HyperSpace was like a gold mine if you knew where to dig.

  The easiest were the most tempting: renting out meta-abilities to lazy rich kids, betting on underground games, or jumping into those sketchy virtual fighting rings where people burned through their parents' money. Hell, some people even made decent cash just designing avatars for the rich ones who couldn't be bothered to customize their own.

  My goal was clear: claim the jackpot. What time traveler wouldn’t capitalize on knowledge only they possessed?

  I had even made a calculated sacrifice: erasing precious memories to retain just one critical detail—the location and time of the biggest lottery wins. My plan was straightforward: use my insider knowledge to intercept fate itself. With the specifics of past jackpot winnings at my disposal, I was confident I could rewrite history in my favor. In my second cycle, I had spent endless hours examining historical lottery records, tracking the largest payouts ever recorded. Gradually, I compiled a map of winning tickets—where they had been purchased, when they were redeemed, and the astronomical sums attached to them. These notes became my blueprint for success in this third run.

  The world’s largest lottery corporations and each country's public lottery departments held monthly draws, with prizes ranging from millions to staggering billions. It was the ultimate "get-rich-quick" scheme—almost laughably simple for someone like me. The thought sent waves of excitement through me, butterflies stirring in my stomach. I could already see my new reality unfolding.

  Still, I couldn't just waltz in and claim billions without raising eyebrows. This world had too many nosy people with convenient meta-abilities. Mind readers, future seers, those annoying truth-detectors who could smell a lie from a mile away. Getting rich quick was easy—staying rich without attracting attention was the real game.

  I started sketching out a rough plan in my mind. Shell companies, fake paper trails, all that boring but necessary stuff.

  Had to make it look legit enough to pass surface-level checks but messy enough to seem natural. Too clean was just as suspicious as too sloppy.

  It's funny how time travel screws with your head.

  In my second cycle, it took me over a decade to figure out how to actually use my knowledge of the future. Spent half that time just trying to convince myself I wasn't crazy, and the other half sorting through jumbled memories and missed opportunities.

  But this time would be different. Everything was planned, prepared, refined.

  A quick glance at the current date and time confirmed it: I was nine days away from the redemption of a winning lottery ticket—a jackpot worth over three hundred million dollars.

  The lucky ticket had been bought somewhere in the city. My pulse quickened as I mulled over my game plan. For the next week, my sole focus would be on raking in enough cash to buy as many tickets as humanly possible. The more I could snag, the better my chances of intercepting that massive three-hundred-million-dollar payday right on schedule.

  Without wasting another second, I pulled up the address on my screen and locked it in.

  In an instant, I leaped into an open plaza surrounded by massive, stadium-like structures. The air buzzed with activity, and the backdrop was a mix of towering digital displays and neon signs.

  This place was alive with energy, a whirlwind of movement and noise: the Battle Champion Stadium, the busiest hub in all of HyperSpace. Here, challengers, spectators, and admirers of raw power converged to witness and participate in the most intense meta duels imaginable. It was the ultimate arena, where reputations were forged and legends born.

  However, what made this place truly remarkable wasn't just its scale, but its fidelity. HyperSpace's systems could replicate meta-abilities with near-perfect accuracy. The sensations, the strain, the precise feedback of power usage—all reproduced at ninety-nine percent accuracy. That missing one percent was barely noticeable to most users.

  The stadium hosted hundreds of millions of players at any given moment, necessitating strict regional divisions to maintain system stability. Professional leagues occupied the premium spaces, running tournaments with substantial prize pools. Underground circuits operated in the shadows, offering different risks and rewards.

  Despite the regional restrictions, skilled fighters regularly crossed boundaries seeking worthy opponents.

  Nearby my attention was drawn to a cluster of massive blue digital interface screens hanging high above the plaza, visible to everyone. The first screen contained a list of top players in the country, the second displayed their state players, and The third screen was dedicated to the current matchups, glowing with the names of competitors locked in battles as we watched.

  New matches and rankings were updated in real time.

  I moved closer to the screens, though not because I was interested in the matches or the fighting itself, I knew all too well the risks and limited rewards of that approach. With my meta nature, I wasn’t exactly built for combat. My focus was elsewhere: finding a way to place bets that could double—or even ten-fold—my money.

  The crowd around me was abuzz with chatter, dissecting the top players' stats, abilities, and fighting styles. I tuned them out, concentrating on the names and recent match statistics displayed on the towering screens. I scanned the data, searching for patterns: a player on a winning streak, an underdog with favorable odds, someone I could back confidently.

  Betting smart could turn this chaotic spectacle into my payday.

  And then it hit me, like a cruel joke: I didn’t even have a dollar to my name.

  Not enough to buy insider tips, let alone place a meaningful wager. In a place like this, going in blind was practically begging to lose.

  Information was currency, and I didn’t have any.

