Commencement of the Death Game

CHAPTER 10: COMMENCEMENT OF THE DEATH GAME

Anon scanned the crowd with a deep, brooding gaze, his brows furrowed in a sullen frown. His sharp eyes drew varied reactions: some players averted their gaze almost immediately, others offered him faint nods of acknowledgement, but most returned his stare with barely concealed hostility, their expressions warning him they were ready to engage at any time.

'As I suspected… A lot of groups have already formed. And they've armed themselves.'

The realization settled heavily in his chest. This wasn't the same game it had been moments prior. Back then, most players would only need to fight one-on-one battles to hopefully fulfill the tutorial quest. Now, it was far more dangerous. Players had grouped together, and these alliances came with weapons. The stakes had risen exponentially. It was no longer just about brute strength or strategy; survival now demanded constant vigilance. A swing of a weapon or maybe even a stray bullet from a blind spot could easily spell the end for anyone.

Anon's pace slowed, his heavy steps grinding to a halt.

"Anon?" Brea's soft voice broke through the tense silence. "Is something wrong?"

The anxious atmosphere clinging to him made her voice waver slightly, concern clear in her wide eyes. Anon didn't respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. Was approaching another group truly worth the risk? The palpable tension in the air felt like a lit fuse, waiting for the slightest spark to detonate into chaos.

Viper, ever the opportunist, broke the silence with a smirk audible even through his mask. "What's the matter, Boss? Getting cold feet? Or just having second thoughts?"

Anon snapped his head toward Viper, a retort poised on his tongue. But before he could respond, a loud commotion erupted nearby, shattering the uneasy calm like glass striking stone.

"Hey! There's a fight breaking out over there!"

"Seriously? What happened?"

"I saw it! That group just attacked without warning!"

"No way… Are you serious? Those crazy bastards—"

The voices of alarm and outrage rippled through the air, catching Anon's attention. His eyes darted toward the source of the commotion, quickly zeroing in on a gathering crowd. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward the growing cluster of players, weaving through the throng with urgency.

Breaking through to the front, the scene before him came into stark focus.

A man stood clutching his blood-soaked arm, his face twisted in a furious scowl. Behind him, his presumed allies hovered anxiously, their expressions a mixture of shock and worry. Opposite them stood a group of five players, their postures rigid, their faces shadowed by grim determination.

The tension crackled in the air like static.

"You really wanna go through with this?" the injured man growled, his glare burning holes into the one standing at the forefront of the opposing group.

The leader of the aggressors, a man gripping a bloodied knife, smirked coldly. "Why not? Isn't that what we're here for?"

The injured man's jaw tightened. "And that's supposed to justify suddenly attacking someone?"

"We're already living in hell," the knife-wielder replied, his voice calm but tinged with menace. "Some self-proclaimed God plucked us out of our lives and threw us into this mess to kill each other. If we don't, the monsters outside the barrier will finish the job for us."

"So your brilliant solution is to kill any random person?"

"Exactly." The knife-wielder's smirk widened into something predatory. "Too bad for you. If your reflexes weren't so sharp, you'd already be dead. Guess that just means we'll have to make this harder on ourselves."

A flicker of something crossed the injured man's face—anger, frustration, perhaps even fear. His grip on his bleeding arm tightened, as if the physical pain couldn't quite compare to the weight of the situation. For a brief moment, his gaze flicked to the ground, as though replaying the split second when his instincts had saved him from an early grave.

Standing on the edge of the unfolding chaos, Anon silently assessed the situation.

'Four against five…' he thought grimly, his sharp gaze darting between the two groups. 'Not just outnumbered, but clearly outmatched in combat power too. Two girls, two guys—an easy target.' It didn't take long for him to form his judgment. 'They're done for.'

Without outside intervention, the smaller group had no chance. Their best bet would be to appeal to the crowd for help or make a break for it—though neither option guaranteed survival.

