Surviving These Unfair Scenarios [LITRPG - DIMENSION HOPPING]

Interlude - Fixing These Unfair Scenarios: Chapter 4

Adam stood at the edge of the battlefield, silent and unmoving, his body heavy with exhaustion and his thoughts hollow. Around him stretched the dark expanse of Luminferna, a realm buried deep beneath all others, known to those who survived its horrors as the dominion of demons and the dead. The sky was nothing but a churning ceiling of molten rock, and every breath came tainted with ash and heat. Pillars of charred stone jutted out from the broken terrain like fractured ribs, and rivers of slow-burning fire cut through the ground, illuminating the corpses that lay twisted across the scorched battlefield. The air trembled with residual energy from the battle that had just ended, and the stench of sulfur and blood was everywhere.

This was not a place for the living, but Team Abyss had been thrown into it regardless.

His current team—what remained of it—was barely conscious, sprawled across the blackened ground in various states of pain and defeat. He didn't know most of their names, and he doubted they knew his. That was the nature of Team Abyss. They were not comrades. They were temporary pieces forced together by the system, used and discarded with each scenario. No one lasted. Those who joined rarely survived more than one or two missions. Some didn't even make it past the first day. Over the last six months, Adam had seen the faces change over and over again, watched them vanish into the ground or be torn apart by enemies that weren't even meant to be fought.

And now Leila was gone too.

She hadn't been like the others. She had been more than a name, more than a face to him. She had been his ally, his mentor, the one person he had come to rely on when everything else fell apart. They had endured together since the beginning, surviving the collapse of their original team and the nightmare that followed when they were forced into Team Abyss. She had accompanied him through every system mechanic, they learned together how to fight, how to adapt, how to hide the fear that burned in their chest every time a new scenario appeared.

She had been the one who never gave up, even when everything seemed hopeless. Her death, just three scenarios ago during the clash against 'Ctrl+Alt+Die', had been brutal. The battle was one of the worst they had faced, and by the end, Adam had done what he had never wanted to do. He had killed the entire enemy team, wiped them out himself to survive. It had been his first complete Team Wipe. The system rewarded him for it, but there was no satisfaction, no pride, and certainly no joy—only silence where her voice should have been.

She had died in front of him. He had reached her too late. The wound had been fatal, and she had known it. She had still tried to smile, still tried to speak, but the blood had filled her lungs before she could say anything. He had held her hand until the light left her eyes, and since then, he hadn't spoken unless absolutely necessary.

Adam had never wanted to kill anyone. Not truly. Even in Team Abyss, where the mechanics rewarded murder and demanded cruelty, he had tried to find another way. During his first scenario as a member of the infamous faction, he had taken a life, but only because he had no other choice. The 'Mark of the Damned' had taken root in his mind and without a sufficient number of P.O.I.N.T.S, it would have consumed his sanity. It was a curse, a system-implanted madness that burned through thought and memory, fracturing reason. He had been desperate.

Since then, every scenario has been a bloodbath. Not because he chose it, but because the system demanded it. As a Team Abyss user, the rules were different. He earned P.O.I.N.T.S by killing others—but he had learned, too late, that users from other teams earned even more for killing Team Abyss members. They were targets instead of hunters, prey from the moment they arrived in a scenario.

They had fought back because they had no other option. And with every battle, every death, Adam felt a part of himself disappear. He didn't know how much longer he could keep going. The only thing that had kept him sane, that had held him together through the madness, was the promise that one day he might escape. That he and Leila might survive this hell.

Now that promise felt like a lie.

He could still remember her calling him a dumb kid like the first time they spoke. And how she told him he had eyes like someone who had already given up. Then she said he reminded her of her son… That was the moment it changed. They didn't talk about it much, but something solidified between them.

When he cried after his first kill, she let him. Then she made him get up and prepare for the next scenario. When he collapsed from exhaustion, she stayed awake to keep watch. When he broke, she helped him put the pieces back together without pretending it would be fine. It never would be, and she never lied to him.

She told him about her son often. Said he had just turned nine before she disappeared. She used to take him to school every morning and pick him up every afternoon. She hated that she didn't get to say goodbye. Sometimes, when they found a rare moment of calm, she would sit quietly and murmur stories about him as if trying to memorize every last detail before the system could take that from her too.

She said she would get out of this place. That she would see him again. She said it like a promise she needed to believe in. Adam had listened in silence every time, never interrupting, and when she asked what he was fighting for, he said he wanted to see his parents again. That was the only truth he could hold onto. He wanted to go back before he forgot their faces.

They weren't proud of what they had become, and neither of them tried to pretend otherwise. But they had survived longer than anyone else. They had grown stronger than the system expected them to.

And now she was gone.

