to win.

  I lurch back to my feet.

  And then my vision once again changes. This time, it distorts in a way that reminds me of a computer screen glitching out. Colors blur and fragment. I blink, confused, wondering if this is something that happens to the brain when a person is so close to death. Maybe I’m hurt even worse than I realized. It’s hardly surprising. I took several very hard shots to the head, and there’s no way for me to know just how badly my brain has been affected.

  The ground falls away from me.

  I am falling.

  And then, all of a sudden, I’m standing elsewhere.

  The little village is gone. The bodies of all those I’d killed are gone. For a second, my eyes widen, my heart throbs, and I wonder if perhaps the whole thing, The Reality Games, had just been a dream, a nightmare, a hallucination—and perhaps I’m finally free.

  But then I realize I’m still wearing the same leather armor as before, the same gray tunic, the same Spring Boots. And I’m still covered in the blood of all those I’d killed. Meaning that it is, indeed, still real. Of course it is. The thing about hope is that it’s the quickest way to hurt yourself.

  I take in my new surroundings and find myself flabbergasted. I’m in a sleek, modern room, with several expensive lounges, a black table, a colorful rug. Behind me, there’s an immense glass window overlooking a field. Woodland borders one side of the field and, in the far distance, is a castle. I think I can even see people, a group of very distant individuals slowly making their way across the grassy expanse. I turn back to the rest of the room. There’s a bookshelf. There’s something that looks like a giant screen, except as thin as paper, like something out of a sci-fi movie. Abstract paintings decorate the dark gray walls, and on a cabinet are exotically shaped bottles of alcohol.

  “Nice place, eh?” A voice says from off to my side.

  I spin around.

  And there, in front of me, is a man.

  He’s human—or at least, I think he is. Six foot tall, give or take, and slender, with tanned skin, golden hair, and very bright violet eyes that appear to almost glow. His hands are shoved into the pockets of a pair of fine wool pants, the sort of pants you expect to cost more money than your average person makes in a month. He wears a white silk shirt, tight, so it accentuates his fit, toned body. Around his left wrist is a futuristic-looking watch.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I growl, immediately on the defensive. I curl my hands into fists. As hurt as I might be, I’m pretty sure I can take this bastard. Nothing about him immediately strikes me as being particularly dangerous.

  “Ha! There’s the aggression we’re all coming to love!” He slaps on a dashing grin. “Listen, Jack, why don’t you take a seat? I guarantee you, these chairs are more comfortable than anything you’ll get to have for a long while. Enjoy it while you can. Let me pour you a drink. We don’t have a whole lot of time together, so, let’s make the best of it.” He saunters across to the drinks cabinet. “What do you like? Whiskey? Rum? Tequila? I got other things, too, drinks you’ve never heard of, but—well, I figure you’d love a familiar taste right about now, yeah? Bet you’re missing home.”

  My eyes narrow. Who is this person? And what is this place? What’s the angle here? Am I still in the arena? Because, certainly, this room isn’t fitting in with the fantasy aesthetic, and neither is this man, who reminds me of a salesman with the way he talks. When he opens his mouth, I feel as though he’s playing with me, manipulating me.

  At the same time, what he’s saying, it’s not unappealing. I do want to sit, and I would fucking love a mouthful of quality whisky.

  After a moment of consideration, I ease myself down onto one of the couches. I don’t particularly want to give in to his hospitality, which I don’t trust, but I’m still so light-headed from blood loss that I’m worried if I don’t sit, I’ll simply fall instead.

  “What’s this about?” I say, eyes narrowed in his direction.

  “Firstly, let me introduce myself.” He pours us both a glass of whisky and sits opposite me, sliding the two drinks across the glass table separating us. “My name is Julian Arius. And I’m going to be completely direct and honest with you about the current situation. I feel like you’re the sort of man who appreciates that sort of thing. And I don’t want to get on your bad side.” He grins at me. “I’ve seen what happens to those who do, and it ain’t pretty, that’s for certain.” He takes a drink of his whisky, leans back, sighs. “Yeah. So. I’m a Celestan. You know, one of the people that got you into this mess in the first place.” He stops, then, and watches me, as though wanting to see my reaction before he continues.

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  I don’t move. I don’t move, even though I suddenly want to leap across the table and rip his head off with my bare hands. I’m not going to do that, though, until I know more. Such as why he’s talking to me. Where I am. What this is about. Because it seems obvious I’m no longer in the arena. Maybe he’s pulled me out. Maybe he’ll send Sarah and I home. I can’t do anything rash until I know everything, until I’m equipped with as much information as possible.

  “Nothing to say yet?” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Keep going,” I say through gritted teeth. And, meanwhile, I’m thinking about the fact that he just told me he’s part of the Celestan Empire. Which answers a lot of questions I’d had—just as who these Celestans are. What they look like. I’d imagined all sorts of monstrosities and alien races but, at the end of the day, it seems as though they might simply be just like us—which makes sense, in a certain way, because we humans, we’re very good at this sort of thing. At fucking with people and playing games.

  Makes me wonder about the alien bastards that dragged me through that portal, though. But then, considering what these Celestans seem capable of, I wouldn’t be surprised if the aliens were just their slaves or employees. If the Celestans are indeed human, as they at least appear to me, they’re infinitely far more advanced than us on Earth.