  Frustration gnawed at me as I wove through the crowd gathered beneath the glowing screens. They were absorbed in heated debates, oblivious to my presence. I slipped past them and into a nearby stadium entrance, where the roar of the crowd swallowed me whole.

  The noise hit first—a relentless, chaotic blend of cheers, shouts, and the booming commentary that accompanied every match. Holographic displays hung in the air around each seat, projecting fighter statistics and match highlights.. I spotted an empty seat and slid into it, the vibrations of the stadium rumbling beneath me.

  The crowd watched through these floating windows, their faces lit by the glow of data streams and power measurements. Each significant move triggered new displays, breaking down the mechanics of meta-abilities in vivid detail. In the arena below, two fighters clashed at impossible speeds. Strikes left trails of light in their wake, blocks generated visible force ripples, and each meta-ability activation painted the air with over exaggerated effects. The simulation's fidelity made it easy to forget this wasn't real combat.

  I watched the fighters below, not really caring about who won or lost. What mattered were the patterns - little tells that could turn into profit once I had enough to make real bets. Every twitch, every habit, every predictable move could mean the difference between winning and losing money.

  The whole thing was a pretty wild show, I had to admit. HyperSpace had a way of making everyone look good. Some guy with barely enough telekinesis to lift a pencil in real life could put on a whole circus act here - debris flying everywhere, shockwaves rippling through the air.

  The first match ended in a knockout. I checked my account: seventeen dollars remaining. After setting aside two dollars for transportation, I converted the rest into game currency. The system calculated the exchange: 225 Ether coins. Converting real money into game currency was easy. Getting it back out? That's where things got complicated. HyperSpace's official stance was clear: in-game currency stays in-game. No exceptions, no transfers, no real-world redemptions. But money finds a way, usually through the shadow economy run by various gangs operating in the system.

  These groups—not all villains, but none entirely clean—had built networks for converting virtual wealth back into real currency. They took their cut, of course. Thirty, sometimes forty percent of everything you cashed out. And the terms weren't always just about money. Getting involved with these groups meant risk. They had reach beyond HyperSpace, and they weren't shy about using it. Many demanded favors, loyalty, or "services" in exchange for their help. A clean record could get dirty fast, and in this world, reputation meant everything.

  I chose to start cautiously with smaller bets, hoping to get a feel for the game before risking more.

  After bringing up a blue interface screen, I carefully keyed in the address of a local gang I’d researched thoroughly during my last cycle. Their leader, according to what I’d uncovered, had a reputation for being somewhat reasonable—by gang standards, and compared to some of the other nutjobs running crews in this place.

  I took a deep breath, said a little prayer to any god that might be listening, and put half my meager savings on the line. It wasn't much, but it was all I could afford to risk at this point.

  The energy in the arena shifted as the first fighter stepped into the spotlight. Towering over the center of the stadium was the announcer—a massive figure standing at least eight feet tall. His upper body was a masterpiece of metal, gleaming under the bright arena lights. Polished steel limbs moved with a mechanical precision as his deep, resonating voice echoed through the air.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves!” His metallic fingers gestured dramatically to the fighter’s entryway. “First up, a challenger who strikes fear into the hearts of all living—Living Mummy!”

  The audience erupted in a thunderous roar. All eyes turned toward the far end of the arena, where the fighter emerged. She was wrapped from head to toe in blood-red ribbons, her appearance like something pulled straight from an ancient Egyptian legend.

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

  As she strode forward, her movements were fluid, almost otherworldly, the red fabric shifting and rippling as though alive.

  Then, with a sudden motion, the ribbons began to unwind, forming a swirling, protective aura around her.

  The coils moved in hypnotic patterns, tight and controlled, but with an edge of menace. A few strips lashed out violently, striking the arena floor with enough force to leave deep, jagged scars in the ground. Each strike was a clear display of her precision and power. The audience roared louder, feeding off her sheer presence and the palpable danger she exuded.

  Not their first time! I wondered.

  I leaned forward in my seat, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. I wasn’t here to fight, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t feel the gravity of what was about to unfold.

  The Living Mummy’s opponent hadn’t even been introduced yet, and already, it felt like the match was hers to lose.

  Then the second fighter entered the arena, and the energy shifted noticeably. She was a stark contrast to the fierce aura of the Living Mummy. Dressed in a simple black cap, a tucked-in white t-shirt, and faded blue jeans, she looked more like someone heading to a casual baseball game than stepping into the grandest stage of combat. Even more surprising was her complete disregard for the arena’s usual theatrics—no dramatic entrance, no flashy effects, and certainly no adherence to the unwritten “dress code” of HyperSpace fighters.

  She strolled in, idly tossing a baseball in one hand, utterly unfazed by the roaring crowd—or rather, the lack of it. “Victory,” the announcer boomed, introducing her name with the same gravitas as the Living Mummy’s.

