Stage 1 had ended. Some were lucky enough to survive, while others were not as fortunate.
"Congratulations to everyone who cleared this stage," Verismon's voice boomed across the desolate landscape.
"My oh my, wasn't that some fun! It wasn't as exciting as the other stages, but it was just barely enough to entertain me."
A screen flickered in front of Tilus, displaying the grim summary of the ordeal:
[Stage Summary: Remaining Survivors 50/100]
[Personal Rewards are being distributed…]
[You have killed 45,342 infected living beings. However, due to your inability to resist a penalty, your reward has been reduced to 1/10 of its original value.]
Tilus gritted his teeth, glaring at the screen. "That's way too much! How can you rip me off like this?"
[You currently possess 226,810 coins.]
He scoffed. "Not bad, I guess. It'll get me through the early stages, but this system... still pisses me off."
Frustrated, Tilus picked up a rock and hurled it toward Verismon, who floated smugly above him. The rock bounced harmlessly off an invisible shield, shimmering as it absorbed the impact.
"Now, now," Verismon said as he descended to meet Tilus's glare. "Don't get cocky just because you survived. Your life is still very much in my hands."
Tilus clenched his fists. "Don't you think reducing my reward by 1/10 is a bit excessive?"
Verismon chuckled darkly. "You should be grateful I didn't erase an anomaly like you outright."
Tilus's eyes narrowed. "I doubt you can do that with the Constellation Trials about to begin."
"Oh, you're sure about that?" Verismon hovered closer, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Anomalies like you have happened before, and you resemble one in particular. Should I just kill you now?"
Tilus wondered—who was he talking about?
"No matter," Verismon said, pulling back with a mocking laugh. "I'll spare you this one time."
He floated back into the air, his eerie laughter echoing through the ruins. "I like your attitude, human. I hope you survive long enough for me to see you quiver in despair, hatred, and pain. Hahaha!"
Bastard.
As Tilus seethed, a notification screen popped up before him:
[Several constellations are interested in you.]
[A list of choices appeared:]
• The Hero of the Red Cloth Flag
• The King of the Roundtable
• The Holy Flame of Orléans
• One Who Opposed Fate
Tilus's eyes widened at the names. The Hero of the Red Cloth Flag—Quang Trung? The legendary strategist of the Tây Sơn dynasty? His blessing would be invaluable, yet even his might might not be enough against what was coming.
Then there was the King of the Roundtable. Could it really be King Arthur? His swordsmanship and leadership were legendary, though the stories of his later days—when power consumed him—were haunting.
Next was the Holy Flame of Orléans. Jeanne d'Arc—the saint who led her people to victory. Her divine power was potent but defensive. Living like a saint did not appeal to him.
Finally, One Who Opposed Fate. His stomach dropped.
Isn't that the power given to the antagonist? The wielder of the Qliphoth Tree's demonic power, capable of destroying gods and angels alike—but at the cost of lifespans, sanity, and a monstrous backlash.
He sighed, torn between the options. "What should I choose?"
"Hey, Tilus," Jasmine's voice broke through his thoughts. "What should we pick?"
Tilus glanced at her. "Pick the name that resonates with you the most. Trust your instincts."
"Huh?" she replied, surprised by his answer.
"Tilus."
Tilus froze. The voice wasn't the system's detached monotone—it was something else. Something far too real.
A low, sardonic chuckle filled his ears, smooth and edged with dangerous amusement.
The sound slithered through his mind, intimate yet alien, laced with a knowing mirth that sent a shiver down his spine.
His head snapped around, scanning his surroundings. But everyone else was preoccupied, engrossed in their own screens, unaware of the voice creeping into his thoughts.
Then, another system message flickered before him. Unlike the usual impersonal notifications, this one felt... directed. A whisper clawing at the edges of his reality.
[You have read my journal.]
Tilus's breath caught. His journal. The one that foretold everything—the disasters, the trials, the inevitable descent into ruin.
[You know how this world ends.]
A shadow coiled at the edges of his vision, stretching beyond the fragmented ruins, beyond the corrupted sky. The voice seeped into his bones like a ghost breathing against his ear.
[This is your only chance to change it.]
The system screen trembled. The words pulsed, demanding, insistent.
[Take my hand.]
Tilus hesitated. His instincts screamed at him to resist. But deep down, he knew the truth—if he walked away now, if he denied this power, the future would play out exactly as the journal dictated.
And that future was unacceptable.
Tilus exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into a fist. "Damn it," he muttered.
