The walk to the Conclave took less time than expected. The glowing structure appeared on the horizon almost immediately after we left the sanctuary, growing larger with each step. It was like Hell itself was pulling us toward it, compressing distance in ways that made my head hurt.

  "This feels wrong," I said.

  "That's because it is wrong," the imp replied. "Space doesn't work normally around divine gatherings. We could walk for hours and get nowhere, or take ten steps and arrive. It depends on whether they want us there."

  "And they want us there."

  "Oh, they definitely want you there."

  The hare was running in tight circles around us, muttering a constant stream of worry. "WHAT IF THEY DON'T LIKE US? WHAT IF THEY MAKE US FIGHT? WHAT IF—"

  "Save your energy," I said. "You're going to need it."

  The Conclave of Embers rose before us like a fever dream made of architecture.

  It was massive. Cathedral-sized didn't even begin to cover it. This thing was city-sized. A sprawling complex of arenas, pavilions, and towering spires that seemed to shift and rearrange themselves as I watched. The walls were made of something that looked like obsidian but glowed from within, pulsing with orange and red light like embers in a dying fire.

  The entrance was an archway easily a hundred feet tall. Carved into the stone above it were words in a language I shouldn't have been able to read but somehow understood perfectly:

  WELCOME, SURVIVORS. YOUR SERVICE BEGINS NOW.

  "Ominous," the imp said.

  "Yeah."

  We passed through the archway, and the world opened up.

  The interior was packed.

  Skeletons. Thousands of them. Maybe tens of thousands. They filled every available space—sitting on stone benches, standing in clusters, leaning against pillars. The sheer density of bodies was overwhelming after so long in the empty wasteland.

  For a moment, I just stood there, taking it in.

  People. People. Not monsters. Not creatures trying to kill me. Just... people. Dead people, sure, but people nonetheless. All of them skeletal like me, wearing various states of equipment and clothing. Some had full armor. Others wore robes. A few were as naked as I'd been when I first arrived.

  I felt something in my chest—or where my chest used to be. Relief? Excitement? I wasn't sure. But for the first time since arriving in Hell, I was surrounded by others like me. Others who'd died. Others who were trying to survive.

  "This is..." I started.

  "A lot," the imp finished.

  The space was arranged like an arena. A massive circular floor stretched out before us, easily the size of a football field. Rising up from it in concentric circles were rows upon rows of stone seating, all of them filled with waiting skeletons. In the center of the arena floor was a raised platform, currently empty, glowing with that same ember-light.

  But it was the atmosphere that struck me most. Everyone was serious. Focused. Their empty eye sockets tracked movements across the arena with military precision. Many of them held weapons—swords, spears, axes, bows. Real weapons, not makeshift ones. They looked like they knew how to use them.

  "They look ready for war," I said quietly.

  "Because they are," the imp said. "The Conclave doesn't just recruit survivors. It recruits champions. These people have been preparing for this."

  I looked down at myself. At my pink sash. My name tag. My boots with holes in them.

  "I am so incredibly underdressed for this."

  "You're incredibly underdressed for most things," the imp said. "This is just more obvious."

  I started walking toward the nearest group of skeletons—three of them standing in a loose triangle, speaking quietly. As I approached, one of them looked up. Their gaze moved from my face to my sash, then to my exposed toes, then back to my face.

  They turned away without a word.

  The other two followed, moving toward a different section of the arena.

  "Oh," I said.

  "Maybe try someone else?" the imp suggested weakly.

  I approached another skeleton. This one was sitting alone, sharpening a wicked-looking blade. They were level 4, according to the Imp. They wore dark leather armor that looked professionally made.

  "Hey," I said. "I'm—"

  They stood up and walked away mid-sentence.

  Didn't even look at me. Just... left.

  "Okay," I said. "That's... fine."

  I tried a third time. A group of five skeletons standing near one of the pillars, discussing something in low voices. One of them saw me coming and said something to the others. They all turned to look at me.

  Their expressions—or what passed for expressions on skeletal faces—were not friendly.

