Nigel pushed the door open, stepping into his assigned room—and immediately felt how out of place it was.

  The space was large, too large, with a level of luxury that felt almost mocking. A massive bed with silken sheets, soft carpeting beneath his boots, and dark mahogany furniture that gleamed under the chandelier’s golden glow. The room carried an air of refinement, a deliberate elegance, every detail curated to fit a life of wealth and comfort.

  His gaze swept across the space, taking in what had once belonged to the Sentinel High Official who had carried the ticket before him. Whoever he had been, he had clearly lived well.

  Nigel didn’t care.

  He was too exhausted—physically, mentally, in ways that went beyond simple fatigue. His body ached from days of strain, his mind still caught in the aftermath of everything that had happened.

  Crossing the room, he made his way to a small table near the window, where a neatly arranged set of rations had been left for him. Tearing open the packaging, he ate quickly, barely tasting the dried meat, fruit, and sweet bread as he forced it down. His thoughts were too heavy, too restless to allow him to focus on something as simple as food.

  When he finished, he headed toward the bathroom.

  It was just as extravagant as the rest of the suite—a wide marble tub, a mirror spanning an entire wall, rows of pristine towels and high-quality toiletries arranged with meticulous care.

  He peeled off his tattered, bloodstained clothes and tossed them into the trash. There was no saving them.

  Stepping into the shower, he turned the water as hot as it would go and let it cascade over him, feeling the grime and blood swirl away in thin red streams down the drain. The warmth should have been soothing, but the tension in his body refused to unravel.

  His mind wandered back to the Eleventh Ring.

  The heat of the flames. The screams echoing through the streets. The smell of charred flesh lingering in the air.

  Tom and Lilly’s bodies—broken, lifeless, beyond saving.

  His fingers curled into tight fists.

  The water scalded against his skin, but he barely noticed.

  Forcing himself to move, he turned off the shower and stepped out, grabbing a towel as he lifted his gaze to the mirror.

  For the first time since escaping, he really looked at himself.

  His reflection stared back—short, damp black hair hanging messily over his forehead, deep amber eyes that carried an exhaustion far too heavy for someone his age. Shadows clung beneath them, his features sharp with fatigue.

  He had no right to look this tired at twenty-one.

  He stood there for a long moment, unmoving.

  Then—red flooded his vision.

  His pulse spiked violently, a shock of rage slamming through his chest like a hammer.

  The images came fast, sharp, unstoppable.

  Burning streets. Mutilated corpses. Blood soaking into stone.

  A deep, writhing anger coiled inside him, dark and consuming.

  Something inside him snapped.

  The mirror shattered—

  But not just the mirror.

  The entire wall behind it collapsed.

  The force of his strike sent splintered wood and fractured stone crumbling into dust, the impact ringing through the room like a violent exhale.

  Then—silence.

  Nigel stood there, breathing hard, his fist still outstretched, his mind catching up with what he had just done.

  The anger was already fading, draining out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving behind only the familiar weight of emptiness.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He let out a slow breath.

  Reckless.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Turning away from the wreckage, he moved toward the wardrobe, retrieving a fresh set of clothes. The fabric was lightweight yet durable—black tactical wear, flexible and made for combat.

  Pulling the gear on, he barely registered the act of dressing before making his way back to the bed.

  The moment his body hit the mattress, exhaustion took over.

  Sleep came quickly.

  The week passed without incident.

  Nigel stayed in his room, avoiding unnecessary interactions, using the time to rest and let his thoughts settle. The silence suited him. It gave him space to push aside the weight of everything that had happened, to compartmentalize the memories clawing at the edges of his mind.

  Then, just hours before the portal to the First Stage was set to open, a notification flashed across his wristband.

  [The Armory is now open. All participants may gear up before entry.]

  He didn’t hesitate.

  The armory was massive—an industrial storage hall that stretched endlessly in both directions, its towering shelves lined with an overwhelming selection of weaponry. Ranged, melee, explosives, traps—every variety of killing tool imaginable sat in waiting, gleaming under the artificial lights. Some were neatly displayed in reinforced cases, others mounted along the walls like relics of war, all waiting to be claimed.

  As Nigel stepped inside, his shoulder collided with someone.

  The impact was hard enough to send the other person stumbling backward, their balance completely thrown off before they landed on the floor with a sharp thud.

  Nigel glanced down.

