In the underground base of the Death Guild…
Steam rose like a veil from the surface of a deep black marble bath, mist clinging to the walls like ghostly fingers. Evelyn lay soaked in the herbal water, her body submerged but visibly marked—long red streaks and bite marks etched across her pale, flawless skin like proof of a war waged in pleasure and pain. Every breath she took was deep and trembling, her lips slightly parted in exhaustion.
She winced as she tried to stretch her legs, the soreness radiating through her muscles, but even in discomfort her expression was laced with a dazed satisfaction.
'I can still feel him…' Evelyn's cheeks flushed as the thought gripped her mind again. His touch, his strength, the pressure of his presence—it all lingered, stamped into her memory like a brand.
'Am I addicted to him now?' she wondered, her thoughts muddled by pleasure and confusion. 'That might not be such a bad thing.' She allowed a smile to curl on her lips, leaned back into the tub's edge, and closed her eyes, her long black hair cascading down like strands of obsidian silk into the dark water.
Outside the bathroom, in the wide hallway of polished stone and shadowy lantern light, Ciline stood tense, her arms crossed beneath her chest, her posture rigid. She faced off with a tall figure—the most senior of the Death Sisters.
The robed woman's presence alone was suffocating. Even while doing nothing, she exuded the weight of death.
"What exactly happened last night?" Ciline's voice trembled with controlled fury. "Have you seen the state of the person you're supposed to protect?"
The Death Sister took a step forward, her black veil hiding her face, but the killing intent bleeding through her voice was impossible to miss.
"Evelyn willingly went through with it," she said coldly. "Otherwise, I would've killed him myself."
She loomed over Ciline with an imposing grace, her taller figure dominating the narrow space between them. "And I do not answer to you," she hissed. "Speak to me like that again, and Evelyn will need to find a new maid."
Ciline stepped back instinctively. Her spine stiffened in fear. She nodded silently, retreating from the invisible blade she felt hanging above her neck.
"Ciline! Come help me with my hair, please!" Evelyn called from within the room. Her voice floated like mist, breaking the tension with gentle authority.
Ciline hurried to her side, still shaken, her heart pounding in her chest from the death she had felt pressing against her moments ago.
"Evelyn, don't move," Ciline said as she approached the bath. Evelyn had been trying to rise, her limbs still trembling.
"I have work to do," Evelyn murmured, her tone heavy with fatigue, but still stubborn.
"Forget work. It can wait," Ciline said, her voice softening. She moved behind Evelyn and began gently combing through her wet, tangled hair with care. "Your health comes first. Especially after what that beast did to you. I told you to stay away from him."
Evelyn didn't respond at first. But her silence was colder than any words.
Then she lifted her chin slowly, her voice like ice.
"Ciline, don't ever call him that again."
Her black eyes had dulled into something empty—dead and commanding. A voice of finality.
Ciline flinched and immediately looked down, her hands trembling slightly in Evelyn's hair.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, heart hammering again. 'Everyone just wants to kill me today…' she thought bitterly.
For ten minutes, silence fell over the room. Ciline gently massaged Evelyn's shoulders, helping soothe the tension in her tired frame. Then, ping.
Without warning, Evelyn's interface opened itself—forcefully.
Her eyes snapped open. No impulse, no choice. A rare override had taken place.
"Player, you have been invited by Administrator Toto to a meeting in two hours."
Evelyn shot to her feet, ignoring the lightning pain that surged through her legs. Even with everything she felt, this couldn't be ignored.
Meanwhile… in the training hall.
Out in the massive open field, dozens of players paused mid-training. Heads turned toward the blue barrier in the centre—the only one among many that was shaking violently, rumbling like an earthquake had erupted inside it.
"What the hell is happening?"
"I don't know. I train here every day and I've never seen anything like this…"
Most players shrugged it off and continued—resigned to the fact that whatever was happening inside that barrier probably didn't concern them.
In Paradise, training was essential. Strength could still be attained outside of the interface. Players who ran built stamina. Players who lifted grew stronger. Combat still honed their reflexes. Attribute points made them monsters—but training made them killers.
Inside the barrier…
Ali stood calmly amidst the smoke and scorched sand, his right arm newly regenerated, the skin pristine and unmarred, as if it had never been burned to cinders. His eyes were closed, his face composed, but inside his mind a thousand details ran wild.
'Outside of when i tried to stop it, my body is mostly fine from when it first entered and started flowing but…when i thought of pushing it into my arm to release it, that's when my blood vessels and organs were cut and burnt. This is insufficient to conclude anything but gives me ideas as to what to try next time', Ali contemplated.
He opened his eyes and exhaled slowly. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers—almost by habit now. The faint pop echoed in the enclosed space.
'Is it a habit now?' he wondered, amused.
In his hand, a new weapon materialised—long, lean, and dangerous.
The Inverted Spear of Heaven.
