Cawren sat perched atop the smoldering corpse of a beast—a monstrous cross between a bison and a tiger, yet thirty times their size combined. Blood steamed beneath him, its body cracked and cratered from the force of their battle. He stretched, exhaling contentedly.

This world… was perfect.

Challenges waited behind every tree, inside every temple, beneath every star. Power meant everything. Titles, names, politics—they all bowed to raw force. That was the way it should be.

His goal of eliminating all 490 million competitors didn't concern him. Not the optics. Not the moral hand-wringing. Not how the kingdoms or realms would react. He wasn't here to be liked—he was here to prove that strength alone should dictate fate.

He opened his interface—his own private perk granted by his avatar. One of the few advantages he brought over from his old life. A glowing count shimmered on the screen: 312,009,391 contestants remaining.

Cawren grinned. "Still too many." He wondered how many were outlanders like him. They usually put up a better fight than the natives. Especially that girl with the golden aura. She was fun and worth confronting again.

He had learned long ago that not all outlanders came with the same perks. Some had UIs like his—personal quests, experience boosts, learning logs. Others had nothing. And a rare few had abilities so far beyond him it felt like cheating.

But that was fine.

He was built to grind.

"I always wondered what I could do if I had power." He looked over the battlefield, over the destruction he caused, over the mountains of corpses he'd buried in a day and a half.

"Now I know. And this isn't even close to the cap."

——

High above, in a realm suspended beyond the boundaries of war and mercy, divine thrones and polished seats of power circled an endless scrying pool. Gods and demi-gods lounged beside kings, queens, warlords, CEOs, and realm-bound presidents—all gathered for one reason: this era's Fortune Holder.

It was tradition. It was spectacle. It was blood-soaked entertainment wrapped in the veil of meritocracy.

In just a few days, the eighth would arrive. That's when the real game began. The moment the new rule was introduced—unrevealed, unpredictable—and the patrons could finally intervene. Care packages, as the natives called them. Supplies, weapons, relics, guardians, information—even territory-altering boons. But only for those worth investing in.

And this year… some names had begun to echo louder than others:

Cawren —the outlander-tyrant with a kill count that turned gods' heads.

Destiny —Vari's Jujisn, a storm in the form of a girl, unpredictable and layered.

Tinsurnae —Rituain's wildcard. A walking contradiction with one foot in chaos and the other in blood-drenched brilliance.

Zog —a juggernaut of stone and silence. No flair. Just destruction.

Civen —the manipulator, already crafting factions within factions. No one knew what she wanted, but many feared she'd already won.

And then… the anomaly.

The one who fought a ranker-level warrior with little more than instinct and pain tolerance.

No sponsor. No known god. No formal training.

But still alive.

That alone had lit up divine forums, wager halls, and war-council balconies with speculation.

Some scoffed—"luck can't last."

Others leaned in, watching.

And all the while, far below, civilians screamed, fled, and wept in ruined streets.

Their skies burned while the heavens laughed.

The gods played.

The lesser kings bet.

The mortals bled.

And the Fortune Holder raged on.

——

Jonathan blinked, the sting of sunlight forcing his eyes into a squint as golden rays pierced through the cracked window.

Did I die again? he thought, unmoving.

Then came the soreness. The heat in his chest. The distant throb in his skull.

Nope. Very much alive.

Good… but also very bad. Oh, very bad.

He groaned and pushed himself upright—only to wince. The pain was sharp, concentrated on his left side. He glanced down.

"Damn," he muttered. His arm was gone again.

Disappointing.

Still, he figured he'd have to regrow it the manual way.

Funny how quickly one adapts to casually regenerating limbs.

Lucky me, he thought dryly.

He took in the space.

Neutral colors, old stone walls, dim lighting. A plain room, simple decorations. A single stool near the bed. He was on a bed. Still in his shredded, soot-stained clothing.

Nobody stripped him.

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Cool.

He stood, wobbly at first. His legs gave minor protest before snapping into place with wet, clicking pops that made him grimace.

He gave a low whistle. "Gross. But efficient."

Then it was time for the arm.

Fifteen grueling minutes.

