00:00:01
The seal broke.
The first sound wasn't the roar of monsters, but the sharp, digital chime of ten thousand personal systems updating at once.
Above the head of every player, a temporary, ghostly designation flickered for all to see—the system's cold prediction of their role in the coming slaughter:
BERSERKER. GUARDIAN. SCAVENGER. SABOTEUR. REAPER.
And above Yael's head, in letters the color of dried blood:
REAPER.
Eyes reached him, but since he didn't have a rank yet, no one really cared that much. Except the cowards and losers.
Not even a minute passes by and the players are full on wedging war on one another.
The Arena dissolved into a fractal of violence. It wasn't a battle; it was a thousand tiny, desperate wars erupting simultaneously.
Yael saw it all through the chilling new filter of his designation. The REAPER tag wasn't just a label; it was a lens. He didn't see people, he saw viability.
The BERSERKER charging nearby glowed a hot, unstable red—high immediate threat, low stamina. A future harvest.
The GUARDIAN trying to shield a cluster of LOSERS pulsed a steady, stubborn yellow—a tough shell to crack.
The SCAVENGERS were quick, darting greys, snatching fallen gear from the wounded.
ABADDON (THE DESTROYER): The first harvest is always the most frantic. The grain panics before the scythe even moves. Let them thin each other. Your swing must be precise. Not that I really care. I'd love to see you die one more time. It was epic. HAHAHAHA.
Yael looks at the server annoyed and mutes it. "Now I will have some peace." He positions himself on his tummy and looks at the snipers, rifle scope. He moved it around, trying to see who'd be the best to shoot.
If he shot a victor, the victors would not overlook him and try to attack. If he shot someone from the middle, they'd have the guardians attack him. The bersekers weren't a good choice either. The scavengers were the only one left.
They only were looking at the dead piles of bloody bodies, finding goods. Yael went still and looked at one individual before, pressing slowly.
The body of a scavenger went down. One after another. Yael started killing all of the scavengers he spotted occasionally leaning back and looking around his surroundings to make sure he was alone, and safe.
After he couldn't find any more scavengers he went to the middles.
His sniper pointed at one of the middles, who had the tag; Guardians. Meaning the guardians were protecting them. But that didn't really matter. Yael was pissed off. And was trying to spot Celia as well as trying to lift his current rank he had gotten recently, Rank 9173.
Under 10000 was the middles, above it were the ascenders.
Yael slowly pressed the trigger and shot a middle. It was a surprise. A threat for them. It would've been okay if it was a berserker or a saboteur. But a reaper? They were harder to spot. The middle class turned into chaos. The guardians were more guarded and tried to calm the middles. But another one went down.
He was about to pull the trigger until he saw a blue ghost wandering around. The white dress. The white long hair that floated around. A small cute face which seemed annoyed. Celia. He snapped his head away and without a second thought ran to her. "Celia!"
A berserker swung at him, causing Yael to fall and get hurt. But he stood up and continued running to Celia. He shouted again, his voice hoarse "Celia!"
The ghostly Celia turned. Her annoyed expression shifted. Confusion. A flicker of recognition. Then, a profound, soul-deep dread. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and she pointed—not at Yael, but past him, back toward the chaotic heart of the battlefield.
He stopped. He quickly turned. A huge punch hit his ribs by a berserker, causing him to fall. His ribs had broken puncturing his lungs. It was a sudden sharp, stabbing pain. His breaths became shortened, almost gasping as every breath he took caused pain. His chest tightened, causing him to cough out a metallic, salty warm taste of blood. He felt lightheaded.
He tried to call for her again. Celia. Only a wet, gurgling whisper escaped, followed by a cough that was a mistake—a volcanic, shuddering convulsion that tore something vital inside.