Dransart returned to his resting place with his wives, his mind restless. The Sovereign had given each player their weapon back—but separately, so none could know what the others carried.
He thought deeply: If weapons are returned, then combat is inevitable. Yet I cannot be sure. I only saw Vazor's sword, and that alone makes the situation mysterious. The Sovereign's palm covers this entire realm—I cannot sneak, cannot spy. I must wait.
Unable to unravel the puzzle, Dransart turned to dual cultivation with his wives, then surrendered to sleep.
The Next Day
The Sovereign appeared, her voice echoing across the void.
"There will be tiles floating in the air. You cannot stay too long or too short. If you stand on a single tile, it will rise. Pass the height limit, and you are eliminated. The ground limit will also rise as time passes. I wish you the worst—and best—of luck."
The countdown began. Set… Go.
The Weapons Revealed
At last, the players revealed their weapons:
- Terbol wielded the Curse Cross—a relic born of betrayal. A faithful follower, abandoned by his god, poured resentment into the divine object. It wounded even the god-king, who now meditates in silence.
- Vazor carried the Stretchable Sword—forged by a blacksmith obsessed with elongation, who infused his soul and a mysterious stone into the blade.
- Light held the All-Knowing Book—a tome written by a rebel who defied heaven, recording all truths in blood before his death.
- Protogonaist possessed the Portable Bagwonder—a creation of the blacksmith's genius disciple, capable of storing and processing anything into potions or weapons.
- Dransart remained silent, but in his heart he knew: this was a fight disguised as survival. The Sovereign's authority prevented direct killing, but the weapons were meant to hinder, sabotage, and force eliminations.
Light, ever the schemer, pieced together the lore. The god in meditation is the god-king himself. The book's creator lies in hell. The blacksmith and his disciple's weapons are here. And the disciple's proud creation—the Swift Sword—exists in this realm. Unbelievable.
The Floating Tiles
The game began. Tiles shimmered, rising and falling in unpredictable rhythm.
- Terbol sprinted across them, exhilarated by the sensation of floating. Yet each tile cracked beneath his cursed aura.
- Light stood calmly before him, smirking. "Come fight me if you dare." Terbol unleashed his skill, Spread Unluck. The tiles shifted—first and third aligned, the middle rose higher. Light leapt beneath the second tile, avoiding disaster. His movements drew him dangerously close to the others, sowing resentment.
The players began to hate Terbol, blaming him for the instability.
Dransart watched carefully. This is no simple race. It is a battlefield disguised as a puzzle. The Sovereign wants us to clash, to sabotage, to fall.
The tiles rose higher, the ground limit creeping upward. Each step was perilous. Each weapon hummed faintly, eager to be used.
The Sovereign's laughter echoed above them.
"Dance, mortals. Dance upon the tiles. Only one will remain."