The sky folded inward.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
Physically.
Stars dragged toward a single collapsing point above the battlefield as if someone had reached into the cosmos and twisted it like wet fabric. The air thinned. The ground groaned. Wind fled in all directions.
Across the blackened plains stood one of the Hundred.
Lord Virex the Untouchable.
Formerly: Vincent Reyes, racketeer.
Currently: immortal warlord in a permanently mythic pinstripe suit that shimmered faintly in the light of dying stars.
He adjusted his cufflinks while space distorted.
"I dislike prolonged engagements," Virex said mildly. "They interfere with revenue."
Above him, a sphere of annihilation condensed.
It wasn't fire.
It wasn't light.
It wasn't even energy.
It was subtraction.
A solar-system shattering solution to a single problem.
Will.
Will stood opposite him in a hoodie and joggers, the wind ripping at the fabric as gravity screamed.
"…You always start like this?" he shouted.
Virex offered a patient smile.
"Overkill prevents retaliation."
The sphere descended.
The horizon tore sideways.
White consumed everything.
***
White swallowed the battlefield.
Then—
White again.
But this time it smelled like incense.
The light dimmed gradually instead of violently. Sound returned in pieces. A low chant. The crackle of torches. The faint metallic scrape of armored boots shifting nervously.
Will blinked.
Cold marble pressed against his bare feet.
He stood inside a glowing circle carved into the floor — gold-lined runes humming faintly, geometric patterns spiraling outward like someone had aggressively overdesigned a logo for destiny.
The ceiling soared overhead, arched stone painted with faded murals of armored champions striking dramatic poses against dragons that had definitely never consented to be there.
Twelve robed officials formed a ring around him. They were pale. Sweating. Hopeful in a way that felt rehearsed.
No one spoke at first.
They just stared.
Will looked down at himself.
Hoodie. Joggers. Sneakers.
He looked back up.
"…I feel like I'm not who you meant to grab."
The chant died immediately.
A large set of doors at the far end of the hall opened with ceremonial slowness.
Every head turned.
A line of armored guards stepped in first, halberds upright, boots echoing across the marble floor in steady rhythm. Behind them came banners — heavy fabric embroidered with sigils and suns and lions and other animals that had never paid taxes.
Then, finally—
The king.
He entered slowly, not because he was dramatic, but because he looked tired enough that walking quickly might cause paperwork.
He descended the shallow steps toward the summoning circle, crown catching torchlight. His expression was something between pride and fragile optimism.
He stopped just outside the glowing boundary.
For a long moment, he simply looked at Will.
Then he smiled.
"It worked."
The court exhaled as one.
Will shifted his weight.
"…Did it?"
The king gestured, and an attendant hurried forward with a long parchment sealed in wax and trimmed in gold.
The king took it himself.
Not a servant.
Not an advisor.
Him.
He stepped closer to the circle and extended the scroll across the boundary as if presenting something sacred.
"You are the Hero," he said, voice steady now. "Summoned by ancient covenant. Bound by ritual."
Will accepted the scroll carefully.
It was warm.
Not hot.
Just… active.
He broke the seal.
The parchment unfurled with a faint shimmer. The ink was dark and deliberate, the kind written by someone who believed words were heavy.
He read.
Unyielding.
Ruthless.
Feared.
Survivor above all.
Unconcerned with law.
Capable of extreme violence when necessary.
Will blinked.
He read it again.
Then looked up slowly.
"…You sure you didn't just describe a criminal?"
The room tightened.
A cough somewhere in the back.
The king's smile faltered by half a degree.
"That description was refined," the king said carefully, "over the course of one hundred years."
Will stared at him.
"How many times did this… refinement happen?"
The king inhaled.
Slowly.
The hall felt larger in that silence. The torchlight flickered. Armor shifted. Somewhere high above, a chandelier chain creaked softly under its own weight.
The king's chest rose.
His shoulders stiffened.
He held the inhale like he might be able to reverse time if he didn't release it.
When he did, a single tear escaped.
It slid down his cheek with humiliating precision, caught briefly in his beard, then fell to the marble floor between them.
"One hundred," he said.
The word echoed longer than it should have.
Will didn't immediately respond.
"One hundred… heroes?" he asked carefully.
The king let out a soft, humorless breath.
"One hundred survivors."
He turned and gestured toward the balcony.
"Walk with me."
Will stepped out of the summoning circle. The glow dimmed slightly as he crossed the boundary, as if the ritual itself was listening.
They approached the balcony overlooking the capital.
Night had fallen.
The city glowed.
But not in the warm, candlelit medieval way Will expected.
Colored lanterns flickered above wide stone avenues. Music drifted upward from buildings that pulsed with rhythm. Massive halls advertised games of chance in bold painted lettering. Crowds gathered outside establishments with velvet ropes and armored bouncers.
"What am I looking at?" Will asked quietly.
"The result," the king said, voice dry, "of one hundred highly motivated individuals discovering an untapped market."
Will squinted at a massive building with glowing windows and banners promising winnings.
"Is that a casino?"
"Yes."
"In… this century?"
"Yes."
"Is that a nightclub?"
"Yes."
"And that giant metal thing near the gate—"
"Is not a dragon," the king said flatly. "It is what the third summoned referred to as a 'tank.'"
Below, armored knights were taking cover behind it while arguing with someone wearing sunglasses at night.
"They turned on you," Will said.
The king nodded once.
"The first knelt before me."
"And?"
"He requested modest funding."
"And then?"
"He requested control of taxation."
"And then?"
"He introduced interest."
Will winced.
"The second restructured our treasury."
"The third opened gambling houses."
"The fourth established protection networks."
"The fifth monetized entertainment."
Will leaned against the stone railing.
"So you summoned one hundred immortal crime lords."
"They level through life-or-death combat," the king said quietly. "And the closer they come to death, the stronger they grow."
Will let out a low whistle.
"And you gave them starter kits."
The king looked back at him.
"We refined the ritual."
Will glanced down at the parchment still in his hand.
"…You optimized for the wrong traits."
The king didn't argue.
Above them, faint fractures shimmered across the night sky — barely visible unless you knew to look.
"Now the sky breaks," the king said softly. "Their realm destruction compounds. And if no one corrects it…"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Will stared at the glowing city below. At the velvet ropes. At the armored guards protecting gambling dens. At the metal war beast parked like a decorative lawn ornament.
"…Alright," Will muttered.
He looked back at the parchment as the magical contract began to shimmer beneath the original description.
New text formed in gold.
And the real choice appeared.