Eight players stood ankle deep in tightly coiled tension and water. Twitchy was first to blink. To her, that meant ‘GO!’

  She darted forward and lobbed a plum sized glass bulb. It burst mid arc, disgorging thick smoke swallowing both teams in sluggish folds. A second throw followed. It whistled in Team B's direction, trailing a hiss of faint sparks in bad-news-orange.

  “MOVE!”

  Jem was still out of position. Bob shoulder-checked him hard, shoving the boy several paces.

  ‘Blood Shield’. Crimson filaments tore from Bob’s chest and hardened into a shell.

  [HP: 17, Shield: 15]

  ‘FWUMP-BOOM!’

  Pressure punched Bob’s spine and spun him across the floor like a bar of soap.

  [System] Blood Shield depleted. HP: 15.

  The smokescreen had lifted slightly as boots caught solid terrain. Bob dragged himself upright just in time to witness how steel broke the smooth surface of skin. Yet, he wasn’t the one skewered.

  Katana-Boy had flash-crossed the arena like a ghost. His blade slid beneath Alys' buckler, inside shimmer and flesh, punching back out in a ruby fan.

  “Wait.” she rasped, fingers grasping at his sleeve. “Please. My heals are not-”

  Katana-Boy braced a foot on her hip and ripped the sword free, opening her abdomen. Alys folded, viscera unspooling into the shallows, panic dissolved by remorse - not for herself, but for the man who would live with what he’d done.

  “I.. forgi-” The words fluttered away with her last breath. Eyes glazed, limbs slumped.

  "He killed Alys!" Jem shouted in disbelieve, Caleb holding the boy back. If any of them ran in now, Katana-Boy would have easy second's.

  “Get your mind in it Jem.” Caleb barked. “This is a fucking death-match, and that guy’s punching down for the kicks. Get behind One-Arm, at least he’s good for a shielding.”

  Before Bob could intervene the water beneath Alys’ corpse flash-vaporised, hissing like a thousand kettles. A huge ledger phased up from beneath the stone, large enough to frame Alys’ remains. The leather-binding was throbbing, pages already spread open. Barbed inky tendrils erupted from the arcane scribbles, jamming deep into warm flesh. She was being threaded like a puppet on butcher hooks. Arms and legs thrashed about and skin bubbled before sliding off in wet sheets. Then the tendrils yanked her into parchment, body smudged and ground between fibers.

  ‘Pause.’

  For one grotesque heartbeat her head and right arm were the only visible parts remaining, eyes bulging wide, hand clawing for help. Her gaping jaw exuded a soulless scream of tortured agony and the ledger snapped shut.

  ‘SPLAT!’

  A jet of blood and bits fountained from the binding, force-painting Katana-Boy from scalp to sandals in steaming gore. The book, now humming with satisfaction, slipped back through the stone, leaving behind a stench of cooked iron.

  [System] Soul claimed. No respawn possible. Player data deleted: Alys.

  The battlefield froze while water rose an inch or two. Even the stands hushed. Katana-Boy pulled something from his mouth cavity and stared: a severed ear-lobe lay in his palm. It took a few seconds before he crumpled to his knees retching.

  [Echuu] I always said reading was risky business. I’m putting a hold on your bedtime stories, Bib.

  Katana-Boy staggered upright, voice raw. “What the hell?” Terror had stripped away the muted persona as well as every layer of practiced calm. He swung toward the imperial box. “This is next level insanity. Undo it! Now!”

  The gallery of masks jittered at the blatant blasphemy. The Emperor did not answer. Yet everyone felt it: this moment teetered one slight gust from a turbulent free-fall.

  Katana-Boy leveled his blade, pointed at the throne then locked in on the Emperor. “Bring her back YOU PEDO-FUCKTARD!”

  An idol of hubris, the Emperor was unmoved, elbows resting on faultless armrests.

