"Hey. WAKE. UP."
A boot slammed into Rynn's stomach before the words even registered.
Air burst out of his lungs in a violent cough, his whole body folding in on itself like crumpled paper.
Pain.
Raw, real, blinding pain, nothing like a game hitbox or a vibrating controller.
His eyes flew open.
"Wake up and get ready, you vermin."
Vermin.
Rynn blinked through the stinging tears clouding his vision. A man stood over him or something shaped like a man. Hard armor. Harsh scars. Eyes sharp enough to cut through stone. He looked like someone who didn't need to threaten pain because he is pain.
Rynn stared, dazed.
'Wh… what…?'
His brain felt slow, melting, like someone had poured hot tar into it. He couldn't think.
He couldn't even remember lying down.
But as his eyes adjusted, he saw it the emblem carved onto the man's chestplate. A beast devouring a crescent moon.
He didn't recognize it.
He didn't finish the thought.
Because the boot came again.
This time, the heel crushed down on Rynn's foot with a sound so sharp he swore he heard the bones complain. A scream surged up his throat
And got trapped there.
Nothing came out but a strangled gasp.
"Stand down!"
The guard's voice struck like a slap across the room.
A fist followed.
It connected cleanly with Rynn's cheek, sending him sailing sideways into the wall. His skull rang like a bell struck with a hammer, vibrations racing down his spine.
He collapsed. Limbs trembling. Breath shuddering.
His mouth opened, and he tried again to scream. To speak. To plead.
Still nothing.
No voice.
No sound.
Just empty, choking silence.
'No… no, no, no, no! this isn't real. This CAN'T be real. I was just— I was just at my desk. I was just at home. I was—'
His heart lurched, twisting inside his chest.
'Where's my room? My bed? Where's my- my family…?'
He dragged in a ragged breath, trying to piece the world back together.
No blue glow from his monitor.
No hum of LED lights.
No warmth of blankets.
No brother shouting from downstairs.
No—
No mother.
Just cold stone beneath him.
Cold metal bars.
Cold air filling his lungs like needles.
Cold reality creeping in faster than he could deny it.
He curled slowly, pressing his forehead to the icy ground.
'I want to go home… I want—'
The thought stabbed deeper than the pain.
He hated himself for even thinking it, hated how pathetic it was, hated how childish it sounded. Mom couldn't come. His mom was gone. His old mother was gone. He had accepted that or pretended to.
But right now?
Right now he would give anything to feel her arms around him.
Just once more.
Just long enough to wake up from this nightmare.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but tears forced their way through anyway, hot and unrelenting.
'Stop. Stop crying. Stop it. Stand up. Do something. Do anything you useless bastard'
But his body didn't listen.
It shook harder.
Curling tighter.
Shrinking smaller.
The guard stepped closer, shadow swallowing the dim light around him.
"What are you, a mute?" the man snarled. "Answer when spoken to."
Rynn tried.
God, he tried.
He forced air out, pushed his throat to work, pushed his vocal cords to vibrate.
Nothing.
Not even a croak.
The guard scoffed, grabbed a fistful of Rynn's shirt, and yanked him up like lifting a scarecrow.
"Pathetic."
Then the fist came again.
The world burst apart in a white flash—
—then smeared black around the edges—
—then caved into darkness.
He didn't remember falling.
He didn't remember hitting the ground.
He didn't remember anything except the echo of his own thoughts dissolving into nothing:
'I don't want to die…'
And everything went black.
***
When consciousness seeped back in, it felt like crawling up from the bottom of a deep ocean. Every part of him felt heavy, waterlogged, numb.
His eyelids twitched.
Light stabbed through.
He hissed, curling away from it.
His head throbbed, a dull, pounding ache behind his eyes.
His foot pulsed with agony.
His ribs complained with every shallow breath.
His cheek felt swollen, tender.
He stared blankly at the floor.
Rough stone.
Cold.
Dirty.
His throat tightened.
'This… this isn't a dream.'
He didn't dare say it aloud even if he could.
Something inside him didn't want the world to hear it, to solidify it.
He lifted a trembling hand and pressed it to his chest.
His heartbeat stumbled, irregular, panicked.
He swallowed hard.
'Why am I here? What did I do? What—'
He cut the thought off with a sharp gasp as pain shot up his side.
Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself toward the corner of the cell. Every movement felt like fighting gravity itself. He curled his back against the cold wall, pulling his knees close. He hugged them tightly to his chest as if trying to hold himself together from the outside.
His breath trembled.
His fingers shook.
His entire body felt wrong.
He wanted to move.
He wanted to escape.
He wanted to scream.
But he couldn't even trust his voice to exist.
So he stayed there.
Shaking.
Silent.
Terrified.
And alone.
***
Hours passed. Rynn wasn't sure how this place didn't have windows, and time felt sluggish and thick, like mud trying to drag him under. The only consistent sound was the steady drip of water striking the metal bucket beside him. Plink. Plink. A monotonous, maddening rhythm that filled the silence.
He had stopped crying. He didn't have the energy for it anymore.