The one person who had kept him from falling apart. The one who made the killing bearable. The one who reminded him of who he used to be. And all Adam could do was sit beside her until the system forced the scenario forward without her.

There was no one left to tell him it would be okay…

Adam stared at the space where she should have been if she were still alive. The edge of the plateau was uneven and still glowing faintly from the last exchange of attacks, but that wasn't what held his gaze. He remembered exactly where she had stood, slightly off to the side with her arms crossed and eyes already watching for the next threat. Now there was nothing there. Just the scorched stone and the unbearable weight of her absence.

His hands remained at his sides, fingers closed so tightly the skin had gone pale from the pressure, but there was no tension in his body anymore, only stillness. Behind him, the others waited in silence. No one dared speak because they understood this wasn't the moment to talk. Even though Adam didn't really care about them, he had kept them alive through the scenario, led them through decisions that none of them had wanted to make, and fought until their enemies stopped moving.

They owed their survival to him, but they were not friends. They didn't walk beside him, they followed behind. They knew he would continue moving forward because he had to, and they stayed close only because standing anywhere else would get them killed.

He breathed in slowly and felt the dryness scrape through his throat. There was no comfort in it. The scenario wasn't over. It had been delayed. A handful of enemy users had been captured during the last assault, kept barely alive on purpose to extend the time limit before the system forced an ending. It gave the team a temporary window to rest, but that wasn't why Adam hadn't ended it.

He needed something from this world—something that had value beyond P.O.I.N.T.S. He hadn't told the others what he was looking for. They wouldn't understand, or maybe they didn't care. But this realm, Luminferna, held knowledge buried beneath the layers of fire and ash, and he intended to find it before this place was erased.

Long ago, Adam had heard rumors from dying users, fragments of broken speech whispered through bloodied lips as they pleaded for their lives. Not all had begged. Some had traded information, trying to barter knowledge in exchange for a faster end. From them, he had learned of something buried deep within the scenario of Luminferna.

An entity that did not serve the demons, nor was born of them. It was said to be human in origin, possibly the soul of a user who had died in the system but refused to leave, or someone who had willingly surrendered their place in the cycle to remain trapped in this world. The stories conflicted, but they all pointed to the same thing—this being, called simply the Prophet, was capable of glimpsing the future of others, of answering a question hidden deep within a user's heart, something they desired but had not spoken aloud.

Adam hadn't believed it at first, but the more he heard, the more he began to wonder if it was true. And now that Leila was gone, and the scenario was still active, he had decided to test that chance. He had left the others behind, ordering them to keep the prisoners alive and stay hidden. This was something only he could do.

The journey had taken an entire day. He traveled through the shattered plains of Luminferna alone, passing silent ruins buried in shadow and climbing jagged cliffs lit only by the veins of magma far below. The air grew hotter the deeper he went, until it was difficult to breathe. His body burned from exertion and blood loss, but he pressed forward without pause. More than once, he was attacked—massive, armored demons drawn by the scent of a living soul walking freely where none should. He fought them without holding back, cutting them down one by one, each battle pushing him closer to collapse. He moved on regardless. He couldn't turn back. He didn't know if the Prophet was real, but he had to see for himself.

Eventually, after carving through the last of the creatures guarding the lower caverns, Adam stepped into a place unlike the rest of the underworld. The air grew still. The ground changed beneath his feet, no longer jagged obsidian but smoothed, polished stone. The walls glowed faint green, casting soft light across a cavern shaped like a temple lost to time. The space felt ancient, untouched by the scenario's corruption. And at the highest point, standing alone atop a narrow cliff, was a lone figure wrapped in soft light.

He climbed the narrow path leading up the slope, weapons ready, although something in the air told him it wouldn't be necessary. The moment he stepped within reach of the figure's presence, he stopped.

The entity looked human. It wore a cloak, simple and unadorned, and leaned on a crooked staff carved from twisted crystal. Its face was calm, expression gentle, eyes closed as if listening to something only it could hear. The green light that bathed the chamber came from it, casting no shadow.

Before Adam could speak, the figure turned toward him.

"Adam Scholar."

It said quietly, its voice smooth and melodic, carrying through the cavern with no need to raise it.

"You made it further than most. I am the Prophet. You came searching for answers, and I have them. But I already know they are not the ones you want to hear."

There was no malice in the words. No threat. Only a sadness that lingered in each syllable, as if the truth it held had weight enough to crush the one who asked for it.

Adam stood silently, his shoulders lowered, fatigue pulling at every part of him. He took another step forward, swallowing the tightness in his throat as he tried to speak. He didn't know how to form the question properly. He didn't even know if he was supposed to. Before he could find the words, the Prophet offered a faint smile and lifted the staff in one hand.

"Time is not a line."

The Prophet said.

"It is a road of countless branches. I see them all. I see where you have been, I see what you will say, and I see what is already waiting for you. You do not need to ask. The answer is already here."