As if reading his thoughts, one of the girls in the outnumbered group turned to the gathering spectators, her voice trembling with desperation. "Please, everyone! Help us! These psychos are trying to kill us—right in broad daylight!"

The other girl quickly followed suit, her tearful plea cracking under the weight of fear. "Please…! Don't just stand there! They'll kill us if no one steps in! This isn't right!"

The raw sincerity of their cries seemed to tug at the crowd's collective conscience. A murmur of indignation rippled through the onlookers, growing louder with every passing second. Some began shouting righteous condemnations, their voices laced with outrage.

"Cowards!"

"Leave them alone!"

"This is murder, you animals!"

Yet, despite the escalating wave of verbal attacks, the aggressors remained eerily unfazed. They stood motionless, their silence almost unnatural, as though the insults bounced off them without leaving a mark.

Anon's eyes narrowed. 'That's strange. Why don't they look pressured at all?'

In most cases, public condemnation of this magnitude would be enough to make anyone falter. A crowd this large carried an implicit threat of mob justice. Even Anon, despite his stoic nature, could imagine himself panicking under such scrutiny, scrambling to defend his actions or diffuse the situation to avoid getting overwhelmed.

But this group… They were different.

Their stance wasn't one of guilt or fear—it was poised, ready. Anon's sharp gaze picked up subtle details: the tension in their muscles, the way their hands hovered near their weapons, their eyes scanning the crowd.

'They're waiting for something…' he realized. 'A signal, maybe? No, unless… Do they have something to rely on?'

Anon's mind churned through the possibilities. In a twisted death game like this, the unexpected was the norm. Drawing from his own experience with battle royale video games, he knew that survival often hinged on hidden advantages—factors that could tip the scales when least expected.

'A secret weapon? A rare item, maybe?'

The thought of a wild card, something that could turn the fight's outcome in an instant, made him watch the scene even more intently. Whatever it was, Anon didn't want to miss the moment of revelation.

"You understand what you're doing, don't you?" The bleeding man's smirk didn't quite mask the fear in his voice. "If you attack us now, you'll provoke an angry mob. They won't hesitate to step in and stop you."

The man with the bloodied knife remained unnervingly calm, his expression as nonchalant as ever. "You think so?" he replied, his tone almost mocking. "Well, it's a good thing I made arrangements. Some extra help."

The bleeding man stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "Help? What help? Who'd be crazy enough to back you lunatics?"

The knife-wielder grinned, a glint of malice in his eye. "Like-minded people."

And then—

"Hey! What are you— Guh!"

"AAAAHHHHHHH!"

"MURDER!"

It all happened too quickly. Chaos erupted in an instant, screams and cries slicing through the tense atmosphere.

Anon's eyes darted to the source of the commotion, and his heart sank. Bodies hit the ground, blood pooling beneath them, the air thick with panic and desperation. And then there was the light—an eerie, radiant glow rising from each corpse as if their very essence was being harvested after every kill.

The bleeding man and his companions froze, their expressions contorted in sheer horror.

A massacre.

A brutal, unrelenting massacre unfolded before their eyes. The carnage was unlike anything Anon had ever seen—sudden, savage, and overwhelming.

"And by the way…" The knife-wielding man's voice dripped with menace, a sinister edge that sent chills racing down the spines of those who dared to listen. "Before you all die here, let me share a little courtesy."

He smirked, casually gesturing with his bloodied knife, its crimson sheen catching the dim light like a macabre beacon. "This wasn't our idea. Oh no, the ones you should be thanking are over there."

The knife's tip pointed toward a nearby group, clad entirely in black. At their center stood a tall, bald man, his face marred by scars that seemed to tell a lifetime of violence. He stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back, exuding an air of unshakable authority.

"Wh-Who are they?" The bleeding man's voice trembled as he fought to steady it. "And h-how could they d-do this?"

The knife-wielder chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. "People you don't want to mess with."

The answer, delivered with grave certainty, hung in the air like a death knell.