Its sleek blade gleamed with a subtle metallic sheen. The long chain of a thousand miles was curled neatly on the ground behind him, like a silver serpent coiled and waiting for its master's command.
'Let's see what makes you special…'
Ali let his fingers trail along the sleek edge of the spear, testing its bite. The moment the blade kissed his skin, a clean line opened across his palm, crimson blood welling up along the cut. He didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled faintly and shifted the spear into motion.
With masterful dexterity, Ali began flipping the weapon between his hands, its weight shifting smoothly across his fingers and wrists. The long chain slithered behind it like a snake being tamed by an expert handler. For a full minute, he juggled it in rhythm—casual, deliberate—every rotation more confident than the last.
Then he grasped the chain of a thousand miles, letting it unravel fully in his hands. He spun the spear once. A slow, deliberate rotation through the air.
Then again. A little faster.
Again—faster still.
By the fourth spin, the air around him started to change.
VOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
Ali's elbow twisted inward and he pulled the chain tight around it, anchoring the momentum with his entire arm. The chain tore through the air with a piercing scream, the speed so great it shattered the sound barrier. Shockwaves rippled outward from his body, buffeting the dirt and sand beneath his feet, lifting thin debris from the floor.
He moved like a god of war practicing destruction. Each pass of the spear became a blur, invisible to the naked eye. The human mind couldn't follow its path. The entire training space hummed like a giant tuning fork struck by thunder.
Ali pushed harder. The blur grew denser, the chain faster, the wind louder.
And then—he moved.
With a sudden, final motion, he adjusted his forearm and shortened the chain mid-spin. It snapped across the air beside his face with the sound and force of a cannon, the pressure brushing past him like a tidal wave of pure wind.
Ali used the momentum to hammer the spear downward, smashing it into the top of the indestructible training dummy's head.
BOOOOM
A deafening sonic shock exploded outward, the impact alone causing a visible ripple in the blue barrier that surrounded the training zone. Sand and air scattered violently. The dummy, for all its invulnerability, stood solid—but the floor around its base had fractured slightly from the force that traveled down through its foundation.
Ali exhaled sharply, sweat-less, composed.
"It's flawless," he muttered to himself. "The chain is the perfect weight… and honestly, it's held back by my lack of strength."
Satisfied, Ali sent the weapon back into his inventory with a casual thought and closed his eyes to observe his Spirit realm.
Already, Spirit had begun pooling at the bottom of the dark pond.
'The skill already showing its worth,' he thought. He tracked the time on his interface meticulously. Spirit recovery speed was one of the most critical metrics a player could understand about themselves.
Ali then summoned his lightsaber and, for the next hour and a half, moved in silence.
He danced around the field with controlled grace, training strikes, parries, stances, and reversals. The red blade roared and hissed with each swing, but Ali's face remained cold—every movement rehearsed, refined, repeated. He didn't slow. He didn't sweat. His body didn't allow him to.
When the final minute passed, he snapped the lightsaber off and allowed it to return to his inventory.
'Exactly an hour and a half. Half an hour for the first two and a half points, but from there it took an hour to fill the entire pond,' he thought, analysing the data with precision. 'I basically only need half an hour to get enough Spirit for most of my powers.'
It was time.
Ali turned and exited the shimmering blue barrier. His long stride carried him across the grounds of the training hall as curious eyes followed him from every direction. Without pause, he slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings and summoned his stealth hood. A black cloak unfolded over his body like a shadow, fully concealing his figure.
No one noticed him vanish into the crowd after that.
With expert stealth, Ali navigated through the heart of Paradise, avoiding attention as he made his way to the arena—a massive coliseum that pierced the skyline with ancient black spires and glassy steel.
He entered the wide main hall through the front gate, blending into the stream of players before peeling off toward the reception desk.
Behind it stood a male receptionist, bored, distracted, until the black-cloaked figure approached.
"Fighting or spectating?" the man asked routinely, without looking up.
"Fighting. Private," Ali replied coldly.
The receptionist's head snapped up. The word "private" activated something in his brain like a code phrase. His casual demeanour disappeared immediately as he locked eyes with the man beneath the hood.
"Duel ID, please."
Ali opened his interface and read off the code—a long series of letters and numbers.
The receptionist's expression stiffened.
"Please follow me."
He rose from his seat, walked out from behind the desk, and led Ali past the confused stares of other players. It wasn't every day the receptionist walked someone through the halls himself.
The two moved past the public waiting areas and deeper into the fighter's corridors. Then, without warning, the receptionist turned down a narrow, dark hallway.
He stopped beside an unmarked grey wall.
Ali watched silently.
The man raised his palm and pressed it against the flat surface.
CRACK
The wall split with mechanical precision. A hidden stairwell unfolded before them, descending into dim darkness.
"Down there, another colleague will guide you to your arena," the receptionist said, nodding.
Ali didn't hesitate. He stepped into the unknown, the wall sealing shut behind him with a soft thud, like the door of a crypt.
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