The city heat shimmered off the asphalt, but inside the bus, the air was stale and smelled of old vinyl and exhaust. A young man sat heavily in the back row, his white sneakers scuffing against the metal floor. He stood out in the crowded bus, not just because of the stark white hoodie and dark tactical pants, but because of the jagged scar cutting across his left eyebrow, a permanent souvenir from a life he was trying to put behind him.
His eyes, a startling, unnatural crimson, remained fixed on the passing scenery until he pulled a battered smartphone from his pocket. He dialed a familiar number.
"Oi, Kiddo," he said, his voice a low rasp that carried a hint of a smirk.
"Urgh, Arthas? I told you a thousand times, stop calling me that!" The voice on the other end was bright and indignant. "I'm sixteen. Sixteen! I'm practically an adult."
Arthas leaned his head against the vibrating window. "Doesn't matter, Xavier. You'll be the 'Kiddo' until you can outrun me. Which, let's be honest, isn't happening this decade."
"You're the worst," Xavier groaned, though Arthas could hear the underlying excitement. "Anyway, you're actually out of the Camp? You're finally on your way home?"
"Yeah," Arthas replied, a long, weary sigh escaping his lungs. He shifted the weight of his red backpack between his feet. It felt heavier than it actually was, a physical reminder of the transition from the barracks to the real world. "I'm on the bus now. Just a few more stops."
"So... did you get it? The thing I asked for?"
Arthas felt a warm smile touch his lips, the first genuine expression he'd worn in months. "Greedy little imp. It's a surprise. You'll see it when I walk through the door."
"I hate surprises! Just tell me! Is it the tech-kit? Or that blade you mentioned?"
"Patience, Xavier. You know what they say. The patient—"
The words died in his throat. The bus didn't crash. There was no sound of tearing metal or screaming tires. Instead, the world simply ceased to be.
A blinding, antiseptic white light swallowed the bus, the passengers, and the city. Arthas felt a momentary sensation of weightlessness, as if his soul had been yanked out of his chest through a straw.
"All Players below the age of fifteen and above sixty have been eliminated."
The voice wasn't human. It was cold, echoing, and resonated within the marrow of his bones. Arthas groaned, his red eyes Narrowing as they fought to adjust to the sudden, piercing brilliance. He wasn't on the bus anymore.
He was standing in a vast, architectural impossibility. The floor beneath his white sneakers was a polished, translucent marble that seemed to stretch into infinity. All around him, people were appearing in flashes of light.
"At least a thousand," Arthas noted subconsciously, his military training overriding his shock. His hand instinctively reached for his side where a sidearm used to be, but found only the fabric of his hoodie. "Forget that. Where the hell am I?"
The silence of the space was shattered by a cacophony of terror.
"Where is my daughter? She was right next to me!" a woman screamed, her voice cracking with a primal grief.
"I was just making dinner... my stove is on! Let me out!" another man pleaded, clawing at the empty air as if searching for a door that wasn't there.
Panic, thick and infectious, swept through the crowd like a wildfire. Arthas scanned the perimeter. There were no exits. No windows. Just a sea of confused civilians in pajamas, business suits, and gym clothes. His mind raced back to the voice. Eliminated.
{Welcome, Players.}
The booming voice didn't come from a speaker; it came from the air itself. The crowd gasped, some falling to their knees.
"Who's there?" someone shouted. "Show yourself!"
{I am the Oracle. Your Guide. You may ask your questions, and I shall provide the truth of your new reality.}
A strange, artificial calm settled over the room, a magical dampening of the collective hysteria. People stopped screaming, though their eyes remained wide with terror.
"Why are we here?" a man in a rumpled suit asked, his voice shaking. "What did you do to our families?"
{Your world has been integrated into the Great Games. You have been selected to represent your World.}
"Games? What kind of sick joke is this?" a woman scoffed from the front. "I'm calling the police. This is a kidnapping!"
{Please be silent. The first stage of the Games is about to begin.}
A massive, glowing countdown manifested in the air above them, the numbers pulsing in a rhythmic, ominous crimson.
[00:01:59]
"Two minutes," Arthas muttered. He looked around. Some people were still in denial, laughing nervously as if they were on a hidden camera show. Others were curled into balls, weeping.
"So, what? We play some ultra-realistic VR and then go back home?" a teenager near Arthas asked, his voice hopeful. "Like a survival sim? If I win, do I get a prize?"
Arthas stepped forward, his presence commanding enough that the people around him instinctively parted. "I have a question," he called out, his voice firm and carrying.
{What is it, Player?}
"When I arrived, the voice mentioned 'Elimination.' What does that mean in the context of your 'Game'?"
{That was an automatic filter based on the Structural integrity of the participants,} the Oracle replied. {No players below fifteen or above sixty.}
"And what happens to those who are... filtered?" Arthas pressed, his fist clenching at his side.
{They have been processed. In your mortal tongue: they are dead.}
The silence that followed was deafening. It lasted for exactly three seconds before the world exploded into a renewed, frantic screaming. The woman who had been asking about her daughter collapsed as if her bones had turned to water.
Arthas's mind raced back to the voice. Eliminated. Xavier was sixteen. He had made the cut by a single year. The thought made him breathe a sigh of relief
{The Games begin in Five... Four...}
Arthas braced himself. He adjusted the straps of his red backpack, his heart hammering a steady, war-like rhythm against his ribs. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew one thing: he had to survive to find Xavier.
{...One.}
The white light returned, but this time it was accompanied by the smell of damp earth and rotting meat.
Arthas hit the ground hard, his sneakers sliding on slick, mossy stone. He didn't stay down. He rolled, coming up into a crouch, his red eyes darting through the gloom. He was in a cavern. The air was thick with the sound of dripping water and a high-pitched, guttural chattering.
In front of him, five stunted figures emerged from the shadows. They were barely four feet tall, with skin the color of a bruised lime and long, pointed ears. They wore nothing but filthy rags and carried crude weapons, sharpened branches and jagged stones tied to sticks.
"Are those... Goblins?" Arthas breathed.
The creature in the center, its yellow teeth bared in a snarl, let out a piercing shriek. It pointed a sharpened stick at Arthas's chest. The other four joined the cry, their eyes gleaming with a mindless, predatory hunger.
They didn't hesitate. They lunged.
Arthas's instincts took over. He didn't have a rifle, but he had his body, and a lifetime of knowing how to hurt things.
"Welcome to the games, I guess," he hissed, sliding into a combat stance as the first green monster left the ground, aiming its jagged stone at his throat.