Teeth clenched, breath shallow. The pillow had the privilege of being his chew toy. Golden light crackled faintly from his shoulder, slowly extending into shape—first bone, then nerves, then muscle, then skin. Like divine scaffolding filling itself in.

He collapsed back, panting but triumphant.

Hell yeah. Arm's back.

He flexed his fingers. Still sore. Still raw. But there.

Something he noted: the glow. When healing small cuts, it was barely visible—more of a shimmer. But with massive damage like this, it was bright, like sunlight turned molten.

A thought struck him: The more damage, the stronger the light. Maybe if I train this… my arm could grow back instantly one day.

Now that would be cool.

"So I see you're awake."

He turned sharply, instincts still in survival mode. At the door stood an elf in a dark robe—Sšurtinaui, arms crossed, her expression neutral but her green eyes scanning him.

"Holy shit, you're alive," Jonathan said, half pointing, half laughing in disbelief.

"I should be saying that to you," she replied, stepping into the room. "I thought you got incinerated. Guess outlanders have special privileges, huh?"

"I'm not an out—"

She cut him off with a sharp look. "Don't lie. You are. I felt it the moment I saw you."

He blinked, caught off guard. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" she asked, walking closer.

"Like I disappointed you or something."

"Well, you did just try to lie right after I saved your life."

He groaned. "Okay, okay—my bad. My brain's still healing."

"Uh-huh."

He dropped back onto the bed with a groan. "I'm serious. I feel like soup. Burnt soup. Soup that got into a fistfight with God."

That finally earned the tiniest smirk from her. "Well, at least you're still annoying."

"You know you missed me."

"I dragged your body out of the crater because I thought you had gems."

"Cold."

"You're lucky I didn't find any."

Jonathan snorted. "Yeah, well… lucky me."

Sšurtinaui sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. Jonathan stiffened a little.

This is… nice, he thought. But also weird. He didn't really know her. And she did joke about taking his gems. What if that wasn't a joke? He couldn't afford to let his guard down.

He glanced sideways at her. "Hey… did anyone else?"

Her expression didn't change, but something in her eyes dimmed. "No."

"…Shit," he muttered. "I'm sorry…how —?"

"Bourage and Senten," she said quietly. "They shielded me. Last second."

Jonathan exhaled. "Damn."

She nodded slowly, eyes focused on nothing.

"How'd you survive?" she asked after a beat.

He gave a humorless chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. "Cave. Rubble. Anger. Uh… a tiger. Then sand Joan of Arc tried to kill me for walking."

She turned to him, raising a brow.

"I'm not kidding." He glanced at his regrown arm. "Oh! And got this arm blown off twice. So yeah, big week."

Sšurtinaui smiled—small, but real. "That's… fair."

"And, uh… I'm sorry. About them."

She looked at him, and this time, really smiled. "Thanks."

Jonathan tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her.

"So if you knew I was an outlander… why didn't you say anything?"

Sšurtinaui's gaze didn't waver. "Because I was serious about not wanting to see you die. How did you even—how did you even get into this event?"

He blinked.

"I—" He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing as his shoulder twinged. "I kinda just… ya know, got thrown in."

She snorted softly. "I can see that."

"Screw you, okay?" Jonathan shot back. "I'm doing a pretty good job."

"If I didn't teleport—"

"You shot me with a goddamn arrow!"

She shrugged like it was nothing. "You would've died otherwise."

"An arrow!"

"You can heal!" she snapped. "You didn't mention any of that. Also, your Ryun control is way better than it was back in line."

Jonathan crossed his arms, then uncrossed them because, ow. "I grew and adapted, alright? I'm still trying to figure out why I'm here. And why did you save me?!"

Sšurtinaui didn't speak for a moment. Her tone dropped. "Because I didn't want to see a dumbass like you die."

Jonathan blinked, the silence thick between them—until she added:

"But then you go and fight a ranker."

He frowned. "I fought a what?"

"You really don't know anything, do you?"

Jonathan just stared, blank and blinking.

"…North," she said carefully. "How long have you been in Requiem?"

He thought for a second. "Um… how many days have passed since the nuke?"