He reached forward.
[Contract with the One Who Opposed Fate accepted.]
Verismon's voice echoed again, mockingly, "Now that all of you have chosen your Constellation sponsors, you will be teleported immediately to a bonus trial. Wish you all luck."
A magic circle appeared beneath Tilus's feet. He groaned. "I don't like this."
Light surrounded him, and when the world sharpened again, he found himself in ruins.
No— not just ruins. This was his city—Ho Chi Minh City—broken, crumbled, overtaken by decay. The streets were cracked, buildings toppled, and in the distance, a colossal tree pierced the sky, its twisted branches clawing at the heavens.
The air hung thick and suffocating as shadows danced in the eerie mist.
Then, through the fog, a figure emerged. Its murderous aura hit Tilus like a wave; every instinct screamed for him to run.
[Survive for 30 minutes.]
"Survive… for 30 minutes? Against what? Him?" his voice cracked.
Before he could react, something whizzed past him, grazing his cheek. Cold dread spread through him.
He couldn't win this... "Run. Run!" he thought.
But his legs wouldn't move—they trembled. The shadow advanced slowly, a missile of magic hovering above its head, ready to strike.
Panicked, he bolted for cover, crouching behind an overturned car. Yet the missile tracked him relentlessly.
He tried to escape again, but the shadow appeared before him, and his blood ran cold.
Its face…
It was his face. Older. Scarred.
"What is this?" he whispered, trembling. "What game are you playing, X?"
The shadow tossed a sword at his feet.
"You want me to pick this up?" he muttered, grabbing the hilt reluctantly.
The shadow charged, and with one brutal strike, sent him flying into a wall. His vision blurred.
This was bad. Really bad.
The timer floated in the corner of his vision.
25 minutes left. Damn it, why is time moving so slowly?
He staggered to his feet, gripping the sword tightly. "Fine. If this is just a trial, I'll get through it."
Raising the blade, he glared at the shadow. "Come on. Let's dance."
Then, more shadowy figures appeared beside the first, all identical to the one that had been tormenting him.
"You can clone yourself? That's cheating!"
Without waiting, the clones with swords charged at him. Compared to the real one, they were slower—making it easier to avoid their attacks—but it didn't make the situation any less overwhelming when he was faced with ten of them.
All he could do was try to fend them off, blocking multiple slashes aimed at him. Cuts covered his body, and he panted so hard it felt like his lungs would give out. His legs trembled, his arms ached—his body was on the verge of collapsing.
Was it just him, or were their attacks getting faster and stronger?
One of the clones' swords suddenly smashed into the ground near him with such force that dirt and rocks flew into the air. If that had hit him... no, he didn't even want to think about it.
"Well then, time to run," he thought bitterly. "A wise man once said, when in a pinch, the best course of action is to flee."
His legs moved before his mind caught up, stumbling toward a narrow alley he recognized. This was the old convenience store near his house, now barely standing, its shattered sign swinging in the wind.
He ducked inside, pressing his back against the crumbling wall. His breaths were ragged, each one scraping against his chest like broken glass. The clones didn't follow immediately, but he could hear their footsteps—slow and deliberate—echoing through the ruins.
"Think, Tilus. Think," he whispered to himself. His eyes darted around, scanning for anything useful—a broken shelf, debris, anything to buy time.
This place… he had come here countless times, grabbing snacks on late nights. Now it felt like a graveyard, every shadow threatening to come alive. He peeked through the shattered glass, spotting the clones pacing the street.
He had to move before they found him.
There were 20 minutes left. As a sword swung above his head, he thought it was over. Then it came to him—like a vision. In it, he saw himself dodging the enemy's attack and countering with a precise strike, cutting off the clone's head.
His eyes snapped back to the present just as the sword came down. He repeated the movements he had seen, and to his shock, he cut the clone down. The visions kept coming, showing him how to take down each enemy until he defeated the last one.
But as the final clone fell, a searing pain shot through his eyes, unlike anything he had ever felt. Blood dripped from them, and the world around him blurred.
"So this is the price of foresight, huh?" he muttered through gritted teeth, clutching his head.
Then, from the corner of his blurry vision, he noticed a shadowy figure moving toward him.
"Damn it, I can barely open my eyes now," he thought, raising a hand to signal the figure to stop. To his surprise, it did.
"Or not," he cursed, as it grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up. "I'm not a rag doll, you bastard!"
He tried to lift his sword, but the figure stared directly into his eyes. Everything went white.