[Kuroda Shigure's POV — 10 years ago]

  My sister had white hair—not the pale kind that dulls with age, but winter-bright, long and flowing, catching the light like falling snow.

  When she walked outside, people slowed without realizing why, some staring openly while others pretended not to notice.

  They called her the Winter Princess, the Moon Maiden, sometimes even the Silent Star, but she hated the names. I loved them, because they meant people saw what I had always known.

  When we were children, she used to sit beside me and braid my hair while humming songs she made up on the spot. She laughed easily back then, loudly, without restraint, tugging my sleeve when she was bored and pulling me outside to waste entire afternoons doing nothing important at all.

  That laughter didn't disappear overnight—it thinned, softened, became something she only allowed herself in private.

  Music was what remained. She played the harp when she thought no one was listening. One night, I found her sitting on the edge of the window with her knees drawn close, the full moon hanging low behind her like it had been placed there deliberately. The curtains breathed in and out with the wind while her white hair moved softly, brushing against the wood of the frame, and her fingers trembled against the strings as she sang—not loudly, not fully, but soft and broken, a song without words interrupted by breaths she tried and failed to control.

  Tears slid down her face, but she didn't wipe them away because she didn't need to.

  It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and the saddest.

  ***

  She had married him by then, the son of a powerful man. He had status and money. His family was the kind that didn't knock on doors because doors opened for them. He spoke politely and dressed well, smiled when expected, but every time I stood near him, my skin crawled as if he wasn't alone—not in the way people mean when they talk about shadows or ghosts, but as if something else stood where he stood, just out of sight.

  His eyes didn't reflect light properly. They looked through people, past them, like they were never meant to belong to a human face. He despised me as much as I despised him, the difference being that his contempt was calm and measured.

  When I asked her why she married him, she smiled and said, "I love him," but deep down I knew that she didn't mean it. When she spoke, her eyes kept drifting toward the door as if she expected it to open at any second, as if he could hear her wherever he was, as if even thinking the wrong thing might reach him.

  That was when I understood—she wasn't choosing him, she was surviving him.

  That night, as she returned to the window and touched the harp again, I swore to myself that I would become strong enough to free her, no matter what it cost.

  ***

  I trained and waited while years passed, then I awakened and became a Candidate. I thought the world would change instantly, but I was wrong.

  I told my classmates, asked for votes without begging, simply explaining what I could do and showing them I would grow stronger, that I could protect them, that helping me now would matter later.

  But they only listened, and that was the problem.

  Votes weren't encouragement—they were currency. Everyone knew there weren't enough to go around, so if you gave one away, you lost leverage, influence, safety, or even a favor you might need later. Votes were something you saved for alliances, for people who were already strong, for names that meant something, and I was none of those.

  Even the boy I once shielded from bullies wouldn't meet my eyes, not because he hated me, but because looking at me meant choosing sides, and he wasn't powerful enough to afford that. Some laughed, pretending it was a joke, while many avoided me like scarcity was contagious, and others insulted me openly to prove they had already chosen where to stand.

  Votes were power, and power was hoarded by those who already had it.

  I sold everything I owned, bought a few votes from people who slept under bridges, people for whom influence had no future value, and trained harder, became stronger. But it still wasn't enough. I didn't feel like I was strong enough to face him.

  Then I saw the poster.

  It was taped crookedly to a concrete wall I passed every day on my way home, half-covered by older notices with the paper already curling at the edges. I would have walked past it like all the others if not for a single line that made me stop.

  I stood there longer than I should have. People brushed past me. Someone cursed. A train passed overhead. The world kept moving, indifferent. But I didn't, because for the first time since I awakened, the numbers made sense.

  COME PLAY THE HARVESTING GAME

  FIRST EDITION — WAREHOUSE NEAR THE MALL

  WINNER'S PRIZE: 1,000 VOTES

  It felt like destiny, like a miracle. With that many votes, I could crush him, I could free her.

  The night before the game, I watched her again—same window, same moon, same song—but this time, I knew this was the last night she would cry like that.

  ***

  The warehouse was alive with music, laughter, people drinking, dancing, shouting, and it felt like a carnival, bright and hollow at the same time.

  I almost forgot why I was there.

  I spoke to a man near the entrance who smiled and pointed to a side room, saying, "Participants wait there, the first edition begins soon." I thanked him.

  Inside, there were fifty of us—some joked, some stretched, and one man flexed his shoulder deliberately, showing 55 votes glowing faintly against his skin.

  I waited.

  Then the call came and we walked into the main hall together, and that's when we saw the chains—dozens of metal chains hanging from the ceiling.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Very realistic, I thought.

  The presenter welcomed the crowd and the spectators roared as he asked us to step forward, then he pulled a golden chain and a metallic box fell from above, hitting the ground with a ringing clang. He opened it, spreading his arms wide.

  "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" he shouted. "WELCOME TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THE HARVESTING GAME! TONIGHT, I—CESAR JUNIOR—WILL BE YOUR HOST!"

  The crowd screamed, and that was the moment I understood.

  Not everyone walks into a cage by accident.

  Some cages are invitations.

  ***

  We were herded into the main hall and stopped before two large green circles glowing faintly against the concrete floor, wide enough to hold dozens of people. They weren't markings, they were zones.

  The presenter raised a hand and the noise slowly died as he spoke. "Look at the floor. Each circle represents a team, and everyone standing inside the same circle will be considered allies for this round."

  He paused. "When the screen displays Go, you may choose which circle to enter."

  His smile widened slightly. "Once you step inside a circle, you cannot leave it—not willingly, not accidentally." A murmur spread through the crowd. "If you are not fully inside one of the two circles when the timer reaches zero, you will be eliminated immediately."

  The word eliminated echoed through the warehouse.

