I gasped for breath, shivering as goosebumps prickled across my caramel skin. Sweat clung to my forehead; tangled strands matted against flushed cheeks. My azure eyes peeked through damp bangs—not with resolve, but like a ghost wrongfully accused of haunting the president’s breakfast meeting.

My legs trembled, slipping slightly on slick marble. Mud clung like guilt, thick, stubborn, streaked across my calves. Around me, voices clustered, echoing off the hall’s cavernous walls. Not hostile... not friendly. Calculated. Like everyone wore agendas in their sleeves and alibis in five languages.

Four massive banners hung overhead—crimson, sapphire, emerald, gold—whispering silent promises I didn’t trust. Three towering screens blinked dimly, symbols flickering in sync with my unease. Moonlight spilt through the Skyliner dome, casting a silver sheen across polished chaos. Sacred, almost.

I stood, dazed, limbs wobbling.

Then the system slithered into my mind, smug and urgent:

“Hôte, je vous conseille de changer vite. L’administrateur est sur le point d’arriver. Et méfiez-vous de ces personnes; leurs masques sont comme des poignards.”

( Host, I advise you to change quickly—the administrator is about to arrive. And beware: their masks are daggers dressed as smiles.)

Beat.

“System, why are you speaking French?”

Apologies, Host. I got lost browsing WeChat. Language setting shifted.

Of course it did.

Before I could craft a sufficiently judgmental comeback, a glowing golden arrow appeared, hovering like it had divine afterlife business. It pointed toward a sleek hallway labelled Sanctuaire.

Likely a bathroom. Possibly a trap wrapped in expensive tiles and divine pretension. Either way, I followed.

Two centuries later. Or ten minutes, give or take.

My body was dry, warm, and styled to intimidate, chic black velvet ankle boots, pleated skirt, white blouse under a long black duster coat. Black opaque tights, a gorgeous messenger bag, and sixty-five inches of loose, voluminous curls. Zircon earrings sparkled. I adjusted my bag, studying my reflection with calm precision.

“Aren’t you going to wear more makeup?” the system asked, showcasing dozens of filtered model faces.

“I am wearing makeup,” I replied. “Just enough to highlight my natural beauty. I’m a star, not arrogant—just factual.”

Just as I turned to leave, a girl burst in, soaked, eyeliner streaking down her face. Quiet sobs echoed as she locked herself in a stall.

“Aren’t you going to help her?” the system asked.

I sighed. “I’m not a hero vacuuming up everyone’s trauma. I’d be dead by now if I tried. You think surviving as an orphan was a montage? Please.”

I stepped back into the grand hall, just as lightning cracked the sky.

KRA-KA-THOOM!

Silence fell. Winds rattled the dome, casting silver threads across the marble. Everyone sat.

Then she entered.

Ariadne Vance. The administrator. Her golden eyes glinted behind black shades. Heels tapped like judgment incarnate. She adjusted the mic, her voice booming:

“Finally... a new batch of contestants. You look more interesting.”

Her gaze paused on me. Something flickered there—I chose not to know what. She smoothed her hair, tapped the mic. Music began: a chaotic blend of Beethoven, Katy Perry, and One Direction.

What is this competition?

“You have been selected by the strings of fate,” she said, “to fight for your realm in a battle of wit, blood, and brutality. The winner becomes the Chosen One, granted any wish by the Twelve Heavenly Emperors. Patronage from the gods. Power among stars.”

Gasps. Murmurs. Wails.

The woman beside me clutched her cane. Her granddaughters trembled, slick with sweat. Wrinkled confusion crossed her face, like a baby tasting lime juice for the first time.

Behind me, young men whispered in panic. But me?

Honestly... annoyed. Kidnapping isn't supposed to be romantic. They act like protagonists in isekai dramas, expecting the plot to honour their interference.

“Silence,” Ariadne commanded. “Today, destiny fractures. A hero will rise to face the universe’s greatest threat... the demon king Vanitus.”

She snapped her fingers.

WHUP.

The lights died. Moonlight sharpened. Interfaces appeared before every person. My head rang as the system returned—cold, mechanical.

A glaring red button blinked:

START.

The room chilled.

TICK. TOCK. TICK. TOCK.

The clock struck midnight. Violent wind battered the dome. Thunder roared. A pungent scent of rotting cabbage and rat carcasses clung to the air.

My heart pounded, skin damp again.

Sweating, shaking, I pressed START.

Screens burst alive.

One thousand black cards appeared. Bold gold lettering, silver borders.

“FATE VS FREEWILL.”

Confusion rippled.

Then—

GRRAAH! Boom! Bang!

A black hole yawned open. Lightning hissed violet and blue at its rim. Two black panthers stalked out, fur gleaming like spilt ink. One growled—people flinched.

And from the portal: a man. Tall. Slender. Masked like a black sheep, stitched to his skin.

The Grand Curator.

He walked slowly. THOOM. THOOM.

Reality bowed.

Blood dripped from my nose. My chest shuddered.

Then, he spoke:

“To be, or not to be: that is the question… Man delights not me… The rest is silence.”

Shakespeare, rebranded as cosmic law.

He raised a black cane.

“I am the curator. Every few millennia, I host this war. You’ll choose one card. Your ability will evolve. You may become a god, a knight, an emperor…”

My phone buzzed. Several missed texts from my disciple.

Still expected at work. Great timing.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. Looked up—

BOO!

A demonic man loomed close. His breath slapped me—a rotting wave of garlic and forgotten souls. My eyes watered.

“Can people stop doing that? Ever heard of consent?”

He grinned. Time froze.

The room became a painting. Everyone suspended—still, distorted.

“Thou art the thousandth hero,” the Grand Curator intoned. “Beware the crow with dove’s wings. The wolf in sheep’s clothing. Salt disguised as sugar. Evil masked as delight…”

He gestured toward a girl. Wet. Slimy. Eye sockets are hollow. Hair tangled like seaweed. Skin festering green and yellow, pulsing, leaking pus.

The air reeked of dead fish.

I stepped toward her, drawn.

Then looked back...

My own body. Frozen. Mouth open. Pose: horrendous.

She appeared before me.

Her fingers, pale, sticky, slithered across my face.

“Beware the crown disguised as peace,” she whispered. “Greed masquerading as generosity…”

Then—SLAP.

Darkness swallowed me.

My senses flickered. I stood alone in the velvet lounge—warm, smooth, familiar.

The system responded instantly, pulling up the cards.

But because I’d taken too long…

Only two remained.

One shimmered:

Environmental Magic.

The other: blank. Mysterious. Humming softly.

I stared at both. Exhaled.

“System,” I said. “What exactly are these?”