《Death Realm》 Chapter 1: Death Is The Beginning A man lay on the cold floor, his body nearly lifeless. His black hair gleamed under the dim light, his tanned skin bore a refined quality, and his clothes were tattered beyond repair. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking twice before glancing around. Around him, others lay in a similar state¡ªmotionless, disoriented, barely clinging to consciousness. Though they did not resemble him in appearance, they shared his circumstances. One by one, they began to stir, awakening to their unfamiliar surroundings. Yet the man felt no urgency to rise. The mere thought of exertion irritated him; even the effort required to sit upright seemed like an unnecessary burden. Then, the murmurs of confusion turned into frantic voices. Though their fear was apparent, the man remained indifferent to their distress. They turned to one another, desperate for answers. ¡°Where are we?¡± someone asked. The man finally sat up, his expression twisting into one of confusion as he silently echoed the question in his mind. Where am I? The panic escalated, the tension thickening as fear gripped the crowd, particularly the women, whose anxiety manifested in trembling voices. It was only a matter of time before hysteria consumed them all, or so the man predicted. Then, a voice cut through the chaos. ¡°Everyone, calm down!¡± A man with long brown hair, a strong build, and piercing brown eyes stood among them. His voice, though commanding, carried an undeniable composure. Like a lone star piercing the night sky, his presence drew every gaze, even that of the reluctant observer. For a moment, silence reigned. ¡°I understand that you¡¯re all confused,¡± the brown-haired man continued, his voice steady. ¡°But if we succumb to panic, we won¡¯t be able to make sense of this situation. We need to communicate. Let¡¯s start by sharing where we were before we arrived here.¡± A leader. In times like these, a leader was exactly what they needed. Like a herd of lost sheep, they instinctively gravitated toward him, clinging to the hope that he might provide clarity. The reluctant man, however, saw no reason to follow the masses. Nor did he feel compelled to reveal anything about his past. One by one, the others spoke. A man recounted walking his dog before everything went black. Another had been standing on his apartment balcony when his world suddenly blurred. Each person shared their last memory¡ªexcept for the reluctant man. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. The brown-haired leader¡¯s gaze eventually settled on him. Noticing his silence, he moved through the crowd, stepping toward the lone figure who had chosen to stand apart from the rest. Eyes closed, the man attempted to recall the moments before his arrival, but his memories were a haze. The only thing that remained clear was the bleak reality of his life¡ªa 20-year-old man stuck in a dead-end job, barely scraping by to pay rent. A light tap on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes slowly. ¡°Hello there. What¡¯s your name?¡± The man hesitated. He had no real interest in participating in whatever this was, but refusing to answer would only alienate him further. If he dismissed the one person trying to establish order, the crowd would surely turn against him. So, with a practiced smile, he responded, ¡°Oh, me? My name is Bernard Sylvester.¡± ¡°A pleasure to meet you, Bernard.¡± The man extended his hand in greeting. ¡°I¡¯m Arthur Francis.¡± Bernard shook his hand, not out of sincerity, but to maintain appearances. Arthur, huh? A kingly name¡ªno wonder he¡¯s trying to rule over everyone else, Bernard mused silently. ¡°So, Bernard,¡± Arthur continued, ¡°do you recall anything about how you got here?¡± If he had, Bernard would have lied. But the truth was, his memory was blank. Meeting Arthur¡¯s unwavering gaze, he simply said, ¡°I don¡¯t remember.¡± A wave of frustration rippled through the crowd. Their voices rose, their expressions twisted with suspicion and anger. Bernard had unwittingly become their scapegoat. ¡°How can you not remember?¡± a woman with smudged lipstick sneered. ¡°You¡¯re the only one refusing to answer!¡± a bespectacled man shouted. Bernard maintained his pleasant expression, but beneath the surface, irritation churned. Of course. When people lack answers, they turn on the one who stands apart. Typical. The hostility escalated. A man from the crowd, his fists clenched, stepped forward, ready to strike. But before he could get close, Arthur intercepted him. ¡°Enough!¡± Arthur¡¯s voice was firm yet calm. ¡°Blaming Bernard won¡¯t help us. Let¡¯s focus on what we do know.¡± How noble, Bernard thought, smirking inwardly. He¡¯s willing to trust anything anyone says without a shred of evidence. How amusing. The tension dissipated, and the crowd dispersed, though Arthur remained close to Bernard. Without a word, he sat on the ground beside him and patted the spot next to him. ¡°Sit,¡± he said. Bernard hesitated before complying, still perplexed by Arthur¡¯s persistence. After a moment, he voiced his thoughts. ¡°Why are you still here?¡± Arthur exhaled, staring ahead. ¡°Truthfully? I don¡¯t remember anything either. I just woke up here.¡± Bernard blinked. So that¡¯s why he helped me? He thought back to the crowd¡¯s reaction. They had turned their anger on him for his lack of answers, yet none of them had questioned their so-called leader. Hypocrites. But, of course, why would they challenge the only person willing to take charge? Feigning surprise, Bernard glanced at Arthur. ¡°So that¡¯s why you stepped in?¡± ¡°Not just that,¡± Arthur admitted. ¡°I can¡¯t stand seeing people being singled out for no reason. What they did to you was wrong.¡± Bernard gave a slow nod. ¡°I see.¡± For the next hour, they spoke, their conversation occasionally interrupted by the hushed murmurs of the crowd. Then, without warning, a figure descended from above. Clad in a flowing black cloak, a scythe in hand, it hovered above them, its very presence suffocating the air in the r The crowd fell silent, their fear tangible. The figure let out a few soft coughs before speaking. "Welcome to the Death Realm. I trust you are all prepared." Chapter 2: Death Game The typically calm and indolent man was paralyzed with fear at the sight of the cloaked figure, but he was not alone. The people surrounding him trembled, their breaths shallow and uneven. Staying composed was nearly impossible, for the being before them bore an uncanny resemblance to the Grim Reaper¡ªa harbinger of death, the entity said to mark the end of one''s existence. "But that would mean..." "You are all dead!" the figure proclaimed, its voice reverberating through the grand hall. A few of the women collapsed to their knees. Who could blame them? To learn of their demise from Death himself was a revelation too harrowing to process. Shock gripped them all, though some clung to denial, challenging the figure¡¯s words. "You''re lying! Dead people are supposed to go to Heaven or Hell, but we¡¯re in neither!" the bespectacled man retorted defiantly. The figure turned to him, drifting down until their faces were mere inches apart. The man with glasses locked eyes¡ªor rather, the empty sockets where eyes should have been. And as he stared into that abyss, something dreadful unfolded before him. He saw his past. A life of indulgence, of hedonistic pleasures. He had lived lavishly, betraying his wife with countless affairs, frequenting strip clubs without remorse. Yet, all actions bear consequences. His wife had discovered the truth, and in a moment of vengeful wrath, she had pushed him from the balcony of their thirty-first-floor apartment. The realization crashed over him like a tidal wave, and he let out a bloodcurdling scream¡ªone laced with pure, unfiltered terror. "I trust that serves as sufficient proof for you all," the figure stated coolly as it ascended back to its original position. Bernard observed the man with glasses, noting the sheer horror in his wide eyes and the overwhelming regret etched upon his face. Though he had not witnessed the vision himself, Bernard could guess its contents. "Serves him right," he muttered under his breath. Arthur, standing nearby, turned sharply toward Bernard. He had caught the whisper but not the words. "Did you say something?" "Nothing at all," Bernard replied with a practiced smile. Satisfied, Arthur returned his attention to the cloaked figure, yet Bernard remained unsettled. Something was off. Arthur was far too composed¡ªunnervingly so. "Why is that?" The figure addressed the crowd once more. "Now, if there are no further interruptions, I shall proceed. The twenty of you gathered here all perished around the same time, and you have been selected to partake in a game." Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "A game?" "Yes, a game to determine the five individuals who shall be chosen," it continued, raising both arms skyward. "Five among you shall be granted the favor of my Lord Death." Confusion spread like wildfire, and soon the hall was filled with frantic murmurs. Yet, the implications were simple enough. The five victors would likely receive a second chance at life. As for the others... "What happens to those of us who are not chosen?" a man inquired, his voice cutting through the tension. The cloaked figure placed a skeletal hand over its face and began to laugh. The laughter stretched on for an excruciating minute, grating on the nerves of all present. Finally, a woman snapped. "Answer us!" she demanded. The figure¡¯s mirth ceased in an instant. The ominous aura it exuded upon its arrival returned in full force. "Those who are not chosen will die. It is as simple as that. Every game has its consequences, and in this world, punishment is inevitable. Accept it, or perish." Panic took hold once more, but amidst the hysteria, two figures remained eerily composed¡ªBernard, who masked his fear behind a veil of apathy, and Arthur, whose tranquility was far more unsettling. Bernard narrowed his eyes. ''Arthur should be afraid. Even if he''s the calm and collected type, he should be reacting more than this. Why isn''t he?'' The cloaked figure continued, indifferent to the chaos. "Form groups of five. You have five minutes. Once time is up, I shall reveal the nature of the game." With that, it vanished. Bernard kept his thoughts to himself, but he suspected he was closer than anyone else to understanding the truth behind this ordeal. He placed a finger to his chin, deep in thought. ''Are the four others you choose meant to be your allies... or your enemies?'' His musings were interrupted. "Would you join me?" Arthur''s voice was steady, his expression unreadable. Bernard hesitated. Even without direct proof, he instinctively knew Arthur was dangerous. His earlier display of unnatural composure was proof enough. "Sure. You''re the only one I trust," Bernard answered, flashing his usual, deceptive grin. It was a lie. He trusted no one. If anything, he loathed the idea of working alongside someone so enigmatic, someone who concealed his true nature. "How hypocritical of me." A smile tugged at Arthur''s lips, though whether it was genuine or laced with ulterior motives, Bernard could not tell. "Let¡¯s find three others to join us," Arthur said. Given his reputation and natural charisma, Arthur was a sought-after leader. Many clamored to be on his team, but with only three spots available, the choice was his alone. In the end, he selected the bespectacled man, a woman with smudged lipstick, and a quiet girl with pigtails. "I apologize to the rest of you," Arthur declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "I wish to aid those who are weak. They deserve a second chance." His words were met with outrage. "Damn you! Why didn¡¯t you choose fairly?" a man bellowed. "Yeah!" others chorused in agreement. For three minutes, Arthur stood silently, enduring their anger, their insults, their accusations. Only when they finally dispersed to form their own groups did he move again. Two minutes later, the figure returned. "Now that you have chosen your groups, stand together. The game shall begin." Each group of five was teleported out of the room one after the other. Their destination? No one knew. Then came the turn of Arthur¡¯s group. A beam of light descended upon them, drawing their gazes upward. For a fleeting moment, their focus remained on the radiant glow¡ªuntil, in the blink of an eye, they found themselves elsewhere. A forest. Towering trees with crimson bark loomed around them, their branches adorned with ghostly white leaves. A river ran nearby, its waters an eerie shade of red, mirroring the unnatural surroundings. "Let us begin," the figure intoned. Chapter 3: A Decision Must Be Made Their arrival in the forest was met with the voice of the cloaked figure, who began explaining the rules of the game they were about to play. ¡°There is one person in each group who has been given the role of captain. Your task as group members is to identify and expose your captain. If the captain loses, the four others advance to the next round. However, if the captain wins, the rest of you will perish.¡± The rules were simple to understand, yet identifying the leader among them would prove to be far more difficult. Bernard remained internally composed, but on the outside, he feigned terror¡ªhis legs trembling, his teeth chattering violently. Whether or not he was the captain, he had no intention of drawing attention to himself. ¡°Captains will receive a notification that is invisible to others,¡± the cloaked figure continued. ¡°My advice? Watch for a change in facial expression. Goodbye, and good luck.¡± The game had begun. For the first five minutes, the group remained silent. No one trusted anyone, and silence was the safest way to avoid becoming a target. They sat in a rough circle, the tension thick between them. Minutes passed before Arthur finally broke the silence, his voice as steady as it was commanding. ¡°I don¡¯t want anyone to die,¡± he said, ¡°but if it comes down to it, I¡¯d rather lose one person than four.¡± The lazy man raised his hand, signaling his turn to speak. ¡°Arthur is right. As much as we¡¯d all like to survive, that isn¡¯t possible. Our best option is to identify the captain.¡± Bernard¡¯s words were carefully chosen. By aligning himself with Arthur, he could gain his trust¡ªand possibly the trust of those who followed him. The man with glasses remained silent, his skepticism evident. Whether he was too frightened to speak or merely pretending to be, no one could say. However, the woman with smudged lipstick and the girl with pigtails voiced their agreement. ¡°I agree with you both,¡± the woman said. ¡°Me as well,¡± the girl murmured. The man with glasses, by refusing to speak, had already made himself a prime suspect. Was his silence fear, or was it strategy? Arthur naturally took the lead, speaking with the authority of an unspoken leader. The others followed him¡ªincluding Bernard. ¡°We still have time before we need to decide,¡± Arthur said with an encouraging smile. ¡°Let¡¯s just talk.¡± ¡®Is this his way of gathering information?¡¯ the lazy man wondered. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°Talk about what?¡± the woman with smudged lipstick asked. Arthur tilted his head, gazing at the sky as if searching for an answer in the crimson canopy above. Anyone paying attention could tell he hadn¡¯t planned this far ahead. ¡®So, I guess it wasn¡¯t a strategy after all,¡¯ Bernard thought, until Arthur finally spoke again. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about our past lives.¡± Bernard allowed himself a small smile, lowering his gaze so his hair obscured his face. ¡®Ah¡­ so he does know what he¡¯s doing.¡¯ The best way to clear suspicion, Bernard knew, was to make yourself the center of attention. No one would accuse the person trying to befriend everyone of being their enemy. But in a game like this, trust was a dangerous thing. ¡®Trusting no one is the best option,¡¯ Bernard mused, ¡®but making it obvious that you trust no one only makes you a suspect. By acting as he has, the man with glasses has made himself the first target.¡¯ The bespectacled man remained disinterested, refusing to involve himself, but the others nodded in agreement with Arthur¡¯s suggestion. The girl with pigtails spoke first. ¡°I lived a simple life. I was in my final year of high school, but I dropped out because¡­¡± Her voice faltered. She curled into herself, hugging her knees as if trying to disappear. Her expression darkened, her entire body radiating unease. The woman with smudged lipstick scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her in comfort. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± she whispered. For a brief moment, Bernard¡¯s usual mask slipped. His expression of sympathy was genuine. ¡°I guess¡­ I¡¯ll go next,¡± Arthur said, his voice uncertain. ¡®That¡¯s a bit insensitive,¡¯ Bernard thought. Arthur stood, dusting off his clothes before speaking. ¡°My family was wealthy, and I had everything I could ever want. But my parents always told me to treat everyone equally, regardless of their class. I enjoyed¡­ I enjoyed playing with my siblings. I was also a great runner.¡± ¡®So that explains why he acts so high and mighty,¡¯ Bernard noted. Arthur sat back down and turned to the woman with smudged lipstick. Since she was still consoling the girl, he tapped Bernard¡¯s arm, gesturing for him to go next. Bernard, ever the performer, complied. He stood, brushed the dirt from his pants, and spoke. ¡°I wasn¡¯t good in school. Actually, I wasn¡¯t good at much of anything. Because of that, finding a job was difficult. I eventually landed a low-paying job, but it wasn¡¯t enough to get by, so I started gambling. I kept winning, so I never thought I could lose. Then, one night, I lost everything. I became broke¡­ and homeless.¡± The weight of his words settled over the group, dragging them into a collective silence. No one else wished to speak. Their conversation had lasted forty minutes, and for the next hour and twenty minutes, they sat in complete silence. Then, the voice of the cloaked figure returned. ¡°I hope you are all ready.¡± The cloaked figure¡¯s voice sent shivers down the spines of the participants. The unknown loomed before them, and what was about to unfold would shake the very foundation of their fragile group. ¡°So, have you decided who the captain is?¡± the voice inquired, its tone laced with an unsettling calm. Confusion spread across the faces of the group members. ¡°I thought we still had more time!¡± the man with glasses exclaimed. Bernard observed him silently. I see what he was trying to do¡­ but unfortunately, it¡¯s too late. The man with glasses had a strategy¡ªto let everyone speak, waiting for even the slightest slip-up before seizing the opportunity to shift suspicion onto someone else. He had been biding his time, believing he still had control over the situation. But time had run out. ¡°You must now choose one member to be executed,¡± the cloaked figure declared, its voice dripping with menace. Chapter 4: The Vote Of Death The group stood paralyzed by the weight of their decision. One vote¡ªone life extinguished. The rules were simple: identify the captain, eliminate them, and survive. But beneath that simplicity lay a grim reality¡ªone of them would die. What if they were wrong? The burden of their choice was suffocating. Five people had entered this game, but only four would move on. ¡°I hope you¡¯ve all made your decision. I¡¯ve given you more than enough time,¡± the cloaked figure said, each word pressing down on them like a vice. Bernard, the so-called lazy man, remained still, his expression unreadable. I should have known from the beginning¡ªthe true purpose of this game was to divide us. I was a fool to think I could get close to these people. The silence stretched, each second dragging into eternity. No one wanted to speak, no one wanted to choose. Because in choosing, they weren¡¯t just identifying a suspect¡ªthey were condemning a person to death. The figure¡¯s patience thinned. Its voice erupted like thunder. ¡°You must choose. You have one minute to decide who dies.