The night sky hung heavy, as if soaked in ash, oppressive enough to press the air from his lungs.
Fires still burned across the ruined town, flickering in broken buildings, casting erratic shadows over twisted wood and stone. Smoke rose in thick waves, carrying the bitter, acrid smell of charred wood and iron-rich blood.
"Damn it!"
Ethan Graves had never imagined he would find himself teetering on the edge of death.
Just three days ago, he had been an ordinary man—a repairman fully aware that he lived in a world where the supernatural existed, quietly residing alone in a modest wooden house on the outskirts of a small town.
The town was calm and mundane that night, until a sudden pillar of fire shot into the sky, illuminating everything like the sun had risen in the middle of the night.
He saw a conflict erupt in the town center between a martial practitioner from the East and a supernatural wielder from the West. The sudden clash swept through the town, dragging it into a whirlpool of blood and fire.
The streets were instantly reduced to rubble, houses collapsed, and blood mixed with ash, forming a muddy, chaotic mess. Ethan, lying on his bed enjoying a rare moment of leisure, was thrown off by the shockwave from the battle. A heavy beam fell from above, pinning him beneath it.
"Ugh… my hand… why always me?!"
His chest heaved violently with each breath, each inhale a knife ripping through his lungs. Pain radiated from his crushed right arm, trapped under splintered timber, blood seeping through gaps and soaking into the dirt. He tasted ash and iron with every gasp.
Shapes danced in the firelight, distorted and unreal. Every muscle screamed for relief. He knew he would not survive, not like this.
Then, a voice cut through the chaos. Not from outside, but inside his mind.
Cold.
Emotionless.
A judgment cast into the pit of his consciousness:
"Ten minutes. Will he break beneath the ashes? Odds: one to ten."
Ethan's pupils shrank. The voice had no shape, no direction—only a presence lodged deep in his mind.
Then another voice joined it, hoarse and low, carrying the smug confidence of a gambler:
"I bet on his death." A chill crawled up his spine.
Before he could react, a third voice interjected, sharp and resolute:
"I buy life."
Boom—
A tremor radiated through his chest. He gasped, throat scraping, blood and ash rising in a choking mix. His fingers twitched uncontrollably, ribs aching as if steel cables were constricting them.
Pain coursed through every inch, yet he could still move, still think. Survival became a single, desperate instinct.
The voices returned, crisp and calculating:
"One fate coin."
"Ten minutes, wager he survives."
DONG!
A distant church bell tolled once, deliberate and heavy. Ethan counted his breaths like lifelines, ash settling on his lashes, fire burning his throat. He gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing thought away from shattered bones.
Minutes crawled by. One… two… three… each chime marking the unrelenting march of time.
He dug his shoulder into the gap beneath the beam, widening it fractionally. His knees scraped over rubble, skin tearing. Blood mixed with dust, coating his hands, making grip nearly impossible.
DONG!
DONG!
DONG!
By the ninth strike, darkness fringed his vision. Sound muffled, like submerged in water. His palm tore open, pain so acute he could hardly let a sound escape.
The air sliced into his lungs like knives, yet he kept counting—seven, eight, nine—each number saturated with the taste of blood, dust, and ash. Each tick of the bell a pulse through his veins.
The tenth bell struck. Silence fell abruptly, thick and absolute, swallowing the ruins whole. From the void came a whisper, low and precise:
"Wager result: Survived."
A subtle ripple moved through the ruins—not a surge of strength, but a faint, almost imperceptible wave of energy. It trembled in the air like steam over a frozen pond, then flowed toward him, sliding through cracks in the rubble, sinking into his veins, settling in some hidden, private corner of his body.
A cold, mechanical voice resonated in his mind—systematic, emotionless:
[Energy fluctuation detected…]
[Absorption successful. +1 unassigned point]
Ethan blinked. Pain still stabbed his chest and limbs. He braced against the wall, the faint glow in his palm marginally brighter. No sudden power—only a soft warmth, like embers shifting under ash, enough to stabilize him, not heal him.
More whispers came from the void:
"Wager continues."
[Energy fluctuation detected.]
[Permissions locked…]
[Warning: Hidden protocol activated. Remain silent.]
His heart lurched. Cold sweat streaked down his spine.
Even in the silent ruins, he alone could hear the voices. He flexed his fingers, tasting blood.
A ghostly panel hovered before his eyes, translucent and glowing faintly. Lines of text scrolled across it like a dashboard:
[Survival Odds: 1:10]
[Unassigned Points: 1]
Below, a list of attributes appeared:
[Strength (STR): 5]
[Agility (AGI): 4]
[Endurance (END): 6]
[Intelligence (INT): 3]
[Luck (LCK): 2]
A prompt blinked beneath the stats:
[Allocate Points → STR / AGI / END / INT / LCK]
Ethan's hands trembled as he selected END—Endurance. The panel blinked, confirming:
[END +1 → 7]
[Unassigned Points: 0]
A sudden, subtle warmth spread through his chest and limbs. Ethan flexed his fingers, wincing as pain shot up his arm. He reached out and touched the gash on his palm—raw and bleeding—and the sting made him grit his teeth, face contorting in pain.
"Augh… my hand!" he hissed. "So… it's just… making me stronger?"
The warmth didn't heal him completely—it didn't erase the pain—but his body felt sturdier, more resilient. Enough to resist being crushed by the beam for a few more seconds.
Then the cold, indifferent voices returned, slicing through his mind:
"Five minutes… can he survive under the monster's grasp?"
"Is his wound healed? Who gave him fate coins?"
"Keep pressing… he'll die."
"Hmmm…"
"It doesn't matter… he won't survive anyway. I bet he dies—three fate coins."
GRRAAARR——
Before the words could fade, the ground beneath him shuddered violently. Dust and debris rattled, and a low, guttural roar rolled through the ruins.
Ethan's eyes snapped open. Muscles tensed, every nerve screaming. The beam pressing on him now seemed heavier, as if the earth itself conspired against him.
The roar grew louder, closer—something massive moved through the wreckage. Splintered wood and cracked stone trembled under the force.
Ethan pressed himself tighter against the debris, pain flaring, but the faint warmth still pulsed through him, lending just enough strength to resist being crushed.