This is where it ends," the man in front of me declared.
Then he drove his longsword straight through my chest.
The blade tore through silk and flesh in one brutal, unceremonious thrust. I felt the physical force of it shove me backward a heartbeat before the pain actually registered.
When it hit, it wasn't just a wound—it was a supernova of searing, blinding agony exploding behind my ribs.
My lungs seized.
Every breath I tried to claw into my throat felt like swallowing broken glass.
Dark crimson blood blossomed across my golden imperial robe, ruining the rich fabric and dripping onto the marble in heavy, rhythmic lines. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream.
My hand moved on pure instinct. I grabbed the hilt of his sword, my fingers locking around the cold steel. My grip was trembling, pathetic really, but I held on. When I forced my eyes up, I saw the smirk on his face. He was enjoying this.
Just as I expected, the man in the gold-plated armor twisted the steel while it was still buried in my ribs, then yanked it out with one sharp pull. The blade slid free with a sickening, wet sound that I felt in my teeth.
Warm blood flooded my mouth instantly. The metallic tang coated my tongue, and as I coughed, thick red liquid splattered onto the once-polished floor. My grand throne room had been reduced to a slaughterhouse.
Pillars were cracked to the marrow, banners were smoldering rags, and bodies—my people—lay like discarded dolls across the hall.
Well, shit.
"This war ends in our victory!" the armored man roared. His voice bounced off the high, indifferent ceiling, sounding far too heroic for a man murdering a woman in her own home.
Well, yeah. Everyone can see that, genius.
The strength evaporated from my legs. I dropped to my knees, my palms hitting the marble weakly. The golden crown that was sitting on my head tilted, slipped, and fell. It struck the floor with a light clink and rolled in a slow, mocking circle before stopping at his feet.
He snatched it up with a bloodstained hand.
Shit! Now you've got the hat. Congratulations!
I wanted to give him a clap of pure spite and sarcasm but the pain wouldn't let me.
The pain was even worse now.
It wasn't just my chest; it felt like every nerve in my body was being shredded by invisible wires. My fingers twitched. My breathing grew ragged and uneven. My vision began to smear, the world dissolving into a messy palette of red and gray.
But I could still see the interface.
It blinked into existence with that familiar, annoying flicker of artificial light, hovering a few inches from my nose. Apparently, "personal space" isn't a concept the afterlife respects.
[Mission Failed]
The translucent panel, which usually glowed in a soft, regal blue, was now burning in a violent, aggressive red.
Those two words.
The ones I hated most in any language.
How many times had I seen them? I'd lost count. Every failure felt like a fresh punch to the soul, dragging me deeper into a exhaustion that went beyond my bones.
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips as my body finally gave out. The armored man stepped back, raising his sword defensively.
Even half-dead, he was still afraid of me. That was a small comfort.
I stared up at his confused face through the red haze. I probably looked insane, smirking at him while I bled out.
Well… who wouldn't be?
"God… I'm so fucking tired," I whispered.
My fingers loosened. My body fully collapsed onto the blood-soaked marble. I felt the warmth of my own life pooling around me and the sudden, biting chill of the stone against my skin. Then, the darkness finally crawled over my eyes.
That was the end of Saoirse Nightingale's forty-ninth life.
I jolted upright, gasping for air as if I'd just been hauled out of deep water. My skin was clammy, beads of sweat dampening my hairline.
The white room. Of course. The dreaded, literal "white room."
God, I hated this place with a burning passion.
It was like being trapped inside a giant, sterile sheet of printer paper. No color, no depth, just a void designed to mock my sanity.
There was no clutter, no furniture, just endless blank walls and a cubicle-like atmosphere that screamed isolation.
This was my "welcome home" every time I died. My personal, existential spawn point.
"What could be more depressing than this?" I scoffed, my voice sounding flat in the void.
No matter how many times I ended up back here, I couldn't help but criticize the decor.
Talk about a total lack of creativity.
[The God of War looks at you in disappointment.]
The words flashed across my interface. That smarmy, condescending old prick.
"It was your fucking fault I'm in this mess to begin with, you damn perverted old man!" I snarled at the invisible presence. Arguing was pointless—I knew that—but venting kept me from shattering. It kept me sane at least.
It wasn't like I'd signed up for the "Dying Fifty Times" starter pack. I had tried. I really had.
But the missions were never meant for a girl who spent her life walking runways instead of battlefields.
I was one of a thousand "Testers"—humanity's unlucky lottery winners bound to a system and forced to play games for the Gods.
On Earth, they called us "The Chosen Ones."
Very cinematic. In reality, the selection was completely random and guess who got lucky? Or in this case unlucky?
It's me. What an amazing guess.
Based on the rules,when a Tester succeeded, their God ascended to other stage of divinity. If a Tester failed, they were erased—body, soul, and memory.
I can still remember the day I was dragged into this nightmare. It feels like a lifetime ago.
Well, technically, it was forty-nine lifetimes ago.
I was basically a living fossil now if you counted all the years I lived from all those mission.
It had been a normal day. I was taking a rare, well-deserved break.'
"Miss Night!" my manager, a woman who lived her life at a permanent sprint, rushed toward me. Her heels clicked like gunfire against the floor.
I barely looked up from my magazine. I had a glass of wine in one hand and was stretched across my sofa in a silk bathrobe, the peak of relaxation.
I'd worked nonstop since I was a child; the more famous I got, the less time I actually had to exist. That day, I'd planned to enjoy every second of doing absolutely nothing.
"Turn on the TV! Hurry!" she cried, jumping onto the sofa and making the cushions sink.
"What's with the fuss?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. I'd seen every tabloid headline; nothing could surprise me.
I reached for the remote anyway. The screen flickered to life.
"...Saoirse Nightingale, a widely recognized name in the fashion industry, has ignited global buzz after leaked footage from the exclusive Loveur runway revealed a stunning, high-impact performance. The clip has drawn praise from fans and industry insiders alike..."
"Manager... is this true?" I asked, my voice suddenly small. A single tear tracked down my cheek. This was it. The validation I'd killed myself for.
"Yes!" she shouted, practically vibrating.
"Wait—someone's calling."
She answered, her expression shifting from shock to pure, unadulterated elation. "Yes! I understand! Thank you!"
"Who is it?" I pressed.
Her grin was wide enough to be painful. "One of the representatives from Gaccini wants to meet you!"
Gaccini. The name alone made my heart stop. It was the global brand I had dreamed of since I was old enough to walk in heels. And now? They were calling me.
"What are you waiting for? Change your clothes!" my manager urged.
"I'll go to the office to fix a few things and be back in an hour to pick you up!"
She sprinted out before I could even say thank you, leaving me alone with my heart hammering against my ribs. This was it. My long-awaited breakthrough onto the global stage.
"In other news, the individuals who had previously gone missing are now returning—and they are calling themselves 'Testers'..." the TV droned on.
I wasn't listening. I was scrolling through my phone, basking in the glow of my own success.
"...According to their testimonies, they were subjected to a series of trials imposed by what they describe as a so-called Go—"
I turned the TV off with a sharp, dismissive click. "What a bunch of bullshit," I muttered to the empty room as I rolled my eyes.
"I'd better get ready," I told myself, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. I started toward my bedroom, already picking out an outfit in my head.
Well, I attempted to walk towards my room.
But for some reason my feet froze in place.