  One of them, a skeleton holding a spear and wearing what looked like ceremonial armor, spoke. Their voice was cold. Flat.

  "You're the Last One."

  It wasn't a question.

  "I'm Daniel," I said, pointing at my name tag. "I just—"

  "We know who you are," another one said. This one had a bow strapped to their back. "Everyone knows."

  "We've been waiting for you to die for forty-three years," the first skeleton continued. "Forty-three years watching. Hoping. Praying that you'd finally give up and let the world end properly."

  I blinked. "What?"

  "But you didn't die," the bow-wielder said. "You just kept surviving. Hiding. Running. Making the rest of us wait."

  "While we died screaming," a third skeleton added, stepping forward. They had a massive axe propped against their shoulder. "While we suffered. While we watched our families torn apart. You were hiding in your bunker playing video games."

  The words hit harder than I expected.

  "I didn't—" I started. "I was trying to survive. Like everyone else."

  "You were trying to survive alone," the spear-wielder said. "While the rest of humanity died together. You were the coward who outlasted everyone through sheer selfishness."

  "That's not—"

  "Do you know what it's like to die knowing that someone else gets to keep living?" the axe-wielder interrupted. "To watch the world end and realize that one person—one single person—gets to delay the inevitable?"

  The group stared at me with hollow sockets full of resentment.

  Then they turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone.

  The imp shifted uncomfortably on my shoulder. "Daniel..."

  "I get it," I said quietly. "They hate me."

  "They don't understand," the imp tried.

  "They understand perfectly." I looked around the arena. At the hundreds—thousands—of skeletons filling the space. All of them watching. All of them knowing exactly who I was. "They died. I didn't. Not for a long time. And that makes me the asshole."

  The hare pressed closer to my leg. "MAYBE WE SHOULD JUST STAND IN A CORNER."

  "Good idea," the imp said.

  I made my way to the edge of the arena, finding a spot near one of the massive pillars where I could lean against stone and observe without being in anyone's way. The imp stayed on my shoulder. The hare sat at my feet, trembling.

  From here, I could see the full scope of the gathering. The arena was even larger than I'd thought. The seating rose up in tiers, disappearing into darkness overhead. Every seat was filled. And on the arena floor, more skeletons continued to arrive through various archways, materializing out of thin air or walking in from passages I hadn't noticed before.

  "I've read this scene before," I muttered.

  "What?" the imp asked.

  "This. All of this." I gestured at the arena. "It's the tournament arc. The gathering of champions. The moment where everyone shows off their power levels and the protagonist realizes they're hopelessly outmatched."

  "You read a lot of stories with tournament arcs?"

  "Hundreds. Thousands of hours in LitRPG novels. Anime. Manga. It's always the same setup. Everyone gathers in a big arena. There's some kind of selection process or competition. The powerful people intimidate everyone else. And then—" I paused. "—then the underdog protagonist that nobody expected to win suddenly displays incredible abilities that blow everyone's minds and wins the tournament. That's the real cliché."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "That's... oddly specific."

  "It's a pattern."

  The imp was quiet for a moment. "So what happens in these tournament arcs?"

  "Usually? The protagonist either gets destroyed and has to train harder, or they surprise everyone with some hidden ability and advance beyond their level."

  "Which one are you hoping for?"

  "What do you think? Isn't everyone the protagonist of their own story?"

  A horn sounded. Deep and resonant, echoing through the entire structure.

  Every conversation stopped. Every skeleton turned toward the central platform.

  The embers inside the walls pulsed brighter.

  And then, on the platform, figures began to appear.

  Just appearing, like someone had copy-pasted them into reality.

  There were seven of them. Each one distinct. Each one radiating power so intense I could feel it from across the arena.

  The voice from earlier—the cheerful, feminine one—spoke again. But this time it came from one of the figures on the platform.

  "HELLO, DARLINGS!"

  She was tall. Impossibly tall. Her form was humanoid but covered in scales that shifted between gold and crimson. She wore a dress made of what looked like liquid fire, and her face—

  Her face was beautiful and terrible at the same time. Too perfect. Too symmetrical. Like someone had designed the ideal face and then pushed it just slightly into the uncanny valley.

