The atmosphere was thick with tension.

  It had been a day, yet every time William and Claire, or Nigel and Nyx, found themselves in the same room, the air grew heavy, charged with an unspoken unease.

  Dovak leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass lazily before taking a sip of his exclusive Debianite liquor. "So those two had an accident while training?"

  "Yeah," Sam replied, downing his margarita in a single gulp. "I think Nigel’s dealing with a lot right now, and, honestly? It’s probably our fault… or, well, not ours specifically, but the Wardens’. You know how it is—missions, massacres, death, betrayal. Just another day in the most infamous rebel group across the Eleven Rings."

  William raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What exactly happened?"

  The three of them had developed a drinking tradition of sorts, and while each of them could hold their own, William remained undefeated in the art of alcohol tolerance—an anomaly Sam and Dovak had yet to understand.

  Sam exhaled, setting his empty glass down. "That, my friend, is something Nigel has to tell you himself," he said. "I don’t know all the details… but I do know it was one of the darkest days the Wardens ever had."

  For a moment, silence settled over them. Then, as if to reset the mood, Dovak turned toward William with a smirk.

  "And what about you and Claire?" he asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

  William hesitated. Then, against their expectations, he actually answered.

  "After I fixed her helmet… she thanked me. But her voice was different. Softer." He took a deep sip of Dovak’s liquor before continuing. "And then… she reached out and touched my cheek."

  Dovak’s smirk widened. "My friend, I think you’ve got yourself a woman in love."

  William shook his head. "No… I don’t think it was that. It felt strange. Like… she wasn’t herself in that moment."

  Sam, who had been leaning lazily on the bar, suddenly straightened up and clapped his hands together. "Alright, listen, my dear Will. In my many, many years of experience—which, mind you, are way more than this bastard’s—" he gestured at Dovak, who merely raised an eyebrow, "—I have learned a fundamental truth about people: they are all complicated. But in the Chaos Tournament?" He took a dramatic pause, shaking his head. "Complicated doesn’t cut it. Everyone here is an absolute lunatic."

  Dovak chuckled, but Sam wasn’t done.

  "Now, your dear Claire? She’s already got all the red flags. Military background? Check. Childhood trauma? Probably. Trust issues? Definitely." He started counting on his fingers. "Explosive temper, possible unaddressed PTSD, and now she’s switching between violently kicking ass to caressing your cheek like some tragic romance novel?" He whistled. "Buddy, best-case scenario, she’s just bad at expressing emotions. Worst-case scenario? You’re dealing with multiple personalities, or she’s secretly plotting your murder but wants you to feel special first."

  William sighed. "That’s not really helping, Sam."

  Sam shrugged. "Look, my advice? Just go with the flow. Either everything will fall into place, or you’ll wake up one day with a knife to your throat and a sweet ‘good morning’ from your new psycho girlfriend. Either way, entertainment guaranteed."

  Dovak let out a deep laugh. William, despite himself, cracked the faintest hint of a smirk.

  Sam grinned, raising his newly refilled glass. "To chaos, my friends. May we all survive whatever the hell is coming next."

  Dovak and William clinked their drinks against his, the weight of the conversation lingering—but, for now, drowned out by the burn of liquor and the brief reprieve of shared amusement.

  The moment to leave the Delta Zone and begin the Second Stage of the Tournament was drawing near.

  Across the compound, participants prepared in different ways. Some trained relentlessly, hammering their bodies into shape for the battles to come. Others indulged in the luxury of their surroundings, drinking in every comfort, knowing this might be the last time they ever experienced it.

  Nigel stood alone in the training field.

  His fingers curled around the Reaper’s handle, his grip firm despite the ache in his muscles. His arms burned, his body screamed for rest, but he didn’t stop.

  Swing. Again. Again. Again.

  The vantablack blade carved through the air in precise, controlled arcs. Over and over.

  Not enough.

  His breath came in ragged gasps, sweat dripping from his brow, but he barely registered the exhaustion clawing at him. His hands trembled with each movement—not from fear, not from weakness, but from sheer overuse. His skin had long since split open, callouses cracked and bleeding, crimson staining the Reaper’s hilt.