  The bloodied blade dipped. “I had no idea how hardcore..” Katana-Boy paused in thought before sending dead-eyes at the pulvinar. "You sit there, forged in fake gold, cloaked in scripted lies.. Another hollow NPC without agency, rotting on the throne of a hardcoded empire.” He snorted and spat into the water in defiance.

  Finally a languid hand raised high above and the Emperor rose. Again, unnatural silence erupted. Maybe the faux samurai had actually baited this horseshit-situation into something salvageable.

  A fist stretched outright. The Imperial thumb rotated.. down.

  “You dare soil this theatre, boy.” The voice carried across the arena without shout or amplification. “This champion's blood was a gift of purity, now tainted by your insolence. My wrath has been unsheathed.”

  No further warning was given; the Emperor moved, and physics blinked. The Impact should have sounded like thunder, yet the landing was one of grace. There was no time to react either. His towering form already cast a massive shadow from behind Katana-Boy. Thick, long fingers engulfing a face now cast in surprice.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  'POP!'

  Both vanished and a slit of purple-dark energy closed behind them. Four seconds stretched into an eternity of dread before space tore open and the Emperor stepped through. His thumb and forefinger pinched his preys’s temples like a delicate peach, the rest of the body dangling limp beneath. Dead.

  The corpse was thrown aside and the ledger reappeared to collect the remains. A final, strangled scream orbited in feedback before the covers slammed shut. Book sank; the show went on.

  [System] Soul claimed. No respawn possible. Player data deleted: Mark

  “Like stepping on ants.” The Emperor wiped imaginary dust from his cuff. “Is there none amongst these mortal muts, who live up to their own bark.” The question floated as falling ash.

  Bob’s mind cartwheeled through options, T1 crowbar in hand, Rebar apparently still on strike.

  [Echuu] Current odds of squish-bliss: let’s not talk about numbers.

  Axe-Dad bellowed across the expanse. “You! One-Arm! Got any tier five tricks up that sleeve of yours? Now is the perfect time to play a hidden ace.”

  “Working on it.” Bob yelled back. He pointed at the emperor. “Tall, shiny and homicidal over there is fast as fuck. We need openings."

  Fashionista conjured a rotating lattice of sigils bleeding ultraviolet sparks. “Openings require a trial, darling. Distractions, now that is my specialty.”

  She flung the magical construct like a discus. It screeched through humid air, carving neon furrows.

  The Emperor pivoted leisurely, caught the spell between two fingers and snuffed it: glamour collapsed to harmless motes. His gaze settled on his assailant. “Flamboyant. Hollow. Next.”

  Fasionistas eyes widened as she realized the Emperor's palm was already giving shade to her feathered shoulder pads. She screamed as fingertips the size of golf balls smooshed through her flesh. With a pop both vanished.

  Axe-Dad, surprisingly explosive in his movements, had charged for an intercept; weapon cleaving down through nothing. “FUCK! Gone again.. HOW!?”

  Instantly the Emperor re-appeared, Fashionistas limb body cast to the side. The ledger stirred again. Axe-Dad roared and threw himself into danger, dragging a lifeless body off its pages. Inky whips lashed out missing by inches, the Emperor watching in detached amusement.

  “CURSE DENIED, huh, One-Arm?” Axe-Dad grinned as he shouldered his dead teammate and ran for arena edge.

  He was no where near safe: Tendrils errupted from the water piercing up through Axe-Dad’s flesh toward it's target. Caleb and Jem ran to his aid, cutting their staggered opponent free from the dark tethers.

  “I’m sorry kid. The kick.. the girl.. ” Axe-Dad grunt at Jem.

  ”Save it. Help us with the Emporer.” Caleb replied as they fell back. Jem’s face boiling with negative emotion despite the sudden rescue.

  More tendrils struck the corpse, pulling until a debt was settled; ‘Chump’, ‘SPLAT’.

  [System] Soul claimed. No respawn possible. Player data deleted: Elvira.