  A name tag appeared above her head.

  PYRALIS, THE EMBER QUEEN

  PATRON OF AMBITION

  LEVEL: ?????

  "Welcome to the Conclave!" Pyralis said, her voice warm and inviting despite the fact that she could probably incinerate the entire arena with a thought. "We're so excited to meet all of you! So many brave souls. So much potential!"

  The other six figures stepped forward, and name tags appeared above each of them.

  A skeletal figure in black robes, holding a scythe. MORTAN, THE HOLLOW JUDGE. PATRON OF ENDINGS.

  A being made of crystallized light, constantly shifting between forms. LUCIDA, THE FRACTURED TRUTH. PATRON OF KNOWLEDGE.

  A massive armored figure with a helmet shaped like a lion's head. VALORIX, THE GOLDEN BASTION. PATRON OF HONOR.

  A woman in green robes with vines growing from her hair. VERDANNA, THE EVERBLOOM. PATRON OF GROWTH.

  A shadowy figure that seemed to exist in multiple places at once. UMBROS, THE VEILED ONE. PATRON OF SECRETS.

  And finally, a man in a simple gray suit, holding a clipboard. CLERICUS, THE ADMINISTRATOR. PATRON OF ORDER.

  "These," Pyralis continued, gesturing grandly, "are your options! Seven Patrons. Seven paths. Seven opportunities to become something greater than you are now!"

  She paused, letting that sink in.

  "You've all been brought here because you have potential. Because you survived. Because you're worth investing in. And we—" She gestured to the other Patrons. "—are here to offer you power. Purpose. Meaning in your afterlife."

  Mortan stepped forward, his voice like grinding stone. "Service is mandatory. You will choose a Patron today. Or a Patron will choose you."

  "But don't worry!" Pyralis added cheerfully. "It's not all bad! You get amazing benefits! Training! Equipment! Access to resources you can't even imagine!"

  "In exchange," Valorix rumbled, his voice deep and commanding, "you will serve. You will fight. You will represent your Patron in the trials ahead."

  Lucida's voice was like wind chimes, multiple tones at once. "The Hollow Kingdom requires champions. The lower floors demand strength. You will provide both."

  Verdanna smiled, and flowers bloomed in the stone around her feet. "Think of it as an opportunity. A chance to grow beyond your limitations."

  Umbros said nothing. Just watched. His form flickering like a candle.

  Clericus adjusted his glasses and consulted his clipboard. "Selections will begin shortly. Please form orderly lines at your chosen Patron's station. Failure to choose within the allotted time will result in random assignment."

  "And now!" Pyralis clapped her hands together, and the sound echoed like thunder. "Before we begin, we have someone very special to acknowledge!"

  Oh no.

  "Daniel Keres! The Last One! The Final Survivor of Earth! Where are you, darling?"

  Every single skeleton in the arena turned to look at me.

  Every. Single. One.

  The silence was deafening.

  "There you are!" Pyralis pointed directly at me, her smile widening. "Come on up, darling! Don't be shy!"

  "I'm very shy," I said, but my voice was drowned out by the sound of thousands of hollow sockets staring at me with varying degrees of resentment.

  "DANIEL KERES!" Pyralis called again. "THE ARENA AWAITS!"

  The imp gripped my shoulder tighter. "You have to go."

  "I really don't want to."

  "You really have to."

  I took a breath I didn't need, adjusted my pink sash, and started walking toward the center platform.

  The crowd parted as I moved. Not out of respect. Out of something else. Disgust, maybe. Or just a desire not to be associated with me.

  I climbed the steps to the platform, my boots clicking against stone. My exposed toes felt incredibly obvious.

  Pyralis beamed at me as I approached. Up close, she was even more overwhelming. The heat radiating from her dress made my bones feel warm.

  "There he is!" she said, throwing her arms wide. "The legend himself! Forty-three years alone on a dead planet! That's impressive, Daniel!"