  He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.

  "Not enough."

  The words left his lips in a whisper, barely more than a breath, but the weight behind them was crushing.

  He had to be stronger. But for what? What the hell was he even fighting for anymore?

  Nigel’s movements slowed. The Reaper’s blade stopped mid-swing, hovering in the air as his grip loosened. His breathing was shallow, his body trembling—not just from exhaustion, but from something deeper.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  His mind had been circling the same question for days now.

  Is this worth it? Does it even matter?

  The memory of the Eleventh Ring clawed at him. The scent of burning metal, the echoes of dying screams, the sight of Tom and Lilly’s broken bodies lying in pools of their own blood.

  He had fought. He had survived. And the result?

  He had lost them. Just like he had lost Martin.

  Just like he had lost everything else.

  Nigel exhaled sharply, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead, as if the pressure would keep his thoughts from unraveling.

  Maybe it would be easier to just throw myself into the next fight and let it end.

  The thought came too easily, slipping into his mind like a whisper, a suggestion from something lurking in the depths of his soul.

  He clenched his jaw.

  No.

  He had made it this far. He was still alive.

  But he wasn’t sure if that was by choice, or just habit.

  His grip tightened around the Reaper’s hilt, nails digging into the bloodied skin of his palm.

  He wanted to scream. To tear something apart. To feel something other than this damn emptiness gnawing at him.

  Instead, he raised the Reaper again.

  One more swing. Then another. And another.

  Even as his body ached. Even as his mind drowned.

  Because if he stopped now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever start again.

  Nigel kept swinging the Reaper, each motion slower than the last, his muscles screaming in protest. His breath was ragged, his grip slick with sweat and blood.

  Then, a voice—deep, commanding, and unnaturally amplified—rippled through the Delta Zone.

  “Participants of the Chaos Tournament… the time has come.”

  The very air seemed to hum with energy as the announcement echoed across the compound. Every conversation stopped. Every movement stilled.

  “The Second Stage awaits. Be warned—what lies ahead will not be kind. The difficulty will not just increase… it will double. And yet, so will the rewards. That is… if you live long enough to claim them.”

  A brief silence followed, heavy with unspoken implications.

  Then, a chuckle—low, deliberate.

  “Ah, but there’s more, isn’t there? Some of you may believe you’ve grasped the power of your Chaos Bracelets, that you’ve mastered their functions. But let me tell you a secret…”**

  A pause. The anticipation clawed at the silence.

  “You haven’t unlocked even a fraction of their potential.”

  The words sent a ripple of unease through the participants. Nigel could feel it—he wasn’t alone in this. Across the Delta Zone, fighters, schemers, survivors—all of them were now on edge.

  “I could tell you more… but where’s the fun in that?”

  Nigel’s grip tightened around his weapon.

  “If you wish to learn the truth—if you wish to wield the full power that awaits you—then survive. Make it through the Second Stage. Earn your right to know.”

  The voice shifted, its playfulness fading into something colder.

  “You have one hour to prepare. Gather your strength. Say your final words, if you must. When the time is up, I expect you in the Central Plaza.”

  Then, a final warning—sharp and absolute.

  “Any who fail to arrive… will be eliminated.”

  A sharp static pulse crackled through the air.

  Then—silence.

  Nigel exhaled slowly, lowering the Reaper. The exhaustion in his muscles was still there. But now, beneath it, something else stirred.

  A cold, creeping realization.

  This Tournament hadn’t truly begun yet.

  Not even close.

  The hour passed too quickly.

  Before long, every participant stood gathered in the Central Plaza, tension thick in the air like an impending storm.

  "Are you alright, my friend?" Dovak asked, glancing at Nigel with concern.

  Nigel looked terrible.

  Training nonstop had worn him down. His body was screaming for rest, his hands were still raw from gripping the Reaper for hours, and the bruises from his last sparring match hadn’t even begun to fade.