  The guy barely reached his chest in height, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, his bowl-cut sitting awkwardly above a pair of oversized glasses. He had the look of someone who had no business being here. Thin, untrained. A nerd, by all accounts. Certainly not a fighter.

  The man adjusted his glasses, blinking up at Nigel with wide eyes. "S-Sorry!" he stammered, scrambling to his feet in a rush.

  Nigel reached out, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him up with little effort. “You good?”

  The man nodded quickly. “Yeah, thanks!” Then, without another word, he darted past him, disappearing into the rows of weapons.

  Nigel watched him go for a moment before shaking his head.

  Someone like that wasn’t going to last long.

  Pushing the thought aside, he turned his attention back to the armory and began inspecting the weapons.

  The first thing that caught his eye was a rifle.

  Sleek, lightweight, fitted with a long-range scope and chambered for Titanium-2 bullets—the only kind capable of piercing the defenses of a true Skill User. Lethal. Precise. But expensive. Ammunition like that wasn’t just rare; it was costly and difficult to replenish.

  He meditated for a few seconds, but decided not to take it.

  Then, his eyes fell on something else.

  A spear.

  Its entire surface was vantablack, absorbing every trace of light that touched it, giving it the eerie appearance of a weapon carved from shadow itself. The name engraved on its side read:

  Reaper.

  Something about it felt right.

  Nigel reached out, his fingers trailing along the weapon’s edge. The curved blade was impossibly sharp, the metal carrying a sense of finality, as if it had been forged for a singular, absolute purpose.

  He had been trained to wield all kinds of weapons. But this one—this one called to him.

  Without hesitation, he took it after paying a hefty sum of credits.

  Strapping the spear securely across his back, Nigel grabbed a few extra supplies—a small collection of rations, medical kits, and a handful of simple traps that could buy him time if things went south. He didn’t linger. There was no reason to.

  The moment of entry was only minutes away.

  Exiting the armory, he made his way toward the portal.

  It stood at the center of an open field—a massive circular platform, its surface lined with intricate patterns that pulsed faintly with energy. A shimmering barrier surrounded it, shifting and flickering like a living thing, its translucent glow stretching high into the sky. The air around it crackled with an almost imperceptible hum, the sheer force of whatever power it held making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

  Around him, hundreds of participants had gathered.

  They came in all shapes and sizes—some clad in heavy armor, others wearing little more than rags. Some carried weapons so massive it was a miracle they could lift them, while others bore nothing at all, their confidence suggesting they had other means of fighting. There was no uniformity here, no single thread tying them together. Only one truth united them—all of them were here to survive.

  Beyond the portal, a city loomed on the horizon.

  Its towering skyscrapers gleamed beneath the afternoon sun, their exteriors pristine, untouched by time, war, or decay. The skyline stretched endlessly, far too large to belong to any ordinary metropolis. It wasn’t just a city—it was a world of its own.

  The First Stage.

  The one Bernard had mentioned.

  Before Nigel could examine it further, a voice boomed from above, echoing across the field like a force of nature.

  “Looks like everyone’s here!”

  Nigel’s muscles tensed.

  The voice had no visible source. It didn’t come from speakers, nor from any discernible figure standing among them. It simply was, carrying across the landscape with an unnatural clarity that sent an instinctive warning through his gut.

  “Participants of the Chaos Tournament! You are now in the First Stage! To advance, you must complete a challenge!”

  A hush fell over the crowd.

  “Right now, there are over ten thousand of you! To pass to the Second Stage, you must collect fifty Diamantines!”

  Murmurs rippled through the field. Nigel’s jaw clenched.

  “How do you get Diamantines? Simple! By eliminating other participants! Each opponent you kill will drop one! You have twenty-four hours! Anyone who fails to gather fifty by the end of the time limit will be eliminated from the Tournament!”

  Eliminated.

  Nigel already knew exactly what that meant.

  No second chances. No mercy.

  “There are no other rules! Form teams if you wish or go solo! Do whatever it takes to survive!”

  A countdown appeared in the sky, burning bright against the blue expanse.

  Three.

  Nigel tightened his grip around the Reaper, his mind already shifting into combat mode.

  Two.

  Some participants had already drawn their weapons. Others were locking onto their first targets, muscles coiled, ready to strike.

  One.

  The moment the countdown hit zero, the entire field shattered into light.