  "Thanks," I said weakly.

  "Tell me," Pyralis leaned closer, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "How did it feel? Being the last one? Knowing everyone else was gone?"

  The question hung in the air.

  I looked out at the thousands of skeletons watching me. At their weapons. At their serious expressions. At the resentment in their hollow stares.

  "Lonely," I said finally. "It felt lonely."

  Pyralis tilted her head. "Lonely. Yes. I imagine it would be." She straightened up, addressing the crowd. "But loneliness breeds strength! Isolation breeds innovation! Daniel Keres survived through pure determination! And now—"

  She turned back to me, her smile sharpening.

  "—now he gets to prove whether that determination was worth anything at all!"

  The crowd erupted. Not in cheers. In something darker. Anticipation. Hunger.

  "But first," she said, her voice carrying across the entire arena, "let's make sure our special guest understands the situation fully."

  She turned to me, her golden-crimson eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that made my bones want to crawl away.

  "Daniel Keres. You are here because you are unique. You are the last human to die on Earth. The final chapter of a species. That makes you... valuable. Interesting. Marketable."

  "I really don't like where this is going," I muttered.

  "But," Pyralis continued, ignoring me entirely, "you are also weak. By all measures, you are literally the least qualified person in this arena."

  The crowd murmured agreement. Somewhere in the back, someone laughed.

  "So here's what we're going to do," Pyralis said, her smile widening to show teeth that looked far too sharp. "We're going to give you a chance. A real chance. You can stand here on this platform, safe and protected, and watch the trials unfold. You can observe. Learn. And when it's all over, you'll be assigned to whichever Patron has the most available slots."

  She paused for dramatic effect.

  "Or," she said, drawing the word out, "you can step down into the arena with everyone else. You can participate. You can compete. You can try to earn your place rather than have it handed to you."

  Pyralis clapped her hands together. "If you choose to compete, if you survive the trials, if you somehow manage to impress one of us—" She gestured to the other Patrons. "—then you get to choose your own path. Your own Patron. Your own destiny."

  The arena had gone completely silent.

  "But if you stay here," Pyralis continued, her voice dropping to something almost gentle, "you'll always wonder. You'll always know that you took the safe path. That you were too afraid to try."

  I looked at the crowd.

  "What happens if I die?" I asked.

  "You're already dead, darling," Pyralis said cheerfully. "But if you fail so spectacularly that your essence dissipates, well..." She shrugged. "That's the risk, isn't it? True death. Oblivion. The end of everything you are."

  "And you're asking me this in front of everyone."

  "Public accountability is so motivating, don't you think?"

  The imp whispered in my ear. "This is a trap. Whatever you choose, they win."

  "I know," I whispered back.

  I looked at Pyralis. At her perfect, terrible smile. At the way she watched me like I was the most entertaining thing she'd seen in centuries.

  "I'll compete," I said.

  The words came out before I could stop them. Before I could think about how stupid they were.

  Pyralis's smile grew impossibly wider. "WONDERFUL!"

  She gestured dramatically, and an invisible force picked me up and threw me off the platform.

  I sailed through the air, flailing, before landing hard on the arena floor twenty feet away. My bones rattled. The hare squeaked and jumped off my shoulder just in time.

  "THERE HE GOES!" Pyralis announced. "The Last Human! The Final Survivor! Let's see if forty-three years of reading fiction prepared him for reality!"

  I picked myself up, brushing dust off my pink sash. Around me, other skeletons were giving me a wide berth, like I had some kind of disease.

  "That went well," the imp said sarcastically.

  "Shut up."

  "YOU'RE GOING TO DIE," the hare added helpfully.

  "Also shut up."

  Pyralis raised her arms, and the entire arena seemed to pulse with energy.

  "NOW THEN!" she called out. "Let me explain the glorious trials you're all about to face!"

  The six other Patrons spread out across the platform, each taking a position at a different point. The embers in the walls flared brighter, and suddenly images began to appear in the air above us—holographic projections of different environments, different challenges.