¡± The countdown began. Every tick of the unseen clock sent a fresh wave of anxiety through the group. They already knew who they wanted to vote for, but acknowledging it¡ªsaying it aloud¡ªwas another matter entirely. The moment they spoke, that person¡¯s fate would be sealed. And then, time was up. ¡°Time¡¯s up!¡± the figure declared. ¡°Wait!¡± Arthur pleaded, his voice desperate. ¡°Isn¡¯t there a way we can all survive?¡± Ever the idealist, Arthur clung to the hope of a loophole. But deep down, everyone knew the truth. ¡°No,¡± the figure responded coldly. ¡°You must choose.¡± The man with glasses was trembling, his body tense with fear. His breathing grew ragged as the reality of his situation closed in. ¡°Since you refuse to vote, then¡ª¡± the figure began, but before it could finish, a hand shot up. The group turned in unison. It was the girl with pigtails. Without hesitation, she raised a trembling finger and pointed directly at Arthur. A stunned silence followed. Even Bernard, who rarely let emotion slip through his carefully crafted mask, found himself caught off guard. That was unexpected. The cloaked figure chuckled. ¡°Ha! So that¡¯s your choice.¡± A glowing number 1 appeared above Arthur¡¯s head, shining in an eerie purple hue. Arthur¡¯s gaze flickered to the number, then to the girl. His usual cheerful mask cracked, revealing a flash of anger. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! ¡°Why did you pick me?¡± His voice was sharp, edged with betrayal. The girl shrank back, clinging to the woman with smudged lipstick for comfort. But before Arthur could retaliate, another voice interrupted. ¡°Wait.¡± Bernard. The lazy man, who had thus far avoided getting involved, finally spoke. His tone was steady, devoid of emotion. ¡°It¡¯s better not to make a hasty decision,¡± he said, his gaze sweeping across the group. ¡°Out of all of us, Arthur has been the most outspoken. If we want any chance of surviving, we need him. If I had to choose, I¡¯d say him.¡± Bernard lifted his hand and pointed¡ªstraight at the man with glasses. The man¡¯s face contorted with rage. ¡°How dare you?! Who do you think you are?!¡± Bernard didn¡¯t react. He simply closed his eyes, uninterested in the man¡¯s outburst. ¡°So, can I count that as a vote?¡± the figure asked, amused. ¡°Sure,¡± Bernard replied, his voice indifferent. A 1 appeared above the man with glasses. Now, two votes had been cast. Three remained. The man with glasses ran his hands through his hair, his breath shallow. He knew. He knew he had just become the prime target. Desperate, he turned on Arthur and, with no other choice, pointed a shaking finger at him. 2 votes for Arthur. Arthur didn¡¯t hesitate¡ªhe pointed right back at the man with glasses. 2 votes for the man with glasses. And now, only one person had yet to vote. All eyes turned to the woman with smudged lipstick. Bernard exhaled quietly. It¡¯s over. The woman¡¯s gaze darted between Arthur and the man with glasses. Her lips trembled. The weight of the decision pressed down on her like an unbearable force. But as she replayed Bernard¡¯s words in her head, her choice became clear. Slowly, she lifted her hand and pointed¡ª At the man with glasses. ¡°That makes three,¡± the figure announced. ¡°You¡¯re out.¡± A glowing 3 appeared above the man¡¯s head. It was over. The man collapsed to his knees, his fingers tangling in his hair. His voice was barely a whisper. ¡°Why me¡­?¡± The figure¡¯s response was merciless. ¡°Because it¡¯s time to die.¡± A massive scythe materialized behind him, its blade gleaming ominously. In one swift, silent movement, it sliced through his neck. His head tumbled from his shoulders. Blood gushed from the wound, pooling beneath his body as it crumpled lifelessly to the ground. The woman and the girl with pigtails turned away, shielding their eyes from the grisly sight. ¡°Thank you for voting,¡± the figure said, its tone eerily cheerful. ¡°You will have more time before your next decision.¡± With that, it vanished, leaving the survivors in stunned silence. Trust was now an illusion. The game had only just begun. ¡°Wait¡­ does that mean the game isn¡¯t over?¡± the woman with smudged lipstick asked, her voice trembling. A cold silence followed. They had all believed the game would end once the captain was identified, but as they stood there¡ªhaunted by the bloodied remains of the man they had condemned¡ªa chilling realization dawned on them. The game was still in motion. They didn¡¯t need the cloaked figure to confirm it. The truth was evident in the pit of their stomachs, in the way dread twisted inside them like a coiled serpent. They had killed an innocent man. So¡­ it wasn¡¯t him? A soft sob broke the silence. The girl with pigtails clutched her knees to her chest, her small frame trembling as quiet cries escaped her lips. She had cast the first vote. She had been the catalyst for his execution. The woman with smudged lipstick turned her gaze toward Arthur. Her thoughts were clear. Could it be him? Arthur¡ªwho had been the most vocal, the one who had fought to keep everyone together¡ªwas now under suspicion. If the game continued, then the captain was still among them. And as things stood, Arthur was the prime suspect. The votes had already been cast once. If they followed the same pattern, Arthur would receive two votes¡ªone from the girl with pigtails and one from the woman with smudged lipstick. But there was one more vote left. The lazy man. He had remained neutral, calculating, a spectator to the chaos unfolding before him. But now, his decision would be pivotal. Whoever won him over would gain the advantage. And in this game, that advantage could mean the difference between life and death. Chapter 5: The Game Of Deception The lazy man had become an outlier. No one could tell where he stood, and it had already been made clear in the previous round that he sided with logic rather than emotion. The women knew that if they could sway him to their side, they could end the game. Arthur, on the other hand, needed the lazy man on his side. Without his vote, he wouldn¡¯t make it past the next round. The group had split. The two women sat together, putting distance between themselves and the two men. Arthur stood alone by a tree, his worry made evident by the restless scratching of his scalp and the constant tapping of his foot. Meanwhile, the lazy man sat alone, meditating, waiting calmly. Out of everyone, he was the least concerned. If things continued as they had in the previous round, he would survive. Who will make the first move? The answer came swiftly. The woman with smudged lipstick approached him. Each step she took echoed in his ears as she drew closer. ¡°Hello, can we talk?¡± she asked. ¡°Of course.¡± The lazy man smiled, but it was the same false, practiced smile he had worn from the beginning. The two of them walked away from the others, far enough that their conversation couldn¡¯t be overheard. Arthur noticed this immediately. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched them separate from the group. Panic crept into his veins like poison. He needed to know what they were saying. Moving carefully, he crept closer, silent as a predator stalking its prey. ¡°You know we can¡¯t trust him, right?¡± the woman whispered, just loud enough for the lazy man to hear. ¡°Who? Arthur?¡± Bernard asked, feigning ignorance. The woman¡¯s frustration flared. She knew he understood exactly who she meant, yet he toyed with her, testing her patience. And from the brief flash of emotion she let slip, Bernard could tell¡ªshe was near her breaking point. ¡°Yes, Arthur! Of course, Arthur! Didn¡¯t you see how he flipped out the moment he got a vote?¡± she pressed. ¡°Any normal person would,¡± Bernard replied smoothly. Then, as if steering the conversation in a different direction, he added, ¡°But what about the girl? She was the first to vote. Was it out of malice¡­ or something else?¡± The question was simple, yet it struck the woman like a dagger. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Why had the girl voted for Arthur first? There had been no clear reason, yet she had done it without hesitation. Could it have been because Arthur made her reveal her insecurities? She wasn¡¯t forced¡­ she could have refused. The lazy man sighed, then leaned in slightly. His next words were barely above a whisper. "That girl¡ªshe is mentally unstable. Do you truly wish to align yourself with someone who might turn on you at any moment? A mere shift in emotion could completely alter her judgment." The woman hesitated. She hadn¡¯t considered it before, but now that the thought was planted in her mind, it festered. The girl could turn against them. Even if the odds were small, it was still a risk. ¡°What do you propose we do?¡± she asked, her voice guarded. The lazy man leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing against her ear. ¡°Follow my lead.¡± Arthur, still hiding behind a tree, strained to hear their conversation, but their words were lost to him. Frustrated, he slinked back to camp, his mind spinning with possibilities. Moments later, Bernard and the woman returned. Arthur wasted no time. He approached the lazy man, his expression a mixture of desperation and urgency. He pulled Bernard aside, away from the group. ¡°Are you planning to go against me?¡± Arthur demanded, his voice tight with fear. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Bernard said with that same unreadable smile. ¡°You won¡¯t be the next one voted out.¡± A wave of relief washed over Arthur. His tense expression melted into one of gratitude. ¡°How did you do it?¡± he asked. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. Just know that everything will be fine.