  The response from the crowd, however, was vastly different. An awkward silence hung in the air, punctuated by a few stifled laughs and muttered critiques.

  “Victory?” someone nearby sneered. “She lost before the match even started. Why's her avatar so bland?”

  The crowd murmured in agreement, their enthusiasm replaced by skepticism and even mild contempt. A good avatar in a place as such was important for popularity and build reputation.

  But Victory carried herself with the relaxed air of someone out for a Sunday stroll rather than preparing for combat. Either this was supreme confidence or complete naivety – I couldn't decide which, but I found myself deeply skeptical of this odd player.

  As she entered the arena, Victory began moving in slow, deliberate circles around the Living Mummy, her eyes sharp and focused. The Living Mummy mirrored her movements, ribbons twitching like coiled serpents, ready to strike. The two fighters sized each other up, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. For me, the stakes were no less personal. My time to decide where to place my bet was slipping away. On paper, the choice was obvious: Living Mummy. Her commanding presence, her mastery of her abilities, and the way she carried herself all screamed experience and control. She was clearly the safer bet.

  Victory, on the other hand... Her casual demeanor and unorthodox style made her difficult to read, and in an arena where appearances could often deceive, I found myself deeply skeptical.

  I only had seconds to make a choice for my bet, but visual cues alone left me more torn than before.

  It was moments like these where my meta nature truly shined.

  Sometimes, seeing beyond the obvious meant trusting in something deeper than logic.

  Beyond the Veil, Fishing for Dead Stars—a name that sounded grandiose, perhaps overly dramatic, but at its core, it was a simple support ability. Once activated, it granted me an enhanced, almost clairvoyant perception of events, and I could see what I personally called ‘Likeness’ of anything.

  Though it was convoluted and very hard to use, my ability would present cryptic fragments, vague impressions that required careful analysis, like fitting together the pieces of a fragmented puzzle. Mastering it took nearly a hundred years—a laborious journey of trial, error, repeated mistakes, and endless attempts. Because of this, my first cycle was worse than even the life of a normal meta-human.

  The moment I triggered the meta, everything shifted. My vision blurred slightly, then perception sharpened, the world around me overlaid with a faint glow of ethereal fragments. Normally, I’d see disjointed symbols or fleeting flashes of meaning, but this time, there was no ambiguity.

  A pot of gold. It shimmered brightly, unmistakably hovering above Victory.

  I blinked in disbelief. Such clarity was rare—practically unheard of. My ability usually required patience and interpretation, but this? This was a direct message, a declaration from the universe itself. Whatever hidden potential Victory possessed, it was beyond doubt.

  With only seconds left to decide, I didn’t even glance at the Living Mummy. My gut, my ability, and now this vision all pointed to one thing: Victory was the right choice. My hands trembled slightly as I keyed in my wager, staking every remaining Ether coin I had on her. There was no room for doubt, no time for second-guessing. I pressed confirm, and the transaction locked in. Now, all I could do was watch.

  The bell rang out across the arena, its echo slicing through the tension like a knife. The crowd erupted in cheers as both opponents lunged forward simultaneously, and the battle began.

  Living Mummy’s powers surged to life in an instant. The crimson ribbons that had coiled protectively around her body now lashed out like violent waves in a storm, striking with terrifying speed and precision. Each whip cracked against the ground, leaving deep, jagged scars as they zeroed in on Victory with surgical intent. But her relaxed demeanor faltered when a crimson ribbon sliced dangerously close, forcing her to stumble back, her baseball bat swinging wildly in a clumsy attempt at defense. Her stance wavered, and to the crowd, she looked completely outmatched. Her awkward movements and lack of coordination were painfully apparent against Living Mummy’s fluid, calculated strikes.

  Yet, despite being clearly on the defensive, Victory’s expression remained unchanged. Her face, calm and focused, betrayed none of the panic that her fumbling suggested. If anything, she appeared to be studying her opponent—watching, waiting.

  Then it happened. One of the Living Mummy’s red ribbons lashed out, breaking from the swirling mass around her and snaking forward with incredible speed. In a blink, it coiled tightly around Victory’s wrist. The crowd collectively gasped, anticipating the inevitable: Victory would be yanked forward and slammed mercilessly into the arena floor. But then, without warning, the ribbon erupted into flames. The fire raced along its length, consuming it in seconds until only ash remained. Victory stood unharmed, her calm demeanor unbroken. The crowd roared in astonishment, their initial doubts giving way to excitement.

  Living Mummy’s brow furrowed deeply, her earlier confidence momentarily shaken. For a split second, she studied her opponent with new scrutiny. But then her expression shifted. A subtle smirk crept across her lips as she relaxed, her body language oozing confidence. Whatever momentary concern she’d felt about Victory’s meta nature was gone now.

