POV: Reader
Location: First Regional Territory – Outer Rim, Throne Zone Sigma-9
---
We reached the gates of the Citadel of Ash by dusk.
No sun. No sky.
Just burning clouds trailing smog like veils over dying light.
It wasn't a city.
It was a scar, stitched into the world by the fire of forgotten wars and stories that never ended properly.
The towers leaned like broken ribs of a fallen titan.
Their surfaces charred, their spires half-melted, windows blackened not by time, but by rage.
Every stone bore soot-runes.
Every wall was branded with a rule, etched in flame-warped script:
> "Survive. Or be used."
Not a motto. A warning.
---
A ring of thronewalkers guarded the entrance — warriors hardened by fire and frost, each etched with painted soot masks, wielding relic-weapons fused with machine and myth.
Guns embedded with cursed runes.
Blades humming with residual screams.
Even a staff that dripped tar-black light.
They were not gatekeepers.
They were vultures.
And we were bleeding prey.
---
One of them stepped forward.
Short. Wide-shouldered. Bald. One eye covered by a red-glass lens that whirred like a tiny furnace. His breath smoked even in the chill.
> "You don't belong here," he said.
Not hostile.
Just honest.
Like someone reciting weather.
---
Jiwoon cracked his neck, grinning. "Never stopped us before."
I stepped forward, lifting the burning symbol on my palm — the one etched into me back at the Algorithm Tower.
> "We're Foreign Candidates. Here to claim a Trial Seat."
The red-eyed man didn't blink. His metal eye clicked softly.
Then he nodded.
> "Then bleed for it."
---
They attacked without warning.
No horns. No signal. Just movement.
A maelstrom of steel and smoke.
---
Ereze vanished. Then reappeared with blood across her blade.
> A head dropped behind her — eyes still blinking.
Jiwoon slammed his palm into someone's chest — we heard the ribs crack like twigs under pressure.
A mace swung toward me — wrapped in red chains, trailing fire.
I ducked. Rolled. Eyes up.
Looking not for enemies, but system anchors.
Then I saw it — the claim node: a crimson bell mounted atop the central tower. It pulsed with a low, seismic rhythm. It wasn't just a bell.
It was a heartbeat. A living marker of domain control.
> "That's the claim marker!" I shouted.
> "Then cover me!" Ereze said — already sprinting, blade humming.
---
The courtyard became a stage.
Dozens of other contenders watched from broken balconies and rooftops. Some cheered. Some recorded. Some analyzed.
This wasn't just a fight.
It was a broadcasted trial.
> If we failed, we'd be flagged — as weak.
If we won, we'd be marked — as threats.
No middle ground. Not here.
---
I pulled deep into my trait.
> [Activate: Scriptburn]
A flash.
Memories offered.
One clicked.
My first day as a Reader — the moment I read a story where the hero never won. A tragedy disguised as a triumph. I felt it again.
> I offered it.
Sacrificed it.
> [Memory Burned: "Hope Deferred"]
+15% Perception
Narrative Threading: Active
---
Time bent.
I saw enemy movement before it happened —
like strings pulling toward puppets.
Dodged before attacks started.
Struck at intention, not flesh.
> "You were never meant to be written," I whispered — as my blade slid into a target's throat.
They fell without resistance.
---
Ereze climbed.
Like a silver flame, her movements flawless.
Reaching the top of the tower.
Dodging bolts.
Parrying knives.
Running on air like a ghost given shape.
Then she reached it — the Crimson Bell.
She lifted her sword.
And struck.
---
The sound wasn't a chime.
It was a scream.
Like metal vomiting fire — a sonic exorcism.
The world around us paused.
Then…
Silence.
The red mist evaporated.
Every hostile froze mid-step — some with blades still raised, others mid-lunge.
---
> [SEAT CLAIMED: Ash Domain – Tower Gate]
You are now: WARDEN-RANK of this Zone
---
The gates opened.
Blackened iron creaked as if mourning every inch.
And standing there —
A girl.
---
White hair tied in a tight bun.
Barefoot.
Bandages wrapped around her arms up to the elbows.
No weapons.
Eyes pale, glowing faintly like dawnlight through fog.
She stepped forward, soft as snow.
> "You did well," she said.
Her voice was quiet — too quiet for the fire around her. Like it came from a place that had seen too much.
> "But you'll need more than fire… to survive what's coming."
---
I blinked. "Who are you?"
She smiled faintly. Sadness folded into grace.
> "I'm Vana. Healer of the Lost. And I only get stronger when people die."
---
She turned and walked deeper into the Citadel.
We followed.
---
Inside was not a fortress.
It was a graveyard sanctum.
The halls were lined with stone slabs — altars — and upon each lay a body, glowing faintly with soullight.
Not alive.
Not fully dead.
Caught… in pause.
Vana hovered over one — a man with burns over half his chest. She pressed her palm to his skin, and whispered something I couldn't hear.
His heart shuddered.
Then beat.
---
Jiwoon stepped back. "You're a necromancer?"
She shook her head.
> "No. I don't raise the dead."
> "I just rewind their story… by one chapter."
---
We stood in stunned silence.
Until Ereze spoke, voice tense.
> "There's corruption here."
Vana nodded slowly.
> "Yes. I sensed it when you fought."
She moved to the edge of the sanctum, placing her hand on the cracked wall.
> "One of the thronewalkers… wasn't just aggressive."
> "They were implanted. With a Chaos Scar."
---
My pulse jumped.
> "You mean… they were infected?"
> "No," Vana said. "Not naturally. Surgically. Someone did this on purpose."
Ereze's fingers tightened on her blade.
> "Who would do that?"
Vana pointed.
Not at us.
But beyond the horizon.
Through the broken window, in the far tower:
A figure stood.
Tall. Cloaked. Masked.
And on their back — a greatsword that hummed with static, like corrupted data trying to rewrite existence.
---
> "The Nameless Blade," Vana whispered.
"One of the corrupted."
---
None of us spoke.
We didn't have to.
We understood.
This wasn't a throne war anymore.
Not just a game. Not just survival.
We were in a system unraveling from the inside out.
And someone out there — or something — was writing new rules in the blood of the old ones.
---
> "You are not just contenders anymore," Vana said, turning to us.
> "You're anomalies."
> "And anomalies always get hunted."
---
I stared at the bell tower. The place we claimed.
The place we'd bled to take.
And for the first time…
I wondered if we were supposed to win that fight.
Or if someone let us.
To see what we would do next.
---
> And high above — on the broken rim of a throne that no longer glowed —
Kira stood.
Watching.
Waiting.
Judging.
> Not with contempt.
Not with pity.
But with expectation.
---