  "I’m fine," Nigel muttered, barely paying attention.

  William was about to say something, but a familiar voice—the one from the earlier announcement—cut through the air.

  The presenter had arrived.

  Floating effortlessly above the Plaza, he was an elderly man, yet his presence radiated authority. His tailored white suit, black dress shirt, and pristine gloves gave him an almost refined elegance, though the smug smirk tugging at his lips made it clear he saw them all as nothing more than pawns in a game of chess. His black wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his sharp, knowing eyes, and in one hand, he twirled a polished cane, more as a prop than a necessity.

  He looked like the kind of man who owned the room the moment he stepped inside—or in this case, the battlefield before the blood had even spilled.

  His smile widened as his gaze swept over them, full of mockery and amusement.

  "Ah, I see you’ve all managed to crawl here. How delightful," he mused, his voice dripping with condescension. "Well then, dear participants, it’s time to move on to the next stage."

  The Plaza remained silent, hundreds of fighters listening with stiffened backs and clenched fists.

  "If you ever wish to bask in the luxuries of the Delta Zone again," he continued, his smile turning cruel, "all you have to do is survive. That’s it. Simple, right?"

  The way he said it made it clear—he didn’t expect many of them to make it back.

  He adjusted his hat before continuing.

  "As I told you before, the difficulty doubles, but so do the rewards. The further you go, the greater the spoils. But let me be clear…" He leaned forward slightly, as if sharing a secret. "Not even I know what awaits you this time."

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  "Perhaps you’ll start off gently, given time to breathe," he mused. "Or…" His grin widened. "Perhaps you’ll be thrown directly into the jaws of death."

  Some participants shifted uneasily. Others grinned, eager.

  "In the end, the rules remain unchanged," he finished, laughing lightly. "Survive today, and you get to see tomorrow. Nothing more, nothing less."

  Then, with a flourish of his cane, he raised three fingers into the air.

  "Now then… shall we begin the countdown?"

  The mood changed instantly.

  Everyone tensed, instincts screaming at them to brace for the unknown.

  William scanned the crowd.

  Just like before the First Stage, some warriors gripped their weapons, their eyes cold and calculating, already sizing up potential prey. Others stood still, their minds racing with last-minute strategies. Some simply clenched their fists, suppressing their fear.

  The first finger dropped.

  "Three…"

  The entire Plaza held its breath.

  "Two…"

  Sam glanced at the others. "Try not to get separated, alright?"

  "One…"

  Some shut their eyes. Others grinned in anticipation.

  "Off you go!" the presenter cackled.

  A violent vortex of shifting, multicolored energy exploded through the Plaza, swallowing everything.

  The world shattered.

  The moment Nigel regained consciousness, he was on his knees, gasping.

  His vision spun violently, his stomach churning from the disorienting sensation of teleportation. Before he could gather his bearings—

  "This is a disaster!" Dovak's voice boomed over the raging storm.

  A storm.

  Nigel barely managed to push himself up before a massive wave slammed into the ship’s deck, nearly knocking him back down.

  A ship.

  They were on a ship—a massive steel war vessel, battered by relentless winds and crashing waves, the deck slick with seawater. The sky was angry, swirling clouds roaring with thunder, and cannon fire shook the air with deafening explosions.

  They were in the middle of a battlefield.

  A naval war.

  Screams, gunfire, and the sound of splintering wood filled the chaos around them. In every direction, ships were engaged in combat—some burning, some already sinking, others still firing volleys of cannon blasts at distant enemies.

  The ocean itself seemed furious, as if it were swallowing the weak whole.

  Nigel gritted his teeth, forcing himself to steady his stance. The ship rocked violently beneath him, but he planted his feet, gripping the Reaper tightly.

  Then, he looked up—

  And froze.

  High above the battlefield, stretched across the stormy sky, was a massive, glowing counter.

  Numbers.

  Flashing red.

  And rapidly rising.

  "What… is it counting?" William muttered.

  No one answered.

  But deep down, they already knew.

  A death counter. And the number was rising far too fast.