Noah died for the first time on a Tuesday.
He remembered that detail because the System—capital S, glowing blue text floating in his vision like a particularly aggressive PowerPoint—had stamped the date across the top of his notification log right before everything went black.
System Notification: Host terminated. Cause: Harp string to the carotid artery. World: Canticle Sea (Difficulty Tier 3). Allotted lifespan remaining: 00:00:00. Initiating reset.
Then nothing.
When awareness returned, he was standing in a perfectly neutral room. White walls, soft lighting, no corners sharp enough to stub a toe. A single desk sat in the center, occupied by a woman in a crisp blazer who looked like she'd been waiting for him since the Big Bang and was mildly annoyed about it.
"Welcome to the Intermission Hub," she said without looking up from her tablet. "Name?"
"Noah Vale. Though I feel like you already know that."
She tapped the screen. "Correct. Death count: one. Emotional state: mildly hysterical with notes of existential dread. Please take a seat."
There was only one chair. He sat.
The woman—Etta, her name tag read—finally met his eyes. Hers were the tired gray of someone who'd seen every possible flavor of denial. "I'm your concierge. You'll respawn here between worlds. Think of it as a very exclusive airport lounge with worse coffee."
Noah rubbed his neck, half expecting to feel the phantom slice of harp string. Nothing. "So this is the part where you explain why a cosmic bureaucracy decided to turn my life into a speedrun?"
"Close." Etta slid a thin folder across the desk. "The System has selected you to become the strongest entity across a conveyor belt of universes. You will enter each world, achieve supremacy, and move on. Your lifespan in each world is inversely proportional to its cruelty index. Die, and you return here with memories, select boons, and any emotional baggage you care to carry."
Noah opened the folder. Inside was a single sheet titled TERMS AND CONDITIONS in bold serif font.
He read aloud. "'Host agrees to pursue strength without complaint. Host acknowledges that strength is measured by System metrics and may include but is not limited to: physical prowess, social influence, fashion sense, and/or ability to tolerate bureaucratic absurdity.'"
He looked up. "This is a joke, right?"
Etta's expression didn't change. "The System does not joke. It occasionally deadpans, but that's different."
A soft chime sounded. The blue text reappeared in Noah's vision.
System: Welcome, Host Noah. Objective clear: Become the strongest. Current world loading in 3… 2…
"Wait—" Noah started.
1.
Reality folded like someone closing a book too fast.
He landed on a dock made of polished driftwood. Salt wind slapped his face. Around him stretched an endless turquoise sea broken by floating islands connected by rope bridges and waterfalls that fell upward. People hurried past in flowing robes, some humming softly—notes that made the air shimmer and small objects float.
A young woman in a sailor's coat stood nearby, tuning an enormous golden harp taller than she was. She plucked a string experimentally. The note rang out clear and sweet, and a nearby crate lifted gently into the air.
She noticed him staring. "New in port?" Her voice carried the easy lilt of someone who'd grown up with music in her blood.
"Something like that," Noah said. His own voice sounded flat by comparison. "I'm Noah."
"Lira." She offered a calloused hand. "You look like you've just been told the tide's permanent."
Close enough.
The System pinged.
System: World detected — Canticle Sea. Primary power system: Cantriarchy (music-based reality manipulation). Local strength metric: Harmonic Dominance. Allotted lifespan: 47 days, 9 hours, 12 minutes. Suggestion: Begin with basic chord progressions. Avoid minor sevenths near cliffs.
Noah stared at the text until it faded. Then he looked at Lira, who was waiting politely.
"So," he said, "hypothetically, if someone handed you a mission to become the strongest singer on a planet where bad notes can literally kill people, what would be your first move?"
Lira considered. "I'd start at the Siren's Rest. Open mic every night. Losers buy drinks, winners get bragging rights. Also the losers sometimes get eaten by krakens, but that's rare on weeknights."
Noah exhaled through his teeth. "Right. Practical."
She tilted her head. "You're really doing this, aren't you? The whole 'strongest in the world' thing?"
"Apparently I signed something."
Lira laughed—not cruel, just surprised. "Well, good luck. Most people who show up talking like that wash out in a week. The sea doesn't care how loud you dream."
She slung the harp onto her back and walked away, humming a tune that made the planks under her feet glow faintly.
Noah watched her go, then looked down at his empty hands.
System: Progress update — Harmonic Dominance: 0%. Suggestion: Acquire instrument. Caution: Do not attempt freestyle rap.
He closed his eyes. "Is there a return policy?"
The System, predictably, did not answer.
Somewhere out on the water, a chorus of voices rose in perfect four-part harmony, and the sunset itself bent to listen.
Noah took one step toward the city, then another.
Forty-seven days.
He figured he'd start by finding a drink that didn't require a performance fee.
And maybe, just maybe, a chord that didn't sound like surrender.