He had accepted it, at least on the surface, that he wasn't home. But acceptance didn't make it less terrifying. His fear had simply grown roots and sat with him like an unwelcome companion, curled around his ribs, tightening whenever his thoughts wandered too far.
This is impossible.
Rynn pressed a trembling hand over his stomach where the guard's boot had landed earlier. No pain. No bruise. Not even a dull ache. It made no sense. He remembered the impact too vividly for it to have been a dream. His ribs had felt like splintered glass. His lungs had seized. He had tasted blood.
And now nothing. It was as if the damage had been erased, patched over by some unseen force.
This is wrong. This shouldn't be real.
He pulled the bucket closer and leaned over the half-filled water. The reflection staring back was not his. His old face, the slightly rounded edges, the soft East Asian features he'd been stuck with his entire life, was gone.
In its place was something almost uncanny.
His face had been… perfected. Sculpted. Symmetrical. Sharper than his original but ethereal in a way that felt unreal, like artwork made flesh. His hair, once black and straight, was now snow-white and messy, spiking in unruly directions like he'd been struck by lightning. His eyes glowed faintly with a blue far too vibrant to belong to a human body.
If someone had told him this was the cover art model of a gacha banner, he would've believed it.
He hated it.
He hated how unreal it looked, like a mask he couldn't peel off. He hated the way the eyes followed his emotions so clearly. He hated how the face felt like it belonged to someone confident, someone powerful, someone he definitely wasn't.
He didn't recognize the body.
But he recognized the place.
His gaze drifted to the dark metal walls, the reinforced bars, the dim blue-tinted lights embedded in the corners, old tech mixed with medieval stonework. The distinct cobalt sheen in the corridor.
One of the possible spawn points from Chronicles of Thorneheart.
A game he used to play.
An RPG with three difficulty settings? No. Six. Peaceful, Easy, Normal, Hard, Hell… and Extreme. He remembered the arguments on the forums, players bragging, dying, screaming, quitting. He remembered laughing at them.
He also remembered his favorite aspect of the game.
"I only played because it's fun to roleplay…" he whispered, voice dry.
He used to choose dumb backstories. An orphan hero rising to greatness. A noble kid sabotaging political rivals. A merchant's daughter secretly commanding assassins. He'd tried them all. It was fun pretending not to be himself. Pretending he could be anyone at all.
But would he live in this world?
Hell no.
This place was a death sentence. Even as a normal commoner, the mortality rate was stupidly high. Neglectful kingdoms. Corrupt nobles. Monsters that spawned unpredictably. And the late-game eldritch horrors that descended no matter what you did.
It was a fun world as long as he could log out.
Now he couldn't.
And worse, he was playing on the hardest difficulty.
He lifted his right hand slowly. The emblem burned faintly on the back of it, a strange sigil shaped like a ring of jagged teeth wrapping around a sword hilt. Not ink, not paint, something etched into the skin itself.
The mark of a Gladiator Class.
Not a gladiator like historical Rome. In Chronicles, Gladiators were slave-combatants, used in arenas, underground circuits, experiments, and even warfare depending on the kingdom. Half performer, half disposable soldier.
It was one of the worst possible backstories.
He clicked his tongue bitterly.
"Of course," he muttered. "Of course it's this one."
And as if that wasn't enough, Extreme difficulty had one more cruel mechanic:
No access to your system panel for the first seven in-game days.
He had tried earlier. The moment he mentally called for the panel, a floating skeleton head popped up and laughed at him, jaw rattling, before slamming the interface shut.
The memory made him feel physically ill.
'What am I supposed to do…?'
The answer should've been obvious.
Survive.
He forced himself to stand, legs unsteady. His palms were sweaty. His heartbeat raced like a frantic animal trying to escape his chest. But he had to move. Sitting here meant he'd be dragged out anyway.
He sucked in a breath.
And then—
"Hey," a voice called out from behind the bars. "You're finally awake. Your turn's up next."
The man speaking wasn't the guard from before. This one was older, his expression dull, eyes clouded like someone who had seen countless deaths and gone numb to the sight. He jerked his thumb toward the corridor leading deeper into the arena.
Understanding hit Rynn all at once.
They were sending him out there. To fight.
To die.
His throat closed up. His limbs trembled violently.
I'm going to die, he thought.
His knees nearly buckled.
He didn't scream. He didn't argue. He didn't move.
He just stood there, shaking, tears blurring the edges of his vision as the reality of his situation sank in like a blade.
He was a Level 0 slave-gladiator in Extreme Mode with no system access.
And they were calling his name.
He swallowed hard.
And silently cried.
***
"Ladies and gentlemen—and all you nonbinary bitches! Welcome to the one and only Silverstar Grand Arena! What's that? You missed me?"
"Fuck no!"
"Start the damn match already! My food's getting cold!"
"I swear I'm winning my bet this time"
"Nobody asked, bro!"
"OH MY GOD IT'S STARTING—!"
The arena exploded with noise.
Not the civilized kind of noise you get from a sports game, but the feverish, manic, bloodthirsty kind that made Rynn's organs vibrate. The stands rose higher than any stadium he'd ever seen, stacked in impossible tiers, floating platforms, holographic projections, metal balconies, and even what looked like pocket-dimensions stitched onto the sides. all crowded with spectators.
