Chapter 9: Whispers of Fate

Nile's head throbbed as he regained consciousness, the damp scent of stone filling his nostrils. His body felt leaden, his limbs sluggish—but something was wrong.

The air around him was thick with silence, punctuated only by the distant sound of footsteps and the hushed murmurs of voices beyond the iron bars.

Then, he heard them.

The guards.

"The battle will start soon," one muttered, his voice a whisper on the stale air.

"The king had a brilliant idea," another replied, amusement curling in his tone. "Separating each prisoner. Masking their faces. Let's see how they rip each other apart now."

Nile's pulse spiked, his breath quickening. Masks?

Ethan. The others. They were out there—but now, no one would recognize each other. No alliances. No trust. Just chaos.

Then—

A voice.

Not from the guards.

Not from anyone nearby.

But from within his own head.

"Are you content?... Is this enough?... Do you want victory? Check your pocket… check your luck"

A shiver crawled up his spine. His hand moved instinctively, sliding into his left pocket.

His fingers brushed against something soft.

Something impossibly familiar.

A paper towel.

His breath hitched. The same one from before. The very one he was staring at when he first arrived in this world.

But how?

How was this here?

What would I do with a single paper towel?!

His thoughts spiraled, panic creeping into his veins. Was this proof the world wasn't real? A sign? A cruel trick of the arena?

His chest tightened, heart hammering in his ears. His body screamed at him—run, fight, survive—but his mind fixated on the absurdity of it all.

Then, a chilling thought struck him.

Is the wish still real?

Could he still escape? Could he still go home?

The clanking of iron snapped him back to the now.

The prison door groaned open.

Tension coiled in his muscles, every nerve-fraying as adrenaline surged through his veins. His breathing quickened, and his senses sharpened.

What would I do with this paper towel?! How could I survive with this? If it were a weapon, a knife—anything but this useless scrap!

Then—

A faint glow from his right pocket.

A flicker of cold, unnatural light against his ribs.

Nile's breath stalled as he reached for it, fingers trembling. The moment he touched it, a pulse of energy snapped through his arm, electric and foreign.

His heart lurched.

A Dice

Shock gripped him. Where had this come from? He had nothing before. The guards had stripped him of everything.

Yet here it was. Dice..

Before he could process it, heavy footsteps approached.

A guard loomed in the doorway, his helmet concealing any hint of emotion. Without a word, he motioned for Nile to step forward.

The moment he did, rough hands clamped onto him, dragging him into the corridor.

The Arena of Shadows

The hallway stretched endlessly, lined with masked figures. Prisoners, just like him.

Each one clad in unfamiliar garments. Stripped of their identities.

The tension was suffocating. No one spoke. No one knew who stood beside them.

They marched in silence, the distant roar of the coliseum growing louder with each step.

And then—

Blinding light.

The gates swung open, revealing a sea of spectators.

The crowd erupted in savage cheers, their excitement deafening.

Above them, perched high on his throne, King Greg watched, his ten wives lounging beside him, their faces alight with amusement.

The king's smirk widened as he leaned forward, his golden goblet glinting in the sun.

A single deep drumbeat rumbled through the air.

The battle was about to begin.

Ethan's Search

Ethan stood across the arena, his stance tight with tension.

His eyes raked over the masked figures, his heart pounding in his chest.

Where is he?

He scanned their movements, their posture, their stance—but he couldn't find Nile.

Everyone looked the same. Every mask erased the faces of the men he had fought beside.

His fingers curled into fists.

If he couldn't recognize Nile—then the Nile couldn't recognize him either.

Damn it.

There was no time for plans. No time for signals.

The weapons were scattered across the sand, glinting under the sun.

Twenty contestants.

Nineteen enemies.

And in Nile's hand—

A single, out-of-place paper towel.

A reminder of a world long gone.

The Blood Trial Begins

At the second tumble of the drum, the prisoners instinctively sized each other up.

Some reached for weapons. Others stepped back, calculating their odds.

The masks turned them all into strangers.

No one knew who their allies were. Suspicion clouded every mind.

Then—

A final, thunderous beat.

The king raised his goblet.

"Let the game begin."

And the killing started.