¡± Hours passed. The atmosphere was suffocating. Then, the cloaked figure¡¯s voice sliced through the silence. ¡°It¡¯s time to make your next decision,¡± it announced, amusement laced in its tone. There was no hesitation. The girl with pigtails immediately pointed at Arthur. Arthur, without missing a beat, pointed right back at her. Two bright numbers¡ª1¡ªappeared above their heads. The figure chuckled. ¡°Do you have a reason for voting for each other?¡± ¡°She voted for me, so I returned the favor,¡± Arthur said coldly. The girl remained silent, refusing to answer. Two votes had been cast. The score stood at 1 to 1, with two votes remaining. A suffocating stillness overtook the group. All eyes turned to Bernard. The lazy man remained eerily still, his expression unreadable. Then, without hesitation, he raised his hand¡ªhis finger pointing directly at the girl with pigtails. 2 to 1. The girl¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°Wh¡­ why did you vote for me?¡± she asked, her voice trembling. ¡°No real reason,¡± Bernard said with a smirk, his once placid expression twisting into something far more sinister. ¡°I just don¡¯t trust you.¡± The votes stood at 2 to 1, with one final vote remaining. If the woman with smudged lipstick voted for Arthur, the count would be tied at 2 to 2. But if she voted for the girl¡­ it would be over. All eyes were on her. Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hand. Silence reigned. Then¡ªshe pointed. At the girl with pigtails. The figure let out a satisfied hum. ¡°So that¡¯s your choice?¡± ¡°¡­Yes,¡± the woman whispered, disappointment lacing her voice. A 3 appeared above the girl¡¯s head. Her fate was sealed. Just as it had happened before, a scythe emerged from the darkness, its blade gleaming under the crimson sky. It hovered for a moment in front of the girl¡¯s trembling neck. Tears streamed down her face. Then¡ª A swift, silent slash. Her head tumbled from her shoulders. Blood poured from the open wound, pooling beneath her lifeless body. The woman turned away, unable to stomach the sight. The cloaked figure¡¯s voice returned, filled with glee. ¡°Thank you for voting. I will be ba¡ª¡± A voice interrupted. A hand was raised. It was the lazy man. ¡°We are ready to vote again.¡± Chapter 6: Captains Gambit "We would like to vote again," the lazy man declared. A flicker of surprise crossed Arthur¡¯s face. His confusion was evident, but there was nothing he could do if the figure accepted Bernard¡¯s request. "Are you certain?" the figure inquired, its voice laced with intrigue. "Yes." Bernard¡¯s logic was simple: if the girl hadn¡¯t been the captain, then it had to be Arthur. His thoughts were clear, but the woman¡¯s mind was a storm of confusion and regret. Regret that she now fully understood. She had killed an innocent girl. Without hesitation, she turned to the lazy man, rage and anguish contorting her features. She lunged forward, grabbing his collar violently. Her tear-streaked face twisted with pain as she choked out her words. "Why did you make me do this?" Bernard met her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, a small, knowing smile played on his lips. "Was I the catalyst?" he asked, his voice calm and unwavering. "Was I the one who made you doubt her?" His eyes flicked toward Arthur. "No." The single word cut through the air like a blade. "He¡¯s the one who preyed on her insecurities. He¡¯s the one who made you question her sanity. And he was the first to cast his vote against her. Arthur is the real enemy." Arthur¡¯s breath hitched. His face twisted with fury, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He could see it now¡ªBernard was twisting the truth, warping reality, manipulating the woman in her fragile state. And worst of all? It was working. Arthur''s fists clenched as the horrifying realization set in: everything had gone according to the lazy man¡¯s plan. Bernard had aligned himself with Arthur only because he had been the most outspoken among them, ensuring that should anyone turn against him, Arthur would instinctively defend him. Though Bernard hadn¡¯t directly orchestrated the man with glasses'' elimination, he had undoubtedly been the driving force behind the girl¡¯s death. The woman loosened her grip on Bernard¡¯s collar. Her head dipped forward, hair masking her expression. "You¡¯re right," she whispered. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Arthur¡¯s eyes widened in disbelief. "Wait¡ªyou actually believe him?" A sound bubbled from the woman¡¯s throat¡ªsoft at first, then growing into a maniacal laugh. She flicked her hair back, revealing a twisted, tear-streaked smile. "It¡¯s all your fault," she spat, her voice laced with venom. "Everyone died because of you. You played the saint, but you were just a wolf in sheep¡¯s clothing. And the moment things didn¡¯t go your way¡­ your true nature showed itself." Bernard remained silent as the woman tore into Arthur, his expression eerily neutral. The cloaked figure let out a pleased chuckle. "Are you ready to vote?" Neither spoke. But, as if rehearsed, they simultaneously lifted their fingers¡ªboth aimed at Arthur. Arthur¡¯s breath came in shallow gasps. He stared at them, his voice barely above a whisper. "How?" he asked, his eyes locked onto Bernard. "How did you do this?" For the first time since the game began, Bernard laughed¡ªa deep, cruel sound that echoed in the silent void. "You all made it easy," he admitted. "Panic makes people weak. All I had to do was exploit your fear." Arthur¡¯s mind reeled as Bernard continued. "The girl with pigtails revealed her vulnerabilities to everyone, then blamed you for forcing her hand. That moment of weakness was all I needed. She cast the first vote against you¡ªnot because I told her to, but because I let her believe it was her own choice. From there, it was only a matter of time before the rest of you fell in line." Arthur''s hands trembled. "What¡­ are you?" Bernard¡¯s smirk widened. "Let me put it simply¡ªI manipulated all of you using an ability granted only to captains. A skill called ''Truthful Liar.'' With it, I twist reality through deception, but it only works when my targets are vulnerable." Arthur¡¯s stomach turned. "No¡­ that means¡­" His thoughts crashed into one another. From the moment the game began, Bernard had been in control. He had done nothing but sit back, waiting for the group to collapse under the weight of their own paranoia. He was the captain. Bernard''s gaze sharpened. "Now, let me ask you something." He leaned forward slightly, his tone almost casual. "You¡¯ve played this game before, haven¡¯t you?" Arthur¡¯s breath hitched. His lips parted, but no words came. Bernard chuckled. "That reaction says it all." A sharp metallic sound rang through the air as the scythe materialized behind Arthur. He didn¡¯t even have time to scream. The blade sliced clean through his neck, sending his head tumbling to the ground. Blood pooled at Bernard¡¯s feet, but he barely reacted. "Since no one identified you as the captain," the figure announced, "you have won the game." Bernard let out a slow breath, his eyes trailing to the woman. "And her?" he asked, tilting his head. Before the figure could respond, another scythe appeared¡ªthis time before the woman. Her eyes widened in shock. "Wait, but I¡ª" Her sentence was never finished. The blade sliced through her throat with ease. Her body collapsed, lifeless. The figure clapped its bony hands together. "Astounding! Well done!" Bernard didn¡¯t react. His gaze remained hollow, his expression unreadable. "There¡¯s no need to congratulate someone as vile as me," he muttered, regret heavy in his tone. The figure¡¯s applause ceased. Without another word, the world around Bernard collapsed. Darkness swallowed him whole. He was falling¡ªspiraling into an abyss of nothingness. But there was no fear. Only the weight of what he had done. "They were probably the kindest people I¡¯d ever met," he thought, his voice eerily calm. "But that doesn¡¯t mean much when everyone I¡¯ve met has been a piece of shit." A notification flashed before his eyes. [You have completed Death¡¯s Game and have been granted a blessing.] [Blessing: Necromancer.] [An additional skill has been bestowed upon you.] [Necromancer Skill: Necromancer¡¯s Mimicry.] [Captaincy Skill Retained: Truthful Liar.] The notification faded. And then, through the suffocating darkness, a single point of light appeared. Bernard closed his eyes. And fell straight through it. Chapter 7: A Change In Scenery As the last traces of light faded into the abyss, the lazy man¡¯s eyes fluttered open. His senses stirred, greeted by the suffocating stench of decay. A dull ache throbbed in his skull, his body sinking into the filth beneath him¡ªpiles of manure cushioning his fall yet doing little to ease his discomfort. His clothes reeked of rot, clinging to him like a second skin of misery. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his trembling hands sinking into the filth as he tried to steady himself. The world around him was cloaked in shadows, the air thick with dampness. ¡°Where¡­ am I?¡± he murmured, his voice hoarse and unsteady. As he gained his footing, his gaze drifted downward to the tattered remains of his black shirt. It bore the scars of time¡ªpatched and re-stitched countless times with scraps of fabric, an unspoken testimony to hardship. Every frayed edge and mismatched thread whispered of struggle, of survival. Steeling himself, he staggered out of the alley. The sight that met him sent a shiver through his spine. Towering buildings lined the cobbled streets, their architecture steeped in an ancient, almost medieval elegance. Flickering lamps cast pools of dim golden light onto the pavement, though they held no ordinary flames. Fireflies¡ªcaptured within delicate glass casings¡ªdanced inside, their glow wavering like dying embers. Horses trotted through the streets, their hooves striking against the stones in rhythmic precision, pulling ornate carriages behind them. A realization settled upon him, heavy and unnerving. ¡°I¡¯m in some kind of¡­ Victorian era?