  "Once the timer ends, the circles will seal, and leaving them also eliminates you, so choose quickly and choose carefully."

  The screen above them flickered with a single word: GO.

  Everyone turned at the same time toward the Candidate with 55 votes standing near the front—broad shoulders, thick arms, confident posture, his vote count shimmering faintly along his shoulder like a badge of safety. No one hesitated.

  When he stepped into Circle A, the room surged as men rushed like animals to a feeding trough, shoving with their elbows and shouting. The circle filled instantly with bodies packed tight, breath against breath—thirty-three in total.

  The slower ones cursed and screamed, shoved uselessly at the packed edge, and when they realized it was full, rage twisted their faces. They turned, furious, and stormed toward Circle B, and I followed them—seventeen in total.

  The timer hit zero and the circles sealed.

  The screen lit up:

  TEAM A — 33

  TEAM B — 17

  A man in Circle B laughed nervously, staring at Circle A. "Lucky bastards."

  "This is bullshit!" another shouted, gesturing wildly toward Circle A where bodies were packed shoulder to shoulder. "Look at them—there's almost twice as many of us in there! How are we supposed to compete against that?" Murmurs of agreement rippled through Circle B.

  "This isn't a fair game, it's bullshit..."

  The presenter stared at him, unblinking, then smiled. "For the first round, the game will be—WEIGHT RULE."

  The ground trembled and both circles rose slowly, revealing what they stood on: two massive cylindrical platforms, smooth metal columns lifting them upward from the floor. The bases were wide, flat, and heavy, designed to slide straight down along hidden rails beneath the concrete.

  "When the timer starts, the platforms will descend, inch by inch, until one of them reaches the bottom. The first platform to touch the ground... is eliminated."

  The presenter laughed, clapping his hands together. "You look surprised! But the rules are simple, right? And the prize is worth it, don't you think?"

  The man who had been complaining swallowed, and relief flashed across his face.

  From Circle A, voices exploded:

  "What?! That makes no sense!"

  "We're the majority!"

  "This is bullshit!"

  "I'm leaving!"

  One voice cut through the chaos.

  "Shut up."

  The man with the 55 votes pushed his way forward through the dense mass, calm but irritated, stopping at the edge of the platform and looking down at the presenter. "Listen," he said, polite and controlled, "we came here for fun, and hopefully win the prize, but don't you think this round is a bit... unfair?"

  The presenter tilted his head. "Are you dumb? You enter a game and complain about the rules?"

  The man's smile vanished and a vein throbbed on his forehead. "How about I come down there and make you play my game?"

  The presenter smiled wider. "As stated earlier, any player who leaves the circle is automatically eliminated."

  The man smiled back. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you're first." He bent his knees, contracted his legs, and leaped.

  The moment his body left the platform, three giant axes dropped from above and steel flashed, and his body was cut apart mid-air. Blood exploded across the floor while screams tore through the hall and spectators panicked, running and trampling each other.

  The presenter laughed, spreading his arms. "WELCOME TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THE HARVESTING GAME! THE GAME WHERE LOSERS GET HARVESTED FOR OUR ONE AND ONLY MASTER!"

  He snapped his fingers, and the platforms began to descend.

  Panic swallowed everything. Voices shouted:

  "What happens if we hit the ground?!"

  "We'll die—!"

  "They'll chop us up—!"

  This is how the carnival died and the slaughter began.

  I stared at Circle A, realizing they were heavier with more people, meaning they would reach the ground first.

  This was unfair.

  I clenched my fists.

  When this round ends, I get out, this is madness.

  Then I saw it.

  One man in Circle A shoved another, and the pushed man screamed as he fell off the platform, his body torn apart below. The pusher staggered back, breathing hard with his face twisted, panting with eyes wide and smiling like a madman who had just realized what he'd done and couldn't stop.

  "Sorry, man," he laughed weakly, "either you die or we all die... heh... heh..."

  Something broke and they understood—they had to get rid of their weight. They started killing each other with punches, kicks, bodies thrown off the edge while blood sprayed and screams stacked on screams.

  We were watching, frozen.

  Now, our platform was dropping faster than theirs because they were throwing so many people off that their total weight had decreased to match ours.

  At this rate, we would lose.

  I turned around and saw that everyone on my team was looking at the same man—fat, sweating, sitting cross-legged, eating a bag of chips. The realization hit all of us at once, and I shouted first.

  "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

  They turned toward me as I yelled, "This game is making you insane! You're losing your rationality!"

  The presenter laughed quietly while our platform dropped another inch. A man stood and pointed, screaming. "It's his fault! If we lose, it's because of him!"

  More voices joined in:

  "He can't control himself!"

  "He weighs as much as all of us!"

  "Why should we die because of this pig?!"

  The fat man looked down, ashamed.

  I stepped in front of him and shouted.

  "NO, nobody is throwing anyone off."

  They hesitated, looked at each other, waiting for permission.

  It was disgusting.

  How could they hesitate when a life was on the line?

  "Let's get rid of unnecessary things first," I said quickly, "then we'll decide."

  They nodded and we stripped off clothes, shoes, jackets, throwing them over the edge. The fat man stood and thanked me, crying. I told him to stay close.

  We looked back at the other platform and noticed that both platforms were at the same height. I counted—fourteen people left on theirs, seventeen on ours—which meant our platform would be descending faster.

  Panic surged again and the same bully snarled. "They're fourteen! We're seventeen! With him, we're fifty!" Laughter broke out. "We throw him or we all die!"

  I stepped forward again. "No one is throwing anyone."

  The man glared at me. "How about we throw you with him?"

  Whispers of agreement spread through the crowd while the platform creaked and the presenter smiled.

  I felt a blow from the side, then white light, and the floor rushed up to meet me.

  Everything went dark.