Titus woke up in total darkness, the kind so complete it pressed against his eyelids like a physical weight, and the first thing that hit him wasn't the pain or the confusion but the sound, raw, guttural screams echoing somewhere off in the distance, mixed with the wet tearing of flesh and the clang of metal on stone, followed by deep, inhuman roars that vibrated through the ground beneath him like something massive was stomping around just out of sight.
His head throbbed with a dull, electric ache that reminded him way too much of the lightning strike, or at least what he thought had been a lightning strike, because the last thing he remembered was standing in that damn puddle on the warehouse roof, drone buzzing overhead, chasing the perfect shot while the storm raged like it had a personal grudge against him.
He tried to sit up, but his body felt wrong, heavier in some places and lighter in others, like someone had dressed him in clothes that didn't quite fit and then dropped him into a nightmare.
When he finally forced his eyes open, the darkness wasn't total anymore, there was a faint, flickering orange glow coming from somewhere ahead, the kind of light you get from torches stuck in old stone walls, and the air smelled like damp rock mixed with blood and something sour that turned his stomach.
Titus blinked hard a few times, trying to shake off the fog in his brain, and realized he was lying on cold, uneven flagstones in what looked like an old corridor carved out of rough stone, the walls cracked and covered in vines or maybe moss, he couldn't tell in the low light.
His hands felt strange when he pushed himself up; they were calloused in ways they hadn't been before, and when he looked down, he saw he was wearing cheap, patched-up leather armor that smelled like it had been sitting in a dusty closet for years, scuffed and worn thin at the elbows and shoulders.
In his right hand, gripped so tight his knuckles were white, was a rusted iron sword that felt unbalanced and way too heavy for something that looked like it belonged in a museum reject pile.
"What the hell…" he muttered under his breath, his voice coming out hoarse and unfamiliar, like he hadn't spoken in days.
This couldn't be real.One minute he was filming a storm for clout, cracking jokes to his livestream about how this shot was going to change everything, and the next he was waking up in some medieval dungeon cosplay gone wrong.
His heart started pounding harder as the screams up ahead got louder, mixed with shouts that sounded human but desperate, the kind of yelling people do when they're fighting for their lives and not winning.
Titus scrambled to his feet, legs shaky like he'd just run a marathon, and pressed his back against the cold wall for a second, trying to piece it together. Maybe he was in a coma or something, hallucinating after the electrocution.
Or maybe he'd actually died and this was some weird afterlife joke. But the pain in his muscles felt too real, the weight of the sword too solid, and the coppery smell of blood hitting his nose made his stomach twist in a way no dream ever had.
He took a few cautious steps forward, keeping low, the rusted blade held out in front of him like he knew what he was doing even though he'd never swung anything heavier than a camera gimbal in his life.
The corridor opened up a bit after a bend, and that's when he saw them, a group of six other people, all geared up in better armor than his, moving like they actually belonged in a fight.
They were surrounded by a pack of ugly, green-skinned creatures that looked like goblins straight out of a bad fantasy movie, short and wiry with jagged teeth and crude weapons, swarming around the group with wild, screeching attacks.
The fighters were holding their own for the most part, swinging swords and axes that actually looked sharp, casting quick bursts of light that might have been magic or just tricks of the torchlight, but they moved with a coordination that screamed they'd done this before.
One big guy in heavy plate, probably the leader, barked orders while smashing a goblin's skull with a mace that made a sickening crunch.
"Keep formation! Don't let the little bastards flank us...Rina, cover the left! Marcus, stop swinging like an idiot and actually hit something!"
The woman he called Rina, tall and lean with a bow slung over her shoulder, loosed an arrow that took one goblin clean through the eye, but she didn't even glance back at the leader. "Easy for you to say, Klaus. These things are faster than the last batch. If we don't clear this corridor soon, the whole zone's going to swarm."
Another guy, younger and cocky-looking with dual daggers, laughed breathlessly as he ducked under a swing and stabbed upward. "Come on, it's just goblins. We're all at least D-rank here. This is supposed to be easy mode for the trial. Stop whining and push forward."
