Chapter Two: First Blood Isn't Optional
The horn's echo had barely faded before the field erupted into motion, a stampede driven by panic rather than plan. Players sprinted toward the distant glints scattered across the grass, shoving past strangers, trampling hesitation flat. Duke moved too, but not fast, keeping his head up while others buried theirs. He watched people collide, watched a man fall and disappear under boots, watched a woman scream a name that no one answered. This was the moment the Games peeled away pretense and showed their teeth.
A crate burst open nearby with a metallic snap, spilling crude weapons across the ground. Knives, pipes, a short hatchet with a chipped blade. Hands reached in at once, fingers clawing, and the argument that followed lasted exactly two seconds. Duke heard the wet thud before he saw the body drop, a teenager clutching his throat while blood soaked the grass beneath him. The killer stared at his hands in disbelief, whispering, "I did not mean to," as if intent still mattered.
Duke turned away, jaw tight. "Accidents count," he told himself quietly, though the thought made his stomach twist. He spotted another crate ahead and angled toward it, weaving through chaos with controlled steps. Someone grabbed his arm. A man, middle aged, eyes wild. "Please," he said, voice shaking. "I have a daughter. I just need something to protect her." Duke pulled free without answering. Sympathy was already becoming expensive.
A sharp chime rang inside Duke's head, followed by cold text that left no room for interpretation.
[Survival threshold active]
[Players must register a confirmed kill within the allotted time]
A woman nearby screamed as she collapsed, clutching her chest. Her body convulsed once, twice, then went still. No wounds. No attacker. The crowd froze, understanding dawning too late. A man shouted, "They want us to kill," and the word us cracked apart immediately.
The first deliberate murder happened ten meters from Duke. A father stood between two men and his son, arms spread, shaking. "He is just a child," he kept saying, louder each time, as if volume could bend rules. One of the men looked away. The other did not. When the blade fell, the sound the boy made was thin and unfinished, and the father's scream followed him into silence. Duke did not look away. He forced himself to see it, because pretending would not save him.
"Move," someone yelled as bodies surged again. Duke reached the crate and flipped it open, grabbing a short blade and a length of wire. Basic, ugly tools, but familiar enough. He slipped the knife into his grip and scanned the field. People were changing already. Fear was curdling into calculation. Eyes lingered too long. Groups formed, then split, then turned on themselves.
A young woman stumbled toward him, blood smeared across her sleeve. "Help me," she said, breathless. "I did not kill anyone. I feel sick. I think something is wrong." Duke hesitated, the word help echoing uncomfortably. Another chime answered his hesitation.
[Penalty warning]
[Failure to act will result in reclamation]
"I am sorry," Duke said, and meant it. He stepped close, fast, and ended it before she could understand what he was doing. When her body hit the ground, the sickness vanished from his own chest like it had never been there. He stood over her, breathing hard, hands steady despite the noise roaring in his ears.
"So that is it," he thought. "They do not reward killing. They punish mercy." The realization settled heavy and cold, reshaping every decision that would follow. Around him, the field grew louder with screams, then quieter as people learned not to waste breath. Children cried until they did not. Adults begged until begging proved useless.
A group rushed past Duke, dragging a crying girl between them. One man argued, voice breaking, while another snapped back, "It counts. Do not think about it." Duke looked away this time, not out of weakness, but necessity. He could not afford to catalog every horror. Survival demanded selectivity.
The system chimed again, almost conversational.
[Kill registered]
[Survival stabilized]
Duke exhaled slowly, wiping his blade in the grass. "You are sick," he muttered under his breath, not sure if he meant the system or himself. He moved toward higher ground, away from the densest fighting, watching patterns emerge. Strong preyed on weak. The weak learned to strike first. Hesitation was disappearing.
By the end of the tenth hour, the field looked different. Fewer bodies moved. More lay still. The grass was trampled flat, stained dark in uneven patches. Duke crouched behind a low rise, eyes sharp, mind racing. He had crossed the first line, and there was no going back. Whatever he became next would be shaped by what he chose to do now.