From the top of the staff, a soft vapor began to rise. It swirled upward in long, controlled trails before settling into the air above them. The mist thickened and shifted, and within seconds, shapes formed—images, clear and bright, suspended above the Prophet like a living tapestry. They moved slowly at first, then gained speed and clarity. The Prophet raised his hand beneath the visions.

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"I see past and future all at once, not only of this place, but of every world."

Adam took a step forward, his voice shaking.

"My parents… I want to know—"

The boy said. The Prophet lowered his hand. His smile faded.

"Looking into the future always carries a price; rarely is it what one hopes to see. Are you certain you wish to know?"

Adam's hands were trembling. He clenched them into fists, his jaw tight, but he nodded. The Prophet closed his eyes. A tear fell down his cheek and vanished into the mist.

The images above them shifted again. The green glow faded slightly, replaced by a gentler light. Adam looked up, watching the smoke coalesce into the shape of two people standing beneath a streetlamp. His heart clenched the moment he recognized them.

The mist above them changed. The images inside began to flow again. They no longer looked like shapes—they were moments. Real ones. Time caught in motion. The boy stepped closer, his eyes locked on the vision.

He saw a small, dim apartment. His mother was inside. She looked thinner than he remembered—exhausted, her cheeks sunken, her eyes wide and bloodshot. There were notes pinned to the walls. Maps. Photos. Handwritten letters addressed to agencies. Every surface in the room was covered with signs of her search. She sat in front of a small television, holding her phone in one hand and a worn picture in the other. Her lips moved, whispering to herself, again and again.

"She never stopped looking for you."

The Prophet said.

"She walked streets every day, hoping to see your face. She contacted everyone who might help. She offered everything she owned to strangers, begging them to trace something that could not be reached. She did not sleep. She did not eat properly. And yet, she walked."

The scene changed. It was nighttime. Adam's mother was walking down a dimly lit road, bundled in a thin coat. Her steps were slow, her hands shaking. The wind pressed against her, but she didn't stop. She clutched a paper with Adam's name written in bold letters, worn and folded too many times. Then, halfway across the street, her legs gave out. Her body collapsed forward. A light flared. A horn blared. Tires screeched across the screen.

"She collapsed in the middle of her search."

The Prophet said, barely louder than a whisper.

"And the world did not stop for her."

Adam's mouth opened, but nothing came out. His knees felt weak. The scene continued. In the hospital, a man sat alone. Adam's father. He looked older, broken in a way he didn't recognize. The fire in his eyes was gone. He sat hunched over in the waiting room for hours. Then days. Then weeks.

"He could not bear the weight of losing her."

The Prophet continued.

"He blamed himself for not stopping her, for not finding you, for not being enough. He stopped leaving the apartment. He stopped answering calls. His last weeks were spent writing down everything he could remember about you and about her."

The image changed again. Adam saw a notebook, pages filled with dates, small memories, and at the end, a final note scrawled in desperate handwriting.

"I'm sorry. I should have protected both of you. I don't know how to forgive myself."

Adam watched as his father stepped to the edge of a bridge and never came back.

The mist shattered into light.

Adam staggered backward, then dropped to his knees. The sound he let out wasn't a scream—it was something deeper. A broken gasp, raw and strangled. He pressed both hands to the stone floor and sobbed. His body convulsed as grief overtook him completely. There was no system mechanic to numb this. He shouted into the empty air, a wordless cry of pain. His fists slammed the ground again and again, skin splitting on stone, but he didn't stop.

Tears ran down his face, soaking the dust below him. His mouth opened again, but there were no words left. He was breathing in fragments, and everything inside him was tearing apart.

The Prophet stood still. He did not move, nor did he speak. There was nothing else to say.

Adam curled in on himself, shuddering. He had survived monsters, he had endured the worst scenarios, he had killed when the system demanded it—but he had done it believing that someday, somehow, he would return. That there would be someone left to return to. That his pain would have meaning because they would still be there to see him come home.

He stood before the Prophet, broken by what he had seen. His body trembled, his knees bruised from how violently he had collapsed, and his throat raw from the cries that had torn out of him. But the pain didn't fade. It clung to his skin like a second layer. He dragged himself forward, still sobbing, his hands scraping against the cold stone as he crawled toward the Prophet.

"Please!"

He begged, his voice shaking.

"There has to be something. Anything. Isn't there a way to change it?"

The Prophet's face was wet with tears. His eyes remained closed, but his hand clenched the staff more tightly than before.

"No…"

He whispered.

"What has happened, has happened. What is destined must be fulfilled. This is the fate you must carry. The end you were always meant to face. No path leads you out of the system."

Adam shook his head, nearly losing balance. He reached up, grabbing weakly at the Prophet's robes, pressing his forehead to the hem of the cloak.