  Shit, shit, shit, think, think, think. Come on rebar, bro, ‘equip’. ‘Nothing’. Okay, okay.. lean into ‘bad-guy’. It’s the only way.

  “Twitchy,” Bob yelled. “How many smoke-bomb’s left? Can you fill the arena? I’ve got a plan.. Just need a minute of cover.”

  Twitchy sent him a smile larger than life. “Sure sweet cheeks. But it will cost ya. Are you willing to pay?”

  Bob barked “Just do it if you can. I’ll pay whatever.. After.”

  “Oh, you most certainly will. BLESSED BE THE SYSTEM!” She shouted, then pulled two vials and lobed the arena into obscurity.

  Bob didn’t hesitate. He tore through the smoke, feet hammering the slick floor. No second-guessing. Just a desperate prayer to the gods of platforming. He kicked off hard, launching himself skyward with his multiplied jump-power. The crowbar snapped out, a desperate lifeline in the swirling haze.

  For a moment he soared through nothingness, the horrors he just witnessed background noise to exhilaration. Then metal bit on stone and Bob’s flesh slammed against obsidian with a grunt. Ribs jolted, vision blurred. He dangled there, one-handed, fingers scrabbling.

  PULL!

  [System] One armed climbing: Stamina cost penalty x4

  Muscles screamed as he heaved upward through the thinning murk. As the gallery above came into brutal focus, dozens of nearby masked figures rose. Their arms ended not in hands, but smooth stumps, that would no doubt rush to batter him back down.

  Bob grit his teeth and swung a leg over the lip, hauling himself onto the narrow gallery rim. No time to catch breath.

  SPRINT!

  He bolted across the gallery’s edge, spectators proved more nuisance than actual danger. He dodged and vaulted, clearing the final balustrade in a last leap onto the pulvinar.

  The bride. The fabric of her gown pooled like living mercury across the seat of her throne. Tiny slippered feet peeked out. Her porcelain mask, matte white and featureless, tilted slightly in regard. He felt no judgment or fear from her. Just quiet acceptance of inevitability. Four veiled attendants flanked her, each one taller than the other: unmoving statues in mourning garb.

  “I’m sorry to dump this on you,” he rasped. “Like marrying that creep isn’t burden enough.”

  The Princess said nothing and once again faced towards the arena floor.

  Bob moved behind the Princess, crowbar lightly pressed against her mask. His heart hammered. This would probably be it. The final gambit at grabbing the narrative.

  Below, smoke thinned, pulling back like a dying tide. From high perch, Bob could see everything: The Emperor on a slow stride towards four other players still left standing. Axe-Dad, bleeding from a dozen tiny puncture wounds but stubbornly upright. Twitchy, vibrating with energy. Caleb, defiant, longsword in hand. And Jem, shaky, wounded, but alive. They were shoulder to shoulder, forming a rough circle, backs pressed together. A clever formation. Bob too was banking on the idea that the Emperor's ability was some kind of back-stab triggered hell.

  Yeah. I’m the perfect bait up here.

  Bob toggled off the invisibility woven into his cloak and called out to the Boss: “HEY, YOUR RADIANCE! Want thy bride intact? Come hither and let's parlay!” Bob could feel the gaze behind that golden mask shift.

  Then the Emperor exploded into the air in a single impossible leap, before his silhouette cut across light like a blade.

  Bob was already moving. He had seen the speed once before. He swung the crowbar with all his strength as the mountain of silk and muscle crashed down toward the Princess's throne.

  “Let’s negotiate THIS!” ‘CLONK!’

  The blow connected, as if swung against the side of a glacier. The T1 weapon bounced harmlessly off the Emperor’s ornate regalia, leaving not so much as a wrinkle in the gold-threaded cloth.

  Fuck.. ‘Blood Shield!’

  [Shield: 30]

  Fingers of night slipped through the barrier as if mist. They closed around the back of Bob's throat with gentle, terrifying precision.

  This is how the run ends, huh? Only trick left in my bag is a pray for plot-armor.

  'POP'