¡± he whispered, his breath curling in the cool night air. He walked on, his gaze flitting from one building to the next, drinking in the eerie beauty of the world he had stumbled into. Then, something caught his eye¡ªa boutique window showcasing an exquisite velvet-colored suit, paired with matching trousers and a sleek black shirt beneath. His breath hitched. He had never been able to afford something so fine in his previous life. The thought clawed at his chest, igniting a flicker of longing. Was this his second chance? A life where a man like him, one who had always lived in the shadows, could finally grasp luxury? His reflection in the glass stole his attention. A boy¡ªno older than his late teens¡ªstared back at him, his crimson-red hair a striking contrast against his olive-toned skin. His brown eyes, once unfamiliar, now felt eerily intimate. It took mere moments for realization to settle in. He was in another body. ¡®So¡­ this is me now.¡¯ His fingers brushed over his features, tracing the unfamiliar contours. From the ragged clothes clinging to him to the mud-caked boots on his feet, he inspected every inch. Then, movement. Beyond the glass, past the elegant display of suits, a figure stood watching him. His heart lurched. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. ¡®Who is that¡­?¡¯ The boutique¡¯s front door swung open with a creak, and a man stepped out, his presence commanding, his eyes scrutinizing. He was dressed in a finely tailored suit, polished shoes gleaming beneath the dim streetlights, a top hat perched elegantly atop his head. His gaze bore into the young man with a sharpness that made his skin prickle. ¡°Who are you?¡± the man demanded, his voice curt and laced with suspicion. The lazy man hesitated, a sudden rush of memories invading his mind¡ªfragments of a past that did not belong to him yet felt undeniably his. ¡°My name is¡­¡± He faltered, then, as if whispered by the very essence of his new existence, the name surfaced. ¡°¡­Tristan Merigold.¡± The man''s expression shifted in an instant. Laughter erupted from his chest¡ªrich, full of relief. Tears of joy welled in his eyes as he clapped a hand to his mouth. ¡°So you are Tristan Merigold!¡± he exclaimed, his voice brimming with elation. ¡°I have been waiting for you. Your mother informed me of your arrival, but I had no idea when you would get here.¡± He gestured toward the boutique, motioning for Tristan to follow. Still reeling from the encounter, Tristan allowed himself to be guided inside. The boutique was a haven of refinement, lined with suits of unparalleled craftsmanship. A navy-blue ensemble adorned with delicate white floral embroidery stood beside a golden suit that shimmered under the soft glow of the chandelier. The man led him upstairs to his living quarters¡ªa modest apartment connected to the boutique below. It was not grand, yet it exuded warmth, with a cozy sitting area and a simple bedroom. ¡°You will be staying here with me, in the Middle District,¡± the man declared. Just then, his nose wrinkled, his expression twisting in disgust. He waved a hand in front of his face before pinching his nose between two fingers. ¡°You should really take a bath,¡± he said bluntly. For the first time, Tristan realized just how foul he smelled. Without a word, he stepped toward the bathroom, peeling away his soiled clothes before slipping into the shower. Warm water cascaded over him, washing away the filth, soothing his aching body. ¡®What the hell is going on?¡¯ The events of the evening replayed in his mind like fragments of a dream¡ªwaking in the alley, the strange familiarity of this body, the man who claimed to have been expecting him. And then, a flicker of memory¡ª A woman¡¯s voice. Instructions. Go to the Middle District. Find Albert Kenway. Was this place truly the Middle District? Was the man downstairs truly the one he was meant to meet? A thousand questions swirled in his mind, each one more unsettling than the last. Why had he woken in that alley? Why had he been lying in manure? And why did it feel as if he had been led to this very moment? A sharp knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. ¡°Are you all right in there?¡± The voice was laced with concern. Tristan exhaled, composing himself before answering in a steady tone, ¡°I¡¯m fine He emerged from the bathroom, the tension in his shoulders slightly eased. Waiting for him outside were fresh clothes¡ªa simple black shirt and white sweatpants, comfortable yet clean. As he dressed, an unexpected warmth spread through him, his chest tightening with unfamiliar emotion. His vision blurred slightly as moisture pricked at the corners of his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ been a while since someone treated me with such kindness,¡± he admitted softly to himself. Before he could dwell on the feeling, the scent of something rich and savory filled the air. His stomach clenched in response. The man¡ªhis host¡ªstood in the kitchen, setting down a plate of steaming pasta, the vibrant red of the tomato sauce glistening under the light. ¡°Eat,¡± he instructed simply. Tristan hesitated for only a moment before murmuring, ¡°Thank you.¡± Without another word, he reached for the fork, twirling it through the pasta before lifting it to his lips. The moment it touched his tongue, a burst of flavor unraveled, overwhelming his senses. It was warm. Comforting. A taste of home he had never known. As he ate, a thought crossed his mind. He still didn¡¯t know the name of the man who had welcomed him so openly. ¡°My mother never told me your name,¡± Tristan said between bites. The man chuckled, leaning back in his chair. ¡°Albert Kenway,¡± he said simply, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. And just like that, a new chapter had begun. Chapter 8: Silver Haired Maiden After savoring the last bite of the exquisite pasta, Tristan watched as Kenway descended the stairs to close up his boutique. Once the shop was secured, he returned upstairs, his expression unreadable. He gestured for Tristan to sit beside him on the couch, positioned near the wall adjacent to his bedroom door. Tristan hesitated before complying, leaving a noticeable gap between them¡ªa silent testament to his guarded nature. Kenway, perceptive as ever, took note of the young man¡¯s wariness. "I understand," he said after a brief silence. "It¡¯s been quite some time since you''ve last been to the Middle District, hasn¡¯t it?" His voice held a knowing tone. The lazy man¡ªthough now inhabiting the body of the boy known as Tristan Merigold¡ªhad no recollection of when he had last been in this place. So, he remained silent. Kenway studied him for a moment before continuing. "I hardly recognized you at first. You''ve grown so much." The lazy man within Tristan resisted the urge to speak. One wrong word could unravel everything, exposing him as an imposter. Sensing the boy¡¯s reluctance, Kenway let out a soft chuckle before rising from the couch. He walked to his room, the ghost of a smile still lingering on his lips. As he disappeared behind the door, Tristan let out a long, relieved sigh. I need to learn more about Tristan Merigold, he thought, staring at the ceiling. These memories come in fragments, but it¡¯s not enough. Still, I can assume that Kenway doesn¡¯t know much about him either. Despite his confusion, Tristan found himself enjoying this new life. He had a roof over his head, warm food in his stomach, and¡ªat least for now¡ªsomeone who cared for him. But even as he acknowledged these blessings, his wariness remained. He trusted no one, and Albert Kenway was no exception. He considered ways to repay the man¡¯s kindness, but before any idea could form, exhaustion overtook him. His eyelids grew heavy, and within moments, he succumbed to sleep. Hours later, Tristan was jolted awake by the sound of voices. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he sat up, wiped the haze from his vision, and made his way downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, he saw Kenway engaged in an intense conversation with two men. One was a police officer, his uniform crisp and expression unreadable. The other was an elderly gentleman clad in an elegant black suit, a cane gripped firmly in his weathered hand. Though Tristan could only see Kenway¡¯s back, he could tell the tailor was distressed. The old man, his face lined with deep furrows of displeasure, waved his cane animatedly as he spoke. The officer, however, merely observed, his expression stoic as he listened to the heated exchange. When their conversation ended, the officer murmured something to Kenway before both men turned and left. Kenway ran a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp absentmindedly before gripping his locks in frustration. The sight was unfamiliar¡ªthis was the first time Tristan had seen the man appear so troubled. Slowly, Tristan approached him. "What happened?" At the sound of his voice, Kenway turned, his features quickly rearranging into a forced smile. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "Nothing. Just a few visitors," he replied lightly. Tristan clicked his tongue, unimpressed by the blatant lie. "Don¡¯t insult me," he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "I saw everything. You don¡¯t have to pretend." Kenway''s false expression crumbled, replaced by weary resignation. "It¡¯s just¡­ some rent issues," he admitted with a sigh. Tristan eyed him for a moment, then simply nodded. "Alright." Kenway blinked, surprised by his lack of further questioning. But a small, almost amused smile tugged at his lips. Shrugging off the moment, he turned his attention to opening the boutique for the day. Meanwhile, Tristan hesitated before heading back upstairs, remembering his earlier thought. "Mr. Kenway," he called. Kenway glanced up from his work. "Is there a library nearby?" The older man nodded. "Yes. Take a left when you leave, cross the road, then turn right. Keep going straight for two blocks¡ªyou¡¯ll find it there." "Thanks," Tristan said before continuing up to the apartment. After freshening up, he realized he had no proper clothing for venturing outside. Just as he was about to lament this fact, a knock came from the other side of the bathroom door. "I''m leaving an outfit for you to wear when you come out," Kenway¡¯s voice announced. Tristan stared at the door, brows furrowed. Does this guy read minds or something? "Okay, thanks!" he called back. Once dressed, he turned to the full-length mirror near the couch to inspect himself. What he saw left him momentarily speechless. It wasn¡¯t just an outfit¡ªit was a statement. A dark grey shirt beneath a long black coat that brushed against his knees, tailored black trousers, and polished dark brown oxfords. The ensemble radiated elegance and refinement, a stark contrast to his previous, tattered appearance. "This is¡­ nice," he murmured, a small, almost foreign smile tugging at his lips. Downstairs, the boutique buzzed with the chatter of customers. But the moment Tristan stepped onto the showroom floor, the air shifted. Conversations halted. Eyes turned. Women browsing through fine garments cast lingering glances his way, their interest unmistakable. Kenway, amused by the reaction, shot him a thumbs-up. "Looking sharp." Tristan simply nodded before stepping out onto the cobbled streets, following Kenway¡¯s directions. After a half-hour walk, he arrived at his destination. He tilted his head back, eyes trailing up the towering structure before him. "This¡­ is a library?" he muttered in disbelief. The building resembled a grand cathedral, its architecture imposing and majestic. A wide staircase led to two colossal doors, each adorned with intricate carvings. Ascending the steps, he pushed one of the heavy doors open and stepped inside. Rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched before him, ascending to the high ceilings. Staircases spiraled up to multiple levels, each lined with meticulously organized books. The air smelled of parchment and aged ink. Impressive, he thought. Though he wasn¡¯t certain what exactly he was looking for, he knew he needed information¡ªsomething that would tell him where he was and the history of this place. He approached a librarian behind a wooden desk, briefly explaining his needs. Without a word, she nodded and motioned for him to follow. Up one flight of stairs. Then another. Then another. By the time they reached the fourth floor, Tristan was struggling to catch his breath, bent over with his hands on his knees. Meanwhile, the librarian, unfazed, continued onward without pause. What is she, a machine? he thought bitterly, forcing himself to follow. The fourth floor housed books on the history of the nation. As she left him to his research, Tristan began scanning the shelves. After some time, his gaze landed on a particular title: "The Great Nation of Constella." He pulled the book from the shelf and turned to find a nearby table¡ªonly to collide with someone. A petite figure tumbled backward, landing with an unceremonious thud. Tristan blinked, taken aback. Before him sat a young girl with silver hair that gleamed under the dim library lights. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto his, devoid of emotion. "I¡¯m sorry," he said quickly, extending a hand to help her up. She accepted his hand, rising gracefully before dusting off her dress. Then, in a quiet, expressionless voice, she said, "Amelia Green." Tristan arched a brow. "What?" "You asked for my name," she clarified. A smirk played on Tristan¡¯s lips. Interesting. Chapter 9: Constella Tristan''s heart pounded the moment his gaze locked with Amelia¡¯s. His palms grew clammy, and his throat tightened, rendering him speechless. Even after that brief glance, he found himself unable to meet her eyes again. Damn this teenage body. He cursed inwardly. Without another word, he quickly turned away and strode toward the table he had spotted earlier. Pulling out a chair, he sat down and flipped open the book. The first page recounted the tale of the First Constellations¡ªthe revered founders of Constella, who had been bestowed with their celestial title. "Is this the name of the highest-ranking hierarchy in Constella?" he mused aloud. A soft, emotionless voice answered from behind him. "Yes. That is the name of the royal family." Startled, Tristan jolted upright, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. He spun around to find the silver-haired girl standing behind him, her head tilted slightly in curiosity. Attempting to regain his composure, Tristan gestured for her to sit. She obliged, taking the seat beside him with an air of quiet confidence. "What else do you know?" he asked, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "The Constella family rules from the highest point in the country," she replied simply. The highest point? The phrase conjured an image in Tristan¡¯s mind¡ªperhaps a castle perched atop a towering mountain, far above the commoners they governed. But something about her wording unsettled him. "By ¡®highest point¡¯... do you mean¡ª?" "Yes. They live in the sky." His breath hitched. A floating castle? The very thought defied reason. "How does it stay up there?" he asked, leaning in slightly. "Through a force known as the Star Implant," she explained. "Every human possesses an innate celestial energy¡ªa star embedded within them. However, the number of stars varies from person to person. To increase one¡¯s stars, one must refine, train, and grow with them." The words sent a ripple through Tristan''s consciousness. Star Implant. The phrase rang faintly familiar. Though he, the man inhabiting Tristan Merigold¡¯s body, had never encountered it before, the original owner of this body had. "By performing a Star Link with a weapon, one can unlock unique abilities. The weapon, in turn, evolves alongside its wielder." It was fascinating¡ªan entirely new system of power, one with boundless potential. But amidst his intrigue, a question nagged at him. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. How does this girl know so much? Before he could voice the thought, she raised a hand, stopping him. Interlocking her fingers beneath her chin, she fixed him with an unreadable stare. "It''s my turn to ask questions," she stated. Something in her tone sent a shiver down his spine. "How is it that you know none of this?" she inquired, her piercing blue eyes searching his face. Tristan schooled his expression and answered, "I never attended school, but my mother taught me how to read and write." As he spoke, another realization struck him. How was he able to read this world¡¯s language so effortlessly? Was it an effect of inheriting Tristan Merigold¡¯s memories? She regarded him for a moment before shifting the conversation. "That suit¡ªyou got it from Kenway. Are you an aristocrat?" "No," Tristan replied. "I live with him. But how do you know about Kenway?" She let out a quiet sigh, as if the answer was obvious. "There isn¡¯t a soul in this country who doesn¡¯t know of Mr. Kenway. His craftsmanship is unparalleled. However, his competitors are desperate to drive him out of the Middle District¡­ because of his background." "His background?" Tristan pressed. She hesitated briefly, then spoke. "I could help him," she said matter-of-factly. "My family has the means to." A flicker of hope crossed Tristan¡¯s face, but it was quickly replaced by skepticism. Nothing in this world comes without a price. Money wasn¡¯t something to be spent so carelessly, especially on a stranger. His gaze darkened. "What do you want in return?" Instead of answering immediately, she reached for the book he had been reading and flipped through its pages. Eventually, she stopped on a particular passage and slid the book toward him. Tristan¡¯s eyes scanned the text, absorbing the details of the Five Pillars¡ªfive factions, each represented by a celestial constellation, second only to the royal family in power. Their leaders bore the revered titles: Aquarius, Aries, Hercules, Centaurus, and Orion. Among them, one name stood out¡ªOrion. It was said to house the greatest warriors in the land and the most formidable of all the Pillar leaders. They¡¯re named after constellations from my world... How did that happen? Despite his intrigue, Tristan was still unsure why she had shown him this. Once again, before he could ask, she answered. "I want to become one of them¡ªa Pillar. But not just any member. I want to claim the title of a leader." Tristan blinked, momentarily stunned by the bold declaration. Then, without thinking, he let out a small, amused chuckle. For the first time, her expression changed. A scowl. "Why are you laughing?" she demanded, her voice tinged with irritation. "Aren''t these people supposed to be the strongest in the land? How does someone as small as you expect to stand among them?" Without warning, she punched him in the arm¡ªhard. Pain shot through his muscles, and Tristan winced. "Ouch!" he hissed, rubbing the sore spot. Her expression was dead serious. "Everyone who rises to power does so with help," she said. "That¡¯s why I need you. I need a partner." Tristan stared at her, baffled. Of all the people in the world, why him? "How am I supposed to help you? I don¡¯t even know how to use a Star Implant." "You don¡¯t have to," she said. "I¡¯ll teach you." Tristan had always been drawn to power¡ªthe thrill of surpassing the strongest, of standing at the pinnacle¡ªbut this? This felt almost impossible. How was he supposed to challenge a leader, let alone rise to their level? Then, a memory surfaced¡ªthe warmth of a meal generously given, the fine clothes laid out for him, the unwavering kindness of Mr. Kenway. A man who had offered him shelter when he had nothing. And in that moment, Tristan realized¡ªno matter how impossible it seemed, if there was even a sliver of a chance, he would take it. If