Humans. Elves. Cyborgs. Beasts. Aliens. Things he couldn't name.
The Silverstar Arena wasn't famous because it was big.
It was famous because of who owned it.
Madam Silverstar.
A fallen dictator.
A multiversal war criminal.
A woman so feared that even after being overthrown, her influence still tore through the underground markets of countless worlds. She trafficked everything, information, weapons, slaves, gods, planets. Even emotions and memories were sold under her name.
Of course she would own a gladiator pit like this.
And of course Rynn would spawn here.
The announcer's voice boomed again, magically amplified, obnoxious and dramatic.
"Hoooo boy, looks like you guys are feeling rowdy today! Fine, fine, LET'S START THE MATCH!"
The arena shutters trembled.
A massive roar shook the air, making the stadium groan as if the entire structure wanted to buckle. The sound wasn't just loud, it was primal, ancient, vibrating straight into Rynn's bones.
The chained gate across from him shuddered.
Behind the metal lattice, two burning yellow eyes opened.
And then the gate rose.
Chains clattered. Dust flew. Mana sparks danced across the barrier walls as the creature stepped into the light.
A dragon.
A real one.
Its scales were obsidian black, though many were cracked or missing, showing the pale, pulsing flesh beneath. Its chest heaved with every breath, mist leaking from its jaws. Along its right leg, veins of pitch-black corruption spread upward like molten shadow, writhing faintly as if alive.
Nil corrosion.
The impossible non-energy that ate existence itself.
A paradox that leaked into beings and turned them into eldritch horrors.
Even a small contamination could twist a creature permanently.
This dragon had more than a small corruption.
Rynn stared numbly.
'I'm dead.'
He felt his legs weaken. His bladder released. Whether out of terror or resignation, he didn't know.
This wasn't Extreme difficulty.
This wasn't even beyond Hell difficulty.
This was impossible.
There were famously unwinnable spawn scenarios in Chronicles of Thorneheart:
Spawning above lava.
Spawning in space with no oxygen.
Spawning inside the Holy Kingdom as a demon.
Spawning next to an eldritch horror.
All technically survivable, by a statistical miracle so small it might as well not exist.
But this?
Extreme difficulty + Silverstar Arena?
People on forums joked it was unfinishable. Someone even put up a million-dollar bounty for any player who survived more than seven in-game days.
In over ten years, no one had claimed it.
And here he was, Day 0, standing weaponless in front of a dragon whose bloodline was "Pure Lightning," now enhanced, and degraded, by Nil corruption.
His thoughts spiraled.
Why me? Why this spawn? Why this cursed RNG? Why this world? Why—
The announcer cut through his panic.
"Aaaaand there he is! Our first challenger of the night! Folks, we have a treat. On the left, a Lightning Dragon past its prime but still deadly, tainted by Nil, angry, gorgeous, and hungry for flesh!"
The crowd roared, stamping, screaming, shaking the arena.
"And on the right—WOAH! Look at that! A cutie!"
Rynn flinched as every spectator turned toward him.
The announcer, a buff man in full drag, sequins glittering, beard oiled to perfection, leaned toward his crystal mic and winked directly at him from the booth.
"Shame you're gonna die, hun~!"
A wave of sick dread rolled through Rynn's stomach.
Not because of the announcer's playful wink.
But because everyone, literally everyone saw this as entertainment.
His death was content.
A highlight reel.
A bet.
A joke.
Rynn's eyes snapped forward again, locking on the dragon. The beast exhaled, releasing a burst of static that cracked across the mana barrier. Electricity rippled over its wings, gathering in the metal rings pierced through its horns. Its muscles tensed, eager, instinctive, hungry.
A countdown began to glow above the arena floor.
5.
His heart thrashed wildly.
4.
His breath came fast, hands shaking uncontrollably.
3.
He thought about running.
He thought about screaming.
He thought about curling up and begging for mercy.
None of those were options.
2.
His mind raced, escape routes, tricks, glitches, ANYTHING.
Nothing came.
1.
The chains on the dragon's legs dropped.
0.
Rynn didn't even see it move.
One second the dragon was across the arena.
The next, its massive body blurred straight into him like a living bolt of lightning.
Something cracked inside him, ribs, spine, he didn't know. He flew backward, slammed against the arena wall so hard the world flashed white. A scream clawed at his throat but couldn't escape.
Pain flooded him.
Then worsened.
Then worsened again.
He didn't know pain could have layers.
Before he could fall, the dragon was already on him. Its claws pinned his limbs. Something ripped, first his arm, then another. The dragon tore into him methodically, almost lazily, as if savoring the agony.
He felt every second.
Felt his body come apart.
Felt his nerves burn.
Felt his life slipping.
The crowd roared louder.
Someone cheered his death.
Then darkness crept in, slow and suffocating, as the dragon's jaws closed around what was left of him.
Rynn heard the crunch.
He heard his bones snap.
He heard his life being swallowed whole.
And then.
Nothing.
Only silence.