‘Goddamn, treacherous bastards.’

  Number 72 bounded through the labyrinthine forest of Sisula Village like a desperate, crippled deer. He couldn't help but curse the so-called friends who had stabbed him in the back when he needed them most.

  The moonlight, struggling to illuminate the dead of night, was swallowed by the dense fog, barely reaching the forest floor in ghostly, pale ribbons. The rustling of branches dancing in the wind scratched at his ears like razor blades. The stinging pain from the wounds—souvenirs from when Number 99 had tossed him aside like a ragdoll—was agonizing, but the realization that he could no longer run was far worse.

  Desperate to confront the shadow stalking him, 72 stopped and screamed into the darkness.

  “Come out, you pathetic coward watching a wounded man from the shadows! Face me!”

  His eyes darted wildly, scanning the trees that morphed into menacing silhouettes. The answer was immediate. A sharp, whistling sound—like a deadly kiss—grazed his ear.

  “Fuck!”

  72 slapped a hand over the sudden warmth on his cheek, screaming again. “You miserable coward!”

  Squeezing the gold coin in his right hand to silence the erratic rhythm of his heart, 72 hurled it into the shadows, hoping to strike his unseen enemy. The coin tore a bite out of a tree trunk with a high-pitched shriek, kicking up a cloud of soil before returning empty to its owner’s hand.

  Fear flooded his blood, turning him into a cornered animal. He began to lash out, hurling his coin with all his speed, carving fresh wounds into the bark of the surrounding trees. Then, the whisper of a bowstring being drawn rang in his ears.

  72 threw himself to the ground just as the arrow, released by Number 25 from the shadows, hissed through the space where his head had been a second before. From the mud, he hurled his coin with all his might toward where the arrow had come from. But 25 rolled away from the golden projectile, already sprinting toward new cover, deeper into the darkness.

  The hunter trying to track his prey was now the one seeking a hiding spot. 72 crawled behind a thick tree, seeking refuge. He pulled his knees to his chest, pressed his forehead against his kneecaps, and began to count, trying to purge the thoughts stabbing into his brain like daggers.

  One... Two... Three... Four... Five... Six... Seven...

  The numbers flowing from his mind were cut short by a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing it down, then brought his trembling hands to his sweat-drenched forehead. He wiped the grime away with his sleeves.

  As his heart—hammering like a war drum—began to quiet, his ears pricked up, straining to hear better in the silence. He reached down and grabbed a stone. Squeezing it in his left hand, Number 72 threw it toward his left side.

  At the exact moment the stone hit the ground with a thud, he lunged to his right. He extended his hand, preparing to unleash the coin, but the air was split by the sharp whistle of an incoming arrow. Before he could even comprehend the sound, a shaft of wood skewered his right hand.

  He scrambled back into cover, gritting his teeth so hard they threatened to shatter, trying to stifle the scream of agony. The coin slipped from his paralyzed fingers and fell into the mud. With excruciating pain gnawing at his insides, he slowly opened his clenched hand.

  As his fingers loosened, blood dripping from the iron arrowhead that had split his palm began to flow down his arm. Number 72 bit down on a piece of wood he snapped from the tree. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the shaft of the arrow. He pulled.

  Pain radiated from his hand down to his toes, bulging the veins in his neck. Tears leaked from his squeezed-shut eyelids as he ripped the arrow free. Looking at the gash in his palm made his stomach churn, sending a wave of dizziness to his head. He pressed the wounded hand against his clothes, tore off a strip of fabric with his teeth and left hand, and managed to wrap the wound clumsily.

  That fucking bitch is playing with me.

  Falling from predator to prey made him want to vomit. Number 72 slowly bent down, picked his muddy coin out of the dirt, and shook it off. As the rag around his hand absorbed the fresh blood, he transferred the coin to his trembling left hand.

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  He closed his eyes, heightening his senses, trying to find the single artificial sound hidden among the natural noises of the forest. He couldn't find a single trace of Number 25.

  Desperately, he used the tree for support and hauled himself to his feet. He looked to his right, past the scattered trees, toward what looked like freedom. Ignoring the dungeon he was in, his breathing steadied. The dark fog clouding his mind lifted slightly.

  I don't deserve to die like this!

  His mind rebelled against the end. 72 poured every ounce of remaining strength into his legs and sprinted toward freedom. Like a deer bounding through a rain of arrows, he ran, ignoring the whistling shafts missing him by inches.

  ***

  Deep in the darkness, providing her prey with a head start, Number 25 finally nocked a special arrow onto her string—one that radiated a faint, shimmering heat. With absolute cold-bloodedness, she drew the bow.

  The arrow released with a snap, illuminating the forest briefly like a streak of lightning before burying itself into its target: Number 72's left ankle.

  Number 72’s scream of agony echoed through the entire forest as he crashed to the ground. 25 rose from her hiding spot and began to walk slowly toward her prey.