  The flames had revealed something vital. Living Mummy had feared the unknown, but now that she’d seen the fire, she believed she had the measure of her opponent.

  In her mind, Victory was no longer a threat—just an inexperienced first-timer lucky enough to have a flashy defensive trick. Her smirk widened as her ribbons coiled tighter around her, preparing for the next strike.

  It was clear that Living Mummy believed the battle was already hers. Her confidence radiated as she prepared to exploit what she saw as Victory’s lack of control. But something about Victory’s steady, unshaken gaze seemed to chip away at that confidence, leaving a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

  I couldn’t look away. My focus was locked on the arena, my mind refusing to make any early judgments despite the seemingly one-sided nature of the fight. That pot of gold I’d seen hovering above Victory—it wasn’t just a fluke. Whether it symbolized potential, hidden strength, or something more elusive, I knew there was more to this baseball-toting fighter than anyone could see.

  Living Mummy, determined to end the fight, unleashed her ribbons in a relentless, spiraling fury. Each strike was faster and more precise, probing for weaknesses in Victory’s defense. For her part, Victory remained steadfast, burning each ribbon that came close, reducing them to ash. It was a simple, straightforward defense—but one that betrayed a dangerous flaw: predictability.

  Living Mummy capitalized on it. A thin ribbon, reinforced with razor-sharp metal threads, whipped past Victory’s face. It moved so fast that Victory couldn’t fully react, and her cap was sent flying to the ground. Her hair billowed in the air as a thin line of blood appeared on her cheek.

  The crowd gasped, their cheers turning into murmurs of concern and excitement. But Victory didn’t flinch. With a calm hand, she wiped the blood away, her previously casual demeanor hardening into something fierce and focused. Living Mummy seized her moment. Her expression sharpened, her stance shifting as she prepared to unleash one of her finishing moves. With a sharp flick of her wrist, the remaining ribbons surged forward in unison, converging on Victory like a tidal wave of scarlet threads.

  The attack was a perfect storm. Ribbons darted and spiraled, forming an inescapable cage around Victory. The threads moved with deadly precision, concealing razor-sharp metal tips that struck toward her vital points.

  The sheer volume of the assault was overwhelming—too numerous to burn, too widespread to dodge.

  It wasn’t just an attack; it was a declaration of victory, designed to force Victory out of the arena. She wouldn’t die, of course—HyperSpace ensured that—but she’d lose the match and all the money she’d staked on herself.

  The audience collectively held its breath, their eyes fixed on Victory. The tension in the air was palpable, the arena so silent that the faint hum of the ribbons slicing through the air was audible. For a moment, it seemed impossible for Victory to escape the onslaught. Everyone waited, their anticipation building with each passing second.

  In that crucial moment, something inexplicable happened. None of us in the audience could fully process what we’d just witnessed—it defied explanation.

  The deadly, razor-sharp ribbons, moving with perfect precision, inexplicably collided with one another mere inches from their target.

  The attack, which moments ago had seemed inescapable, unraveled in an instant. Whether it was a miscalculation on Living Mummy’s part, fatigue dulling her focus, or something else entirely, the result was undeniable: her perfect strategy had failed.

  Victory wasted no time. She moved with startling speed, capitalizing on the opening before Living Mummy could recover from the shock of her failed assault.

  In a blur, Victory closed the distance between them, her bat raised high. The crowd collectively gasped as she swung with all her strength, the sound of the impact echoing across the arena as the bat smashed against the Living Mummy’s skull.

  The blow staggered Living Mummy, her confidence shattered along with her balance. For a split second, she froze, her expression a mix of disbelief and panic as she struggled to comprehend what had just happened. But Victory didn’t let up.

  The second strike came even faster than the first, and then a third, each blow resonating like thunder through the arena.

  Living Mummy gripped her head in pain and once-imposing form crumpled to the ground under the final strike, her ribbons falling limp around her as her defenses broke completely.

  For a moment, there was silence—a stunned, breathless pause where the crowd struggled to reconcile what they had just seen.

  Then the arena erupted.

  Thunderous cheers filled the air, shaking the very walls of the stadium.

  The skepticism that had greeted Victory at the start of the match transformed into wild enthusiasm.

  The crowd roared her name, electrified by the sheer unpredictability of the fight.

  This unassuming underdog, dismissed as inexperienced and out of place, had toppled an experienced fighter against all odds.

  Victory stood in the center of the arena, her bat resting on her shoulder, her calm demeanor unchanged. She didn’t soak in the applause or revel in her triumph. Instead, she turned and retrieved her fallen cap, dusted it off, and placed it back on her head with quiet precision.

  The stadium buzzed with excitement, the air thick with speculation.

  A new dark horse had emerged, one who had not only won but had done so in a way that left everyone questioning their assumptions.