it meant repaying the one who had provided for him, he would do it. "You promise you''ll help Mr. Kenway?" She nodded without hesitation. "Fine," he said, exhaling slowly. "Then I''ll help." Chapter 10: The Kings Summon As their conversation came to an end, the girl stood to leave. But something inside Tristan resisted the idea of her departure. Without thinking, he reached out and gently tugged at the sleeve of her dress. She turned back, her expression unreadable. "Where do I meet you tomorrow?" he asked. The lazy man within him scoffed. This body¡ªthe boy known as Tristan Merigold¡ªwas far too formal, too eager. Emotions flared uncontrollably every time she so much as looked at him. This kid is a cesspool of emotions. It flares up every time she just looks at him. I really need to find a way to control his impulses. The girl met his gaze with her usual, detached expression. "Just meet me here tomorrow. We¡¯ll go somewhere else once you arrive." "Alright." With that, she left, yet she lingered in his thoughts like an echo he couldn''t shake. Frustrated, Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He had no idea how to deal with the emotions surging through him. Letting out a deep sigh, he muttered, "I really need to control this body." Now alone, the silence of the library surrounded him. He turned his attention back to the book in his hands, but before he could begin reading, a memory resurfaced¡ªthose strange notifications he had seen while falling into darkness. How do I make them appear again? As if responding to his very thoughts, the notifications reappeared before him. [Blessing: Necromancy] [Necromancer Skill: Necromancer¡¯s Mimicry] [Captaincy Skill Retained: Truthful Liar] The sudden appearance startled Tristan, but he quickly composed himself, scanning the list of abilities. "Necromancy, I understand¡­ but Necromancer¡¯s Mimicry? What is that?" The system responded instantly. [Necromancer¡¯s Mimicry: Those who control their soldiers gain their skills.] What a simple explanation. Yet, even with the limited information, he understood the implications. This skill allowed him to inherit the abilities of those he controlled. But before he could fully process it, another message appeared. [Restriction: Those who fall by your hands will not conform to you.] Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Tristan''s expression darkened. "That¡¯s ridiculous. So if I kill someone myself, I can¡¯t use Necromancer¡¯s Mimicry?" The system remained silent. No answer would come. He would have to discover the truth on his own. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to reality. He wanted to take the book with him, so he made his way to the librarian¡¯s desk. The descent down the long staircase was grueling¡ªit felt as though the steps themselves carried the weight of centuries, suffused with an aura of despair. By the time he reached the bottom, he was breathless. "You should really consider making the journey between floors easier," he said between heavy breaths. The librarian merely smiled. "It¡¯s better for young people if it stays like this." Tristan exhaled sharply before placing the book on the desk. "I¡¯d like to check this out." She nodded, taking out a quill and parchment, noting the book¡¯s title before glancing up at him. "What¡¯s your name?" "Tristan Merigold." She scribbled it down and filed the paper away in a neatly organized section. "You¡¯re all set. You may go now." Tristan nodded and exited the library. As he walked back to the boutique, his mind drifted toward the girl and the Star Implant. If every person in this world was born with at least one star¡­ did he have one as well? He was not originally from this world, but the body he inhabited had existed here long before him. "I wonder how many stars this kid had?" A notification answered him. [Number of Stars: 1] "Should¡¯ve known." He followed the familiar path Mr. Kenway had shown him, but as he approached the boutique, his heart clenched. A crowd had gathered. His pace quickened. Then, he saw it¡ªwhat was once a pristine boutique was now a ruin of shattered glass and destruction. The windows had been smashed, the interior defiled, its very essence stripped away by reckless hands. Mr. Kenway stood in front of the wreckage, his expression unreadable. Tristan¡¯s fists clenched as he overheard murmured conversations among the onlookers. "I saw a few men throw stones at the boutique," one voice said. "They must be from that gang." Tristan turned toward them, his voice dark and laced with menace. "What¡¯s the name of the gang?" he asked, his tone carrying a quiet, chilling fury. "And where is their base?" The bystanders hesitated, sensing the violent storm brewing within him. "The Crescent Moon Gang," one of them finally said. "Their base is between Friees and Killington Street." Tristan inhaled sharply. Now that I know where they are, I¡¯ll make them regret ever laying a hand on this place. But first, he forced himself to mask his rage. He approached Kenway, his voice softer but still weighted with barely restrained anger. "I¡¯m sorry," he said. Kenway shook his head. "Don¡¯t worry. The apartment is fine. It¡¯s just the boutique." "Just the boutique?" Tristan¡¯s jaw tightened. His grip clenched until his nails dug into his palm. That night, after hours of helping Kenway cover the broken windows with sheets of paper, Tristan watched as the old man finally retired to his room without a single word of complaint. And that was when Tristan made his decision. "Now is the time." Silently, he slipped out into the streets, seeking out a passerby. "Where¡¯s the cemetery?" he asked. The person hesitated before answering, assuming he wanted to visit a departed loved one. Tristan followed the directions and soon arrived. The cemetery was a solemn place¡ªa resting ground for the forgotten, where the dead slumbered undisturbed. As he walked through the rows of tombstones, a thought crept into his mind. What happened to my original body? Was it buried¡­ or burned? No one could answer that question. But that didn¡¯t matter now. He moved deeper into the graveyard until he found what he had been searching for¡ªa lone tombstone, set apart from the rest. The grave of DeAndre Killington, the strongest swordsman of the Middle District. Tristan stepped forward, placing a hand on the cold stone. His voice was steady, commanding, laced with an undeniable authority. "Rise from your slumber. Follow me and confide in me¡­ for I am your king." His eyes burned with resolve. "Now rise." Chapter 11: Blood and Vengeance Before Tristan left the library, he paused on the third floor to catch his breath. Exhausted, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve, but his curiosity got the better of him. Reaching for a book from the nearest shelf, his fingers brushed against a worn leather cover. The title read: The Story of the Strongest Warrior of the Middle District¡ªDeAndre Killington. Killington¡ªan unparalleled swordsman, a warrior whose legend was etched into the very fabric of history. He had been a key figure in the pursuit of unity within his fractured nation, a combatant so formidable that he had ascended to the rank of Bishop¡ªa coveted status reserved for three-star warriors. The hierarchy of power was structured like a chessboard. Pawn, Knight, Bishop, Rook, King, and Queen. Yet beyond them lay a title few ever dared to dream of¡ªEmperor. To claim that rank, one had to obtain a Cluster Star, a feat so rare that only a handful in history had achieved it. As Tristan delved deeper into the book, he uncovered a crucial detail¡ªthe location of Killington¡¯s grave. A slow smile spread across his face. His decision had already been made. Killington would be his first soldier. Now, standing above the warrior¡¯s final resting place, Tristan¡¯s gaze burned with unyielding resolve. "Rise from your slumber. Follow me and confide in me... for I am your king." The words echoed through the silent graveyard. "Now, rise." A blinding light burst from the gravestone, illuminating the darkness. The radiant energy coiled upward, twisting and reshaping, taking form before Tristan¡¯s very eyes. Before him stood a man¡ªtall and broad, his presence commanding. His slicked-back white hair framed a face hardened by war, his dark skin reminiscent of a shadow lurking in the depths of night. A pristine black suit adorned his form, starkly contrasted by the white gloves on his hands. At his side rested a sword as tall as he was, its hilt ebony, its cross-shaped guard elegant yet foreboding. The blade shimmered ominously, sharp enough to carve through the very darkness itself. With a measured movement, Killington drove his sword into the earth, then knelt before his new master. "I live to obey." Tristan¡¯s lips curled into a smirk. "Rise. Do you know why I summoned you?" The warrior stood, his piercing gaze locking onto Tristan¡¯s fierce and vengeful expression. "Yes." Tristan turned away, his cloak billowing with the movement. "I assume you know where they are located as well?" His voice carried an air of absolute authority. "Yes, sir. Killington Street was named before my death¡ªI know exactly where it is." You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Together, they moved through the city, navigating the labyrinth of streets and alleys until they arrived at a decrepit warehouse. Tristan lingered at the entrance, concealed behind a crate, his eyes scanning the scene. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and alcohol. Inside, scattered groups indulged in vice¡ªgambling, drinking, partaking in substances unknown to him. Their laughter and idle chatter filled the space¡ªuntil a single figure stepped forward. Silence fell. The man''s presence was suffocating. His long, unkempt black hair framed a face that exuded both menace and charisma. His voice, though laced with an eerie cheerfulness, commanded absolute attention. "It''s nice to see you all." Tristan felt it¡ªa strange pull, an allure so potent it nearly compelled him to obey. The man continued, his voice carrying a sinister glee. "We received the money from that bigwig after destroying Albert Kenway¡¯s boutique." Tristan¡¯s vision blurred with rage. His body moved on instinct, emerging from the shadows, his hands coming together in a slow, deliberate clap. The gang members turned in confusion. "Who the hell let a kid in here?" one of them sneered. A man approached, his hand reaching out to seize Tristan¡¯s shoulder. Before he could make contact¡ªa flash of steel. In the blink of an eye, Killington¡¯s blade severed the man¡¯s arm. A scream tore through the warehouse as blood gushed from the wound, painting the floor crimson. Tristan barely spared the writhing man a glance. "You were slow, Killington." The swordsman lowered his head in apology. The moment of shock passed, and rage consumed the gang members. They surged forward, a horde of bodies eager to avenge their fallen comrade. Tristan remained still, his voice calm yet commanding. "Show them our strength, Killington." "Yes, my lord." Killington strode forward, carving a line into the ground with the tip of his sword. His voice was even, unwavering. "Cross this line, and I will cut you down." They did not listen. The first man charged. Steel flashed. His body was torn apart mid-step. A limb here. A torso there. Blood splattered against the walls, the floor, the faces of those who had been foolish enough to follow. Killington did not stop. He butchered them¡ªhis blade a whirlwind of death, reducing bodies to nothing more than discarded remnants. One after another, they fell. Until at last, the survivors froze. The once-mighty Crescent Moon Gang¡ªreduced to trembling wrecks, standing amidst the remains of their fallen brethren. Their leader, the once-menacing figure on stage, stood paralyzed with fear. Tristan approached, his dark brown Oxfords sinking into the thick, pooling blood beneath him. The remaining gang members shrank away, their terror tangible. He climbed onto the stage, standing face-to-face with the so-called leader, who now resembled nothing more than a frightened animal. Tristan¡¯s voice was soft, almost gentle. "Apologize." The man flinched. "A-Apologize for what?" Tristan¡¯s expression darkened. "Apologize for destroying Albert Kenway¡¯s boutique." The man swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he obeyed. "I... I¡¯m sorry for destroying the boutique. But we were paid¡ª" Tristan¡¯s eyes gleamed. "By whom?" The leader hesitated. Tristan sighed. "Killington, cut his right leg." "Yes, my lord." Killington raised his sword. But before the blade could strike¡ª "WAIT! A nobleman! A man from the High District¡ªDecker Vermillion!" Silence. Tristan turned away, stepping down from the stage, his work done. But before leaving, he cast one final warning over his shoulder. "If any of you so much as look at that boutique again, I will hunt you down¡ªand I will kill you." He strode away, his mind fixated on one name. Decker Vermillion. "I will find you... and I will treat you just as I treated those rats." But as he walked, his body weakened. Each step became heavier, his vision blurred, his limbs refused to obey him. Then¡ªdarkness. His body collapsed, his consciousness slipping away. "Damn it... what¡¯s happening...?" As the world faded, just before his eyes shut completely¡ª He saw a figure approaching. Chapter 12: Mothers Touch Awakening from unconsciousness, Tristan found himself lying on a bed in a small, unfamiliar room. A single window loomed above his head, allowing only a sliver of light to seep through. With his eyes barely open, he scanned his surroundings¡ªhis vision blurred, his thoughts sluggish. A rusted bucket sat a few feet away, a worn-out door stood in the distance, and a broken light bulb dangled precariously from the ceiling. These were the only details he could make out in his brief survey of the room. Is this... a prison cell? he wondered, running a weary hand through his aching head. The door creaked open, its slow movement heightening his sense of unease. Instinctively, he attempted to summon his warrior. "Killington¡­ come out," he whispered. No response. His heart pounded as the door continued to inch open. Though deprived of his soldier¡¯s presence, Tristan readied himself for combat. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, rising cautiously to his feet. His stance¡ªintended to resemble that of a seasoned boxer¡ªwas flawed, riddled with openings that a skilled opponent could easily exploit. Then, the door fully opened, revealing a familiar face. Cold, unreadable eyes. Silver hair cascading past emotionless features. "Amelia Green?" he muttered, his voice laced with incredulity. "You''re kidnapping people now?" She stepped inside, a tray in her hands¡ªladen with food and water. Without a word, she walked to his side and gently placed it on the ground before settling next to him. Her silence unsettled him. She leaned in, her delicate hands reaching for his face before gliding upward to his scalp. "My mother taught me that this soothes the mind and body," she whispered, her fingers pressing gently into his skin as she massaged his head. Her touch worked like magic. With each stroke, the pounding in his skull faded, his rigid muscles loosening under her care. A single tear welled in Tristan¡¯s eye as memories surfaced¡ªmemories not entirely his own. The Lazy Man¡¯s past bled into his own. A vision of himself as a child, lying in his mother¡¯s lap while she ran her fingers through his hair. Her voice, warm and tender, echoed in his mind. "I will always be with you, my dear son." "You lied!" Tristan burst out suddenly, his voice breaking. Amelia froze, concern flickering across her otherwise impassive face. In that moment, she saw something few ever did¡ªhis weakness. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice quieter now. She rose, walking toward the door before finally speaking. "It was obvious you were in pain," she said, her voice steady yet soft. "I may seem like someone devoid of emotion, but I know pain when I see it¡ªand you are in pain." With that, she left. Tristan¡¯s gaze fell to the tray on the ground. The sight of food stirred a growl from his stomach, pulling a chuckle from his lips. "Pain, huh? You don¡¯t know the half of it." After finishing his meal, he stepped out of the room and into a stunning establishment bathed in warm light. Tables sprawled across the floor, surrounded by patrons engaged in conversation, laughter, and the clinking of tankards. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and the lively hum of a well-frequented bar Amelia brought me to a bar? "I didn¡¯t expect a girl like her to indulge in such things at a young age," he murmured under his breath. As he navigated the room, weaving between tables, he felt it. A shift in the atmosphere. The weight of a hundred glares pressing down on him¡ªfilled with malice, contempt, disgust. Those eyes¡­ He had seen them before. Then, as he passed one particular table, a rotund man seated there met his gaze. Without hesitation, the man sneered¡ªand spat directly onto Tristan¡¯s shoe. Tristan stopped. His expression darkened. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the offender. "Apologize." The room fell silent. Then, the man erupted into laughter¡ªa guttural, mocking sound that echoed through the bar. "Me? Apologize to you?" he sneered. "I don¡¯t bow to sniveling nobles." A flicker of fury ignited within Tristan. His fists clenched at his sides. Those shoes¡­ they had been a gift. And now, they had been desecrated. "Killing¡ª" "Stop causing a disturbance in my bar!" a commanding voice boomed from above. Tristan turned his attention to the second floor, where a man stood overlooking the crowd. Unlike the unruly patrons below, he was dressed in a finely tailored suit, his dark brown skin accentuated by the crisp black of his attire. A monocle rested on his left eye, his white gloves pristine. He exuded an air of refinement¡ªone that, to Tristan, felt almost theatrical. "Hey, kid. Come up here," the man ordered. Tristan hesitated before complying, ascending the staircase near the entrance. Moments later, he found himself in a private room. Two couches sat opposite each other, a modest distance apart. Amelia occupied one, sipping tea with her usual composure. The monocled man sat on the other, legs crossed, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The man studied him. His gaze raked over Tristan''s stance, his physique, his breathing¡ªevery minute detail analyzed with meticulous scrutiny. Why is he looking at me like that? Then, the man spoke. "Lady Amelia¡­ this boy is not built for combat. Surely, you could have chosen someone more suited to fighting?" Amelia, poised with her teacup just shy of her lips, paused. Without looking up, she replied in her usual calm tone. "You may not see it, but I do. He is special." The man scoffed. "Well, I don¡¯t see it." Tristan¡¯s mind swirled with questions. Was he being held captive? Or was this something else entirely? More pressing still¡ªhad Amelia seen him summon Killington? Had she witnessed the massacre? "How did I get here?" he asked, unable to mask the concern in his voice. The man smirked. "That¡¯s not the question you truly want to ask. What you really want to know is¡­ did we see?" A cold dread gripped Tristan. His instincts screamed at him to silence them both¡ªto erase any witnesses. But would his summoning work this time? It had failed him in the room before¡­ "I don¡¯t know how you managed to kill all those men," the man continued, eyes narrowing. "Especially with that flimsy body of yours. But you did." "You don¡¯t have to worry," Amelia interjected, setting her teacup down. "Neither Darren nor I will reveal anything." Darren rose from his seat, striding toward Tristan with an air of authority. "It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you," he said, extending a hand. "My name is Darren. I will be your trainer."