"There must be something. You said you can see all branches. All timelines. If there's even one where I make it out, even one where they live, then there has to be a way to reach it. If the system sees everything, then it must have a point where I can go back."

The Prophet knelt slowly. He placed one hand on Adam's back and bowed his head. He could feel every tremor in the young man's body. His voice was gentle, almost fatherly.

"You are not the first to ask. You will not be the last. I have watched so many break like this. And I weep for all of them. But you must understand. There is nothing that—"

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The Prophet flinched. His eyes snapped open, and he staggered backward, gasping. The chamber flickered. The walls twisted briefly out of shape, light bending in unnatural angles as reality slipped and recovered. None of it was visible to Adam, who remained bowed, still crying, still begging. But the Prophet felt it. He had sensed something shift—something impossible.

He stared at the staff in his hand, then slowly at the world around him. A glitch had passed through everything. One he could see. One he was not supposed to witness.

And then, for the first time in an age beyond count, the Prophet spoke words that had never come to him before.

"No way..."

Adam's sobbing stopped. His breathing was still ragged, but he slowly raised his head.

"What? What did you say?"

The Prophet was pale. His grip on the staff tightened. He wasn't looking at Adam. He was staring through him, trying to comprehend what he had just seen.

"I saw something…"

The Prophet said.

"A path. Not one I had ever seen before. It wasn't there until now. It didn't branch from your timeline. It came from outside it. A world born differently."

Adam struggled to his feet, using the Prophet's shoulder for support.

"Show me. Please. Show me."

The Prophet raised the staff again. The vapor returned, but this time it didn't flow like before. It surged upward in a steady, growing spiral, expanding across the chamber. Images formed in rapid succession—cities that Adam had never seen, skies unfamiliar, faces unknown. And then the mist stilled.

"Time flows forward, but it is not always fixed."

The Prophet said.

"Sometimes... a new current forms, fed by choices not made, by voices not heard. Destiny cannot be changed. But it can be rewritten—if a new quill finds its way to the parchment."

The smoke above them began to shape itself into something new. A figure appeared. It was Adam. He stood upright, still crying, but his face was no longer alone. He was surrounded by people. A group of nearly a dozen—men, women, and even a child clinging to him. Some held his shoulders, others embraced him. He was not fighting. He was not breaking. He was standing, supported, whole.

Adam stared at the image in disbelief.

"What is this?"

He asked. The Prophet closed his eyes again.

"This is a world where your suffering was not yours alone. A world where you were found before it was too late. Where your parents were reached in time, where your beloved Leila is still alive. A world where I helped you get home… A world with a destiny still being written."

Adam's voice was still hoarse when he spoke, but there was no hesitation.

"How do I reach that world? How do I get there? Tell me what I need to do."

The Prophet's expression darkened. He slowly shook his head, his hand still gripping the staff tightly.

"That world does not belong to you, and that future is not yours. It was never meant to be. It is a path for someone else, forged by choices you have not made, shaped by a fate that is not your own. You cannot reach it."

Adam's shoulders tensed. His voice rose sharply, filled with disbelief and anger.

"Then why show it to me? Why show me that I could be saved? That I could have a life like that? Why give me that hope just to tell me I'll never have it?"

The Prophet did not flinch. He stood in silence for a moment, then spoke again with calm but undeniable weight.

"Because it is not impossible. There is a way. But to reach it, you must make a decision that will strip you of everything you are. You must understand that destiny cannot be erased. Adam Scholar cannot leave the system. Adam Scholar has a place in its structure, and that place is a lonely end. That must come to pass."

For a moment, there was only the sound of the cavern breathing around them. The vapor above them had already faded. The light was softer now, dimmed, as if it too waited for the boy's reply. Adam's mouth stayed shut, but his eyes were wide, staring at the Prophet without blinking. Something had shifted in his gaze. Then he slowly nodded, as if he had finally understood the meaning hidden between the Prophet's words.

He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand. His movements were slower, more focused. His breathing had leveled, and the trembling in his limbs was gone. He stepped back from the Prophet and lowered his head respectfully.

"Thank you."

Adam said. Then he turned around without another word and began to walk away. The Prophet extended his hand toward him.

"Where are you going?"

He asked quietly, a trace of desperation in his voice. Adam didn't stop walking. He didn't look back. His voice was steady.

"To make a decision."

The Prophet stood still. He lowered his hand slowly, watching the boy vanish into the green-lit shadows of the temple's entrance. He bowed his head, lips barely moving, and whispered to no one.

"I know… the wrong one."

Lauren woke with a jolt, the sound of her own voice echoing in her ears. She had shouted—she was sure of it—but now everything was quiet. Her vision adjusted to the light, and she quickly realized she was still in the Patron's Domain, sitting