The room was still heavy with tension. They couldn't tell what could come next.

Since the game started, things weren't exactly the same, but still very much predictable. However, they were now met with a scenario that they had never seen before.

"What do you think will be different this time?" Akhil turned his gaze to Nyla.

"I don't know." Nyla's expression was troubled. "But I do know that a scenario called 'The Convergence' that starts immediately after we've just united multiple districts, that has unclear objectives... it can't be coincidence."

"You think the scenario is about us working together?" Aria asked. "About the alliance we just formed?"

"Maybe." Nyla manipulated the display again. "But there's one more thing. Something I noticed when checking individual player statuses." She pulled up another screen, this one showing a map of the surrounding area.

The map showed thousands of small dots—each one representing a player still active in the game. They were scattered across the landscape, but as Nyla accelerated the time display, patterns became visible. The dots were moving. Converging. All heading in the same direction.

Toward the southern district.

Toward them.

"How many?" Ryan asked, his voice tight.

Nyla checked the numbers. "According to the system tracking... approximately fifteen thousand players. All moving toward our location. All expected to arrive within the next seventy-two hours."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Fifteen thousand players. Converging on their position. With unclear objectives and unclear time limits.

"Why are they coming here?"

Just as he asked the question, a notification screen popped up in front of them all.

An official announcement from the system.

{THE TITAN OF TOURNAMENTS}

{Scenario 4: The Convergence}

[Long ago, in an age when gods still walked openly among mortals, there lived a merchant named Jeren. He was not the wealthiest merchant, nor the most honest, but he possessed something far more valuable than gold or integrity—he possessed cunning that bordered on divine.

One fateful day, Jeren made a grave mistake. In his arrogance, he swindled a customer who turned out to be a god in disguise. The insult was unforgivable, the punishment swift. The pantheon descended upon him, their divine wrath prepared to erase his existence from reality itself.

But as the gods raised their hands to strike him down, Jeren did something unexpected. He smiled.

"Wait," he said, his voice calm despite staring into the face of oblivion. "Before you destroy me, answer me this: when was the last time you were truly entertained?"

The gods paused. It was true—immortality bred boredom. Eternity stretched endlessly before them, filled with the same predictable mortal struggles, the same prayers, the same worship. Nothing surprised them anymore. Nothing thrilled them.

Jeren saw the hesitation and pressed his advantage. "Grant me power," he proposed, "and I will give you something no prayer or sacrifice ever could. I will give you spectacle. Drama. Conflict so magnificent, battles so intense, that you will forget the monotony of your eternal existence."

"And how," the gods asked with amusement, "would a mere merchant accomplish such a feat?"

"Give me the power to compel warriors to fight," Jeren answered. "The ability to create arenas that cannot be escaped. The strength to stand among legends and make them dance for your pleasure. Grant me these things, and I will orchestrate the greatest tournament existence has ever witnessed."

The gods were intrigued. They were bored. And bored gods are dangerous gods.

So they agreed.

They granted Jeren the power of Absolute Compulsion—the ability to force anyone into his tournaments, binding them to his rules, making refusal impossible. They gave him the Arena of Inescapable Fates—spaces that existed outside normal reality, where escape was impossible and death was merely the beginning of new entertainment. They blessed him with Divine Resilience—making him nearly impossible to kill, so that the show might never end.

And finally, they granted him the authority to choose Ten Centurion Commanders—warriors of legendary skill who would serve as the pillars of his tournaments, each commanding a hundred fighters, each a nightmare in their own right.

Jeren became the Titan of Tournaments.

At first, he kept his promise. The tournaments were glorious—warriors volunteering for the chance at glory, riches, and divine favor. The gods watched with delight as mortals fought and bled and died for their amusement.

But power, as it always does, corrupted.

Jeren's ambition grew. Volunteers were no longer enough. The gods wanted more spectacle, more drama, more blood. So Jeren began to compel participation. He would appear in villages, towns, and cities, his eyes glowing with divine authority, and select warriors at random. They had no choice but to come. No choice but to fight. No choice but to die.

His Ten Centurions spread across the world, gathering fighters by force. Families were torn apart. Kingdoms fell into chaos. The death toll climbed into the thousands, then tens of thousands.