  Number 72 clawed at the earth, trying to crawl away, but the arrow lodged in his ankle wasn't just sharp—it was burning. It cauterized the wound as it pierced, turning his skin into charcoal and filling the air with the sickening smell of burnt flesh.

  “Stay away from me!”

  Number 25 closed in on the wounded player, moving with the slow, deliberate pace of an executioner. She drew the bowstring back to her cheek, the iron tip aligning perfectly with Number 72’s throat.

  He needs to be eliminated. Just like that woman.

  The thought filtered through her mind—cold, logical, necessary. She tightened her grip on the bow. But as she stared down the shaft, her eyes locked onto his. She saw the raw terror widening his pupils. She watched his chest heaving uncontrollably, gasping for air in panic. And in that moment of connection, her resolve fractured. She realized the arrow resting on the shelf was trembling.

  The weight of being this close to eliminating a player for the first time slammed against her heart. Her pulse spiked, the rhythm accelerating wildly. Numbness began to creep into the fingers gripping the arrow.

  “You can’t do it, can you?!” Number 72 said. His pupils were locked onto the trembling arrowhead. His mouth, twitching in agony, struggled to force a twisted smile.

  “You’re trying to be hollow like him, but you’re not cut from that cloth!”

  “Shut up!”

  Rage surged through her veins. Number 25 closed the distance, looming over him until her shadow swallowed his trembling form. She continued, her voice shaking.

  “Someone like you... who eliminates players for sport...”

  Seizing the moment 25 lost control, Number 72 clawed a handful of earth from the ground and flung it directly into her face.

  Instinctively, 25 flinched, turning her head to shield her eyes from the grit. Exposed. Vulnerable. 72 snatched his coin. With every ounce of remaining strength, he whipped the golden disc forward.

  But halfway to its target, the projectile froze in mid-air. The coin’s brilliant gold luster was instantly devoured by a sinister darkness. And as the light died on the metal, so did Number 72’s last hope.

  “I could almost say you did well, 25...”

  The hollow voice drifted from the mist. Number 99 emerged, striding slowly toward the chaos, his cold gaze locking onto the wounded animal groveling in the dirt.

  “Don't worry. They paid the price for their betrayal.”

  Stung by the regret of losing composure, Number 25 snapped back to reality. She backed away from 72 and redrew her bowstring.

  With Number 99’s arrival, 72 surrendered his last shred of hope to the darkness. Crushed by the weight of being the night's final kill, he began to rave, spitting insults and curses.

  “If it wasn't for that damn Elf...”

  “Elf?”

  Staring into Number 99’s eyes, which were swirling with black mist, 72 swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He continued.

  “That prissy Elf, Flora... When we ran into her team, she told us to come to this village for easier targets. She said if we didn't, we’d suffer heavy casualties.”

  “Flora...”

  Number 99 clenched his right hand, and the blackened coin hovering in the air drifted menacingly toward Number 72.

  “Which way was that Elf going?”

  “I... I don't know.”

  Unable to tear his eyes away from the black coin gliding toward him, 72 screamed.

  “Kirola! Kirola Cemetery! I remember! Please, stop it!”

  The blackened coin surged forward, grazing Number 72’s ear before burying itself in the dirt. He froze. Staring at his coin embedded in the earth, he allowed himself a fleeting hope that he had been spared. Then the heat wave struck his cheek.

  Before he could even react to the thermal arrow aimed at him, a shaft of searing wood punched through his throat. He collapsed. As he gasped for air that wouldn't come, flames from the arrow spread across his body like fiery ivy, boiling the fresh blood in his veins.

  Number 99 watched as the desperate thrashing ceased, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. He shifted his gaze to Number 25. Her hand still hovered in the air, trembling after the release. Her eyes were wide, reflecting the sheer horror of witnessing her own handiwork.

  “Now... that was good work.”

  Number 25 kept her eyes locked on 72’s corpse. She forced a stiff nod, barely managing to move her head.

  Even if you don't die in the real world, the pain is real.

  Just as she felt she was drowning in the shadows of her mind, the weight of Number 99’s hand on her shoulder pulled her back to reality.

  99 broke the silence, cutting through the heavy air like a knife.

  “We need to get to Kirola immediately.”

  “Can we take Flora down there?”

  “We shall see.”

  30K Milestone, Happy New Year & the “Final Exams” Raid

  30,000-word milestone. Thank you for sticking with the story so far—it genuinely means a lot.

  exactly one week. As an engineering student, I’m about to face the toughest boss fight of the semester—Final Exams.

  Next stop: Kirola Cemetery.

  One small request while I’m gone:

  If you’ve been enjoying the ride, please consider leaving a Rating, Review, or even just a Follow. Every bit of support helps the story grow more than you might think.

  — [Batuhan Kuru]