Sšurtinaui's mouth parted in disbelief.

"Four…oh my gods," she muttered. "You're still in tutorial mode."

Jonathan squinted at her.

"Wait—what the hell is tutorial mode? I've been nuked, impaled, chased, mauled, and called some foreign slur by an angry sand Joan of Arc. I'm at least level twenty."

Sšurtinaui leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, amused.

"It's what we natives call the beginning phase of an outlander's journey. The tutorial. It's not official or anything—but it fits. Most of you come from Earth's video games, right?"

Jonathan blinked. "Wait. Wait wait wait. People come from video games?!"

His voice cracked halfway through. "This whole world is a—like—a melting pot of isekai?!"

"How does that even work?!" he asked, spinning toward the door like someone was going to walk in and explain it with a PowerPoint.

That's when the other woman entered the room—her sandpaper hair now, tied up loosely. Red robe flowing with every step. She casually shut the door behind her, carrying a tray with dried meat and a steaming cup of something spicy-sweet.

"It's hard to get used to," she said smoothly, "for the first few weeks. But then it becomes second nature."

Jonathan looked between the two women, wide-eyed.

"…This place is insane." He looked at woman. "And who the hell are you?"

She raised a brow as she handed him the tray. Jonathan grabbed the food. "And thank you for the food."

"Careful," she said with a dry smile, dropping onto a nearby stool. "It might be poisoned."

"Eh," he muttered, chewing anyway. After a few sips of the warm drink, he stared at her calmly. "So I guess you're from a video game."

She nodded. "Name's Caroline. Or, if we're being fancy, use my gamer tag or Requiem name: Magjesti."

Jonathan tilted his head. "Yeah I'm just gonna call you Caroline. Not that rubbish you spat in my ear."

"I can spit in your ear."

"Please do. I need to release some energy."

Both women looked at him. He smirked.

Sšurtinaui pouted. "Well damn. This won't be as fun. I thought you'd be the shy type."

Jonathan scoffed, waving his restored hand lazily. "I'm not a virgin, ladies. Believe it or not, I was a normal guy. Got a normal amount of action. Had friends. And I didn't come here from a damn video game."

Caroline leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued. "Then how did you get here?"

"Died saving my sister from a car," he said flatly.

They both paused.

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "Blah blah. Shut up. Let's get serious."

He sat up straighter, staring them down with a look that barely masked the weight on his shoulders.

"Why am I here? Caroline—nice to meet you, one Earthling to another. But what the hell is going on? Because I'm trynna win this thing. And I'm tired of feeling like I'm three steps behind."

Sšurtinaui's voice was quieter this time—measured, but not cold. "That's why I saved you, you know. I saw your resolve, even through all that chaos. After losing the team… I needed to work with what I had."

Jonathan tilted his head, one brow raised. "You're taking the loss pretty well."

She gave a small shrug. "We were friends, sure, but mostly work companions. Besides Bourage." Her voice flickered slightly there. "But we all knew the risks. This event has a high mortality rate. Has for centuries."

She looked up at him again, eyes steady. "I remember the plan. Still want to follow through with it. Just… with new teammates now. Having two outlanders might actually help. I already knew Caroline from before—we've worked together. I trust her. And between the two of us, we've got 8.5 billion points."

Jonathan blinked. "Damn."

Sšurtinaui nodded. "But if we want the higher-tier gems—the purples and reds—we'll need to start hitting temples, maybe some dungeons. That means having a real party. A strong one."

Jonathan looked between them. Two attractive, powerful women who seemed to know what they were doing. Both wanted the same thing he did—victory. And after getting wrecked by that armored warrior chick, something in him had shifted. He didn't just want to survive anymore, not even just win.

He wanted to dominate.

He cracked his neck and gave them a sharp grin. "I'm in. But I am gonna ask for some general info now that the cat's out of the bag and shot in the face."

Sšurtinaui smirked.

"How'd you know I was an outlander?" he asked, then looked at Caroline. "And Caroline—how the hell did you get here?"

Caroline leaned back, folding her arms with a cocky grin. "Oh, this'll be fun."

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