And the gods watched, entertained, turning blind eyes to the destruction.

The world began to teeter on the edge of collapse. Too many fighters taken. Too many dead. Too many broken families and devastated communities. The social fabric of entire civilizations unraveled as Jeren's tournaments consumed everything in their path.

But Jeren didn't care. He had become drunk on divine favor, addicted to the power of orchestrating death. He no longer saw people—only pieces on a board, pawns to be sacrificed for the gods' amusement and his own glory.

Now, he has turned his attention to the southern district. Fifteen thousand players converging on a single location—the perfect ingredients for his grandest tournament yet. With his Ten Centurion Commanders at his side, each a legend in their own right, Jeren prepares to compel them all into his Arena of Inescapable Fates.

The gods are watching. Waiting. Eager for the show to begin.

---

SCENARIO 4: THE CONVERGENCE

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: Defeat Jeren, the Titan of Tournaments

SECONDARY OBJECTIVES:

- Survive the preliminary rounds

- Defeat the Ten Centurion Commanders

- Prevent the mass compulsion of converging players

- Break the Arena of Inescapable Fates

WARNING: Once the tournament begins, refusal is impossible. Death is not an escape—defeated fighters may be resurrected to fight again for the gods' amusement.

WARNING: Jeren possesses divine authority. His rules are absolute within his arenas.

WARNING: The Ten Centurions are legendary warriors, each commanding a hundred elite fighters. They cannot be reasoned with. They cannot be bribed. They exist only to serve their Titan and entertain the gods.

FAILURE CONDITION: Total elimination of all players, or completion of Jeren's Grand Tournament (estimated survival rate: 0.03%)

PENALTY FOR FAILURE: Death (permanent consciousness transfer to lobby)

SPECIAL NOTE: The gods are watching. Your performance will be judged. Exceptional displays may earn divine favor. Or divine wrath. There is no predicting which.

---

The Titan of Tournaments is coming. And when he arrives, everyone will fight. Everyone will bleed. Everyone will entertain the gods.

Or everyone will die.]

"At least now we know what we're up against" the heavy silence that filled the room was soon broken by J.

Akhil felt the weight of it settle over him—heavier than the exhaustion, heavier than the guilt over the dead, heavier than anything he'd felt before.

"The fourth scenario," he said quietly, "has already started."

Everyone in the room stared at the map, watching those thousands of dots slowly making their way toward them like an incoming tide.

And no one—not one person in that cramped, dimly lit room—had any idea what was coming.

Or how they were supposed to survive it.

Meanwhile, somewhere within the southern district where the sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the devastated battlefield.

Scorched earth stretched for miles, punctuated by craters and twisted metal—the remnants of the fight that happened not too long ago.

From a distant hill overlooking the destruction, a figure stood motionless, observing.

Jeren cut an impressive silhouette against the dying light. Ancient robes of deep crimson and gold flowed around him, embroidered with patterns that seemed to shift and move of their own accord. Gold adorned every part of him—rings on each finger, chains draped across his chest, bangles that chimed softly with each subtle movement. Even his ornate fan, held delicately in one hand, was inlaid with golden filigree that caught the light like a captured starfire.

A white mask covered the lower half of his face, elegant and pristine, decorated with golden accents that matched his attire. But his eyes were visible—bright, calculating, and impossibly calm. They swept across the battlefield with the practiced assessment of a merchant evaluating merchandise.

Or a showman evaluating his stage.

He noted the blood-stained ground, the massive footprints left by titans, the shattered remnants of Langdon's mechanical construct. His eyes lingered on the areas where the most intense fighting had occurred, reading the story of the battle in the patterns of destruction.

Power had been wielded here. Great power. The kind that made for spectacular entertainment.

Behind his mask, Jeren's lips curved into a smile.

"I see strong fighters in this place," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, carrying a hint of anticipation that would have chilled anyone who heard it. He snapped his fan closed with a decisive click, the sound echoing across the empty battlefield like a judge's gavel.

His eyes gleamed with divine light—the blessing of bored gods who craved spectacle.

"It's time for the tournament to begin."

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