Titus stayed hidden in the shadows of the corridor for a moment, watching the fight unfold like it was footage he was framing for a video, wide shot of the chaos, close-up on the blood splatter, quick cut to the determined faces of the fighters.
But then one of the goblins broke away from the pack, its beady eyes locking onto him like he was the easiest target in the room, and the reality of the situation crashed down hard.
These weren't actors or props in some elaborate prank. The screams were real, the blood was real, and the way the creatures moved with jerky, hungry aggression made his skin crawl.
He was about to be swarmed and killed if he didn't do something, because the group of "Awakened" hunters, whatever that meant, barely even noticed him standing there like an idiot with his rusted sword.
One of them, the cocky dagger guy, glanced his way for half a second and snorted. "Look at this F-rank extra they dumped in with us. Hey, newbie, try not to die too fast. You're supposed to be bait, not dead weight. Just swing that toothpick and buy us some time while we handle the real threats."
The woman with the bow, Rina, shot him a quick look that was more pity than anything else. "Don't be an ass, Jax. Kid probably just awakened today. These trials throw in low-ranks to fill the numbers sometimes. Stay behind us if you can, alright? Don't get in the way and maybe you'll survive long enough to see the end of this Holy Trial."
Klaus, the leader, didn't even turn around, too busy caving in another goblin's chest. "Save the pep talk, Rina. If he's F-rank, he's cannon fodder anyway. The Patrons don't waste power on extras like him. Just keep the line steady, we push through this pack and reach the boss chamber before the timer runs out."
Titus felt a surge of anger mixed with pure terror as he gripped the sword tighter, the rust flaking off under his fingers.
He wanted to shout back that this wasn't his fight, that he didn't ask to be here, that five minutes ago he was filming lightning for views and now he was apparently some low-rank nobody in a death match.
But the words stuck in his throat because another wave of goblins was breaking off, three of them scrambling straight toward him with claws outstretched and mouths open in hungry snarls.
His legs felt like lead, but instinct kicked in, the same instinct that had kept him steady behind a camera during chaotic shoots and he started backing up, eyes darting around for anything he could use.
That's when the first glitch hit. A faint, translucent blue HUD flickered to life in the corner of his vision, like a half-broken augmented reality overlay from one of those sci-fi apps he'd played with once. It was barely there, glitching in and out, but he could make out the numbers: View Count: 12. Live Chat disabled.
The words didn't make any sense, but seeing them float there while monsters charged at him made his brain short-circuit even more. Was this some kind of game interface?
A system message from whatever nightmare this was? He didn't have time to figure it out because the lead goblin was closing fast, leaping with surprising speed, its jagged knife raised high.
Titus reacted without thinking, the way he'd dodge a falling light rig on a bad set or frame a shot on instinct, he rolled hard to the side, shoulder slamming into a thick stone pillar that jutted out from the wall like it had been placed there for exactly this kind of desperate move.
The roll felt natural, almost like he was positioning himself for the perfect angle, framing the chaos in his mind even as his heart tried to hammer its way out of his chest.
Dust and small rocks rained down from the pillar as he came up on one knee, sword still clutched in his sweaty grip, and for a split second the HUD flickered again, stronger this time.
[BINDING STREAMER CORE… 34%].
The goblin that had leaped at him crashed into the pillar instead, snarling in frustration as it spun around for another attack, while the other two closed in from the sides.
The hunters up ahead were still fighting their own pack, their voices carrying back in clipped bursts—Kael yelling about maintaining formation, Jax laughing off a near miss, Rina calling out warnings about flanking moves, but none of them broke off to help the "F-rank extra" they'd already written off as bait.
Titus's mind raced, trying to process the impossible: the interface, the view count, the way everything felt scripted yet deadly real. He wasn't a fighter, never had been, but he knew how to read a scene, how to anticipate the next move so the camera caught it just right.
Maybe that was the only edge he had right now. The goblin leaped again, straight for his throat this time, claws extended and teeth bared in a vicious grin, while the binding progress on the flickering interface ticked up another notch.
Titus braced himself, sword raised in a clumsy guard, knowing he was one bad swing away from this all ending before it even started.
A goblin leaps at his throat while the Interface flickers:
[BINDING STREAMER CORE… 34%].