  "The Conclave Trials," Pyralis continued, "consist of seven challenges. Seven tests. Seven opportunities to prove your worth to the Patrons you wish to serve!"

  Mortan's grinding voice cut through the arena. "Each trial is designed to test different attributes. Strength. Intelligence. Cunning. Endurance. Will."

  "Survive all seven," Valorix rumbled, "and you will have earned the right to choose your Patron. Fail, and you will be chosen instead—or eliminated entirely."

  Lucida's wind-chime voice added, "The trials are not merely tests of power. They are tests of character. Of potential. Of your ability to grow beyond your current limitations."

  "And here's the best part!" Pyralis said, bouncing slightly on her feet. "As you compete, we Patrons will be watching! Evaluating! And if you impress us, we can offer you gifts!"

  The projections above us shifted, showing images of weapons, armor, scrolls with glowing text.

  "Weapons!" Pyralis gestured to a display of swords, axes, bows, and stranger things. "Armor! Skills! Abilities! Whatever you need to succeed, we can provide—within the rules, of course."

  Clericus adjusted his glasses. "All gifts must be earned through demonstrated merit. No Patron may provide assistance that would fundamentally alter the nature of the trials. Gifts must be proportional to the recipient's current level and achievements."

  "In other words," Umbros said, his voice a whisper that somehow carried across the entire arena, "impress us, and we will invest in you. Disappoint us, and you will be on your own."

  Verdanna's gentle voice followed. "Think of it as cultivation. We plant seeds in those who show promise. We nurture growth in those who demonstrate potential. But we cannot make you strong—you must choose to grow yourself."

  "Your goal," Pyralis said, pointing at the crowd, "is simple. Survive. Excel. And most importantly—catch our attention. Make us want to invest in you. Make us believe you're worth the resources we'll be spending on your development."

  She spun in a circle, her dress of liquid fire trailing behind her.

  "Because at the end of these trials, those who succeed will become our servants, yes—but also our champions. Our representatives in the Hollow Kingdom. Our agents in the lower floors. And trust me, darlings—" Her smile sharpened. "—being a champion comes with significant benefits."

  The projections changed again, showing images of grand halls, armies, treasures.

  "Power," Mortan intoned. "Authority. Resources beyond imagination."

  "The chance to shape the afterlife itself," Lucida added.

  "Glory," Valorix said simply.

  "Purpose," Verdanna offered.

  "Knowledge," Umbros whispered.

  "Structure and advancement opportunities," Clericus said, consulting his clipboard.

  "And fun!" Pyralis finished. "So much fun! Because really, what else is there to do in the afterlife besides pursue power and entertainment?"

  She clapped her hands, and the projections vanished.

  "So here's how this works," she said, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "You will compete in the trials. We will watch. If you want our favor, you need to show us what you can do. Show us your strengths. Your creativity. Your determination."

  "And remember," Mortan added, "we are not looking for perfection. We are looking for potential. Show us that you can grow, and we will help you grow."

  "But fail to show us anything," Valorix warned, "and you will be forgotten."

  Pyralis spread her arms wide. "Seven trials! Seven chances! Seven opportunities to become something greater than you ever were in life!"

  The crowd was buzzing now, skeletons talking among themselves, looking at the Patrons, calculating their chances.

  "The first trial," Pyralis announced, "will begin in one hour. Use this time to prepare. To strategize. To decide which Patron you wish to impress."

  She looked directly at me.

  "Try not to die in the first five minutes," she said quietly. "That would be such a waste of good publicity."

  Then she and the other Patrons simply vanished, leaving the arena in sudden, shocking silence.

  "Well," the imp said. "That was a choice."

  "I'm open to feedback," I said.

  "YOU'RE GOING TO DIE," the hare repeated.

  "Yes, thank you, that's very helpful."

  Around us, skeletons were already forming groups, discussing strategies, showing off weapons and abilities.

  "So," I said to the imp. "Any advice?"

  The imp was quiet for a long moment.

  "Read more fiction?" it suggested.

  "I hate you."

  "I know."

  I was absolutely, completely, utterly screwed.