I laid in my bed, staring up at the ceiling, pondering the thought. Faith, huh? The word rolled around in my mind like a stone in a river, tumbling and reshaping itself with every angle I considered. He didn’t try to convince me with historical or archeological evidence, nothing about manuscripts, carbon dating, or testimonies from legitimately great men. What he did was try and sell me on what faith can do. That was his pitch—not facts, but results. I’ll admit. It’s a convincing argument. There’s something compelling about believing in something unseen, something greater, something that promises meaning when everything else feels hollow.

  Most of Japan is Shinto, but Christianity is rising. The idea seemed strange at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. People crave connection, hope, a reason to keep moving forward. Faith can do amazing things—build communities, heal wounds you can’t see, give strength to the weak. But it could also lead to ruin, destruction justified by righteousness. Many things were done in the name of God, but were immoral. Crusades. Witch hunts. Wars painted holy. God is not immoral. But their response to this would be something along the lines of, "They followed false doctrine." or, "They missed out on some teachings." Maybe so... maybe not. It’s a hard knot to untangle.

  It’s hard to think about too. I just want to rest.

  I closed my eyes to rest once more, the quiet of the room wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.

  Luckily, I didn’t have a nightmare like last time. Just silence. Blessed, unbroken silence.

  When I awoke, light filtered faintly through the curtains, painting pale streaks across the floor. I groaned, sitting up, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My body felt stiff, like it had been lying too long in one position. I rubbed my face and then...

  Oh. I smell. I need to take a shower. Forgot to do that last night. My own scent clung to me.

  I stepped out, peeling my clothes off, each piece landing in a pile on the floor. My body felt heavy, but the promise of warmth pushed me on. I sat inside the shower, knees bent, back resting against the cool tile, and turned the faucet on. Water cascaded over me, first cold, then gradually warming until my body was enveloped in a cocoon of heat. And not the suffocating heat of the second floor’s oppressive air. This one was controlled and comfortable.

  I really miss my parents, my friends, everyone. I missed their voices, their warmth, the way they could make even the boring days seem survivable.

  With that, six days passed. Time blurred, bleeding from one day into the next, each hour carrying the same dull rhythm. I sort of stayed alone during that time, only talking with Isabella, Desmond, and Alex. Conversations were short, functional, never more than what was necessary. Alex gave me a lot of food, far more than I expected, and apologized for his attitude against me. His voice carried an awkward weight, as if he wasn’t used to admitting fault. I should really make some effort to get to know the other survivors. One of them could save me if it comes to shove, but only if I know what they can do. Skills, strengths, weaknesses—it all mattered now. Desmond has kept me updated, but it’s hard to remember it all.

  I sat on the couch, controller in hand, playing some video games. They had games all the way up to twenty twenty. No online games, of course. The internet had long gone silent. I liked older games, so I decided to play Mass Effect. Nostalgia, maybe. I completed the first, and I’m halfway through the second.

  I really dislike how they evolved, or rather devolved, the Illusive Man. He knew that the only way humanity would survive was if it picked itself up by its bootstraps. Even if it cost him everything. That kind of cold, uncompromising determination was similar to Sosuke's and to my own. We have to fight. Not just for ourselves, but for the fragile thread of survival we’re clinging to.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  There is a sort of ranking brewing. It’s nothing factual or anything that affects how we’re treated, just a ranking of power. A silent scoreboard, written in the way we watch each other, measure each other, compare victories and failures. Sosuke’s at one, Soto’s at two, I’m at three, Niko is at four, Eli is at five, and so on.

  Sosuke got a huge head start on the first floor. He crushed those orcs and goblins with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, his strength undeniable. I wonder how much further he can grow. The gap between him and the rest of us feels wide, like a mountain no one else can climb. I wonder how much further I can grow. Hopefully, the chance comes here.

  Whoosh!

  The world shifted again, our surroundings tearing apart and reforming in an instant. That gut-wrenching sensation of being pulled through space had almost become routine, though it still made my skin crawl. We’ve sort of gotten used to our surroundings changing, but “used to” doesn’t mean comfortable. It’s like bracing yourself for a punch. You know it’s coming, but it still rattles you when it lands.

  My eyes immediately adapted to the environment. Maybe because of my senses sharpening with the upgrades, maybe because of the repeated teleportations conditioning me. Whatever the reason, the scene clicked into focus within seconds.

  We were in the spectator’s stands of this black arena, the walls rising high and impossible to see over. Sand covered the floor below, stretching in all directions, pale and gritty under the dim light. Ew. I hate sand.

  The system chimed in, its words clear and detached, explaining this floor.

  That's pretty scary. But with our Unique Skills, we stand a chance.

  Soto was transported to the arena, his body dissolving into light before reappearing on the sand below. At the same instant, a complete copy of him was placed on the other side, identical down to the smallest muscle and expression. For a brief moment, it was eerie.

  He looked up at us in the stands. There was definite concern in his eyes, the kind that spoke louder than words. It wasn’t fear of the fight itself. Soto wasn’t weak. But fear of what this trial demanded from him.

  His clone sneered, mocking him with venom sharpened by familiarity. "What, afraid? That’s how you’ve always been. Afraid of Dad, afraid of our brother, afraid of everything. I’m ashamed to be you."

  That insult wasn’t just taunting—it was precise, cutting directly into whatever old wounds he held.

  Then it happened.

  A terrifying presence enveloped the entire arena. The shift was immediate and suffocating, like the sudden drop in air pressure before a storm. Even from the stands, I felt it pressing against my chest, a weight that made it harder to breathe. The origin of that crushing aura was unmistakable—it came from Soto.

  Soto said, his voice hiding something deep inside, "Alex, I hope we can stay friends."

  He reached up with deliberate slowness, fingers curling around the worn fabric of his barbarian outfit’s sling. Then, with his left arm, he tore it away in a single motion.

  "After what I’m about to do."