  “The most simple way to explain why I’m here, Jack, sitting in front of you now…is because I want to sponsor you.”

  More silence. I simply stare at him until, eventually, I say, “Is this a joke?”

  “Not a joke at all, Jack. And you should really try the whisky. It’s top tier stuff. It comes from a planet called Adadon. Very far away. In another galaxy, in fact. And Adadon itself, it’s a hundred times larger than Earth, and inhabited by these things that would look a lot like dinosaurs to you. I mean, they basically are dinosaurs—but smarter. We’ve sort of…well, we’ve sort of enslaved them, if I’m being honest with you. Which sounds bad. But being on our side, on the Celestan side, even if you’re a slave…it’s a pretty comfortable place to be. Which is why I want you on my side. See, Jack, part of the Reality Games, an element that you wouldn’t know about, is that all the most powerful corporations in the Celestan Empire like to sponsor certain players in the Game. A little like athlete sponsorship from your timeline.”

  “My timeline? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Julian grins at me. “You don’t miss much, do you? Well, yes, I suppose I’ve spoiled the surprise. We are you, Jack. The Celestan Empire. Just from a different reality, a different timeline. We’ve figured a lot of shit out, as you can probably guess—such as how to cross realities, how to simply reach into another timeline and just…pluck people out at will. I suppose you could basically say we’ve become gods. I mean, that’s the fucking miracle of technology.”

  My hands curl into fists. They are us. Humans. Advanced humans, yes, but at the end of the day, just fucking humans. Julian has a point. It shouldn’t be surprising. No one excels at cruelty just like we do. I feel as though this new information should change my feelings—it should make me hate them less, since now I know they’re people, and aren’t people complicated, a mixture of both good and bad? But that nuance, I’m sure, extends to other races too.

  The anger remains. The desire to exact vengeance upon them for doing this to me, to Sarah.

  “Why?” I finally say, voice emerging as little more than a growl. “Why are you—you and your people—doing this to us?”

  “Entertainment, of course,” says Julian. “You have to understand, I’m not exaggerating when I say we may as well be gods. There’s nothing left for us to do. We have no enemies. No challenges. So many things that your civilization does are, for us, so worn out that life is…well, it’s quite grim. We try to find ways to liven it up. To have fun. And this, for us, is fun. People get really invested. For as long as the games run, everyone is having a grand time, and when it’s over, they can’t wait for the next one. And that’s why corporate sponsorships, they’re fucking massive. Because outside of the game, Jack, you best believe, there’s constant discourse about which contestant is going to win, or what people think about some petty drama, or a particularly cool fight, and…well, you probably get the picture.”

  I absorb all of this with a blank expression, and then ask the most obvious, and probably most important question: “What’s in it for me?”

  Because at the end of the day, all of this surrounding context, all of these details, they don’t fucking matter. What matters is winning. Getting Sarah. And then figuring out what’s next.

  “A good question,” Julian says, smiling. “See, I knew you were a practical man! So, here’s the thing. You’ve actually become quite popular lately. You have a massive audience, my friend. There are literally—and I’m not exaggerating—billions of people supporting you, wanting you to win. You’re a budding mega-star. Not quite a top ten contestant, but on the rise, certainly. A big part of it is Sarah, of course. That’s why they picked you for this whole thing in the first place—the audience loves a man motivated by love.”

  I close my eyes. This last revelation is almost too much. The fact that I’d been chosen specifically because of how strongly I loved Sarah. The fucking gall of this man to even say that to my face. I should tear him limb from limb. I should beat him to death with his severed fucking arm.

  And then I think about the other thing he said: that billions of people were watching me, rooting for me.

  It’s insanity. I can barely even comprehend it.

  “So, as for what you get: we’re allowed to give a sponsored contestant one item of our choice. I know that doesn’t sound like much but trust me, we got some good shit to give you. Oh, and,” he grins at me, “way more importantly, there’s this: once per level, we get to pull you out of the arena for a couple of hours. Sometimes a day, depending on how lenient the Entertainment Board is and how willing they are to accept a good bribe. Ha!” He laughs, but I don’t. “Even better, when we pull you out, we can give you access to Sarah. It’ll only be a brief window. Time for the two of you to talk—alone. Catch up a bit. We might need you to do an interview or two as well, but, hey, that’s life.”

  I sit forward on the lounge, heart thudding. A chance to talk to Sarah. To tell her that I’m coming for her. To see her face. To kiss her.

  I’d do anything for that, and so I know, already, that I’m going to agree to this bastard’s offer.

  “And what’s the catch?” I growl.

  “There isn’t one, not really. Like I said, when we pull you, you’ll have a few media responsibilities. We also need to brand you with our logo.” He smiles. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, trust me. Oh, and…when you’re in there, in the arena, we’ll need you to say our slogan every now and then. Once every twenty-four hours. Ideally, during a key, epic moment.”

  I want to throw up. It’s so disgustingly cynical, so capitalistic, so cold, that I can’t believe he isn’t messing with me. But I know he’s not. I know this is real. It makes me hate him. It makes me hate his entire fucking empire and every single person complicit in this crime.

  But, of course, I’ll play along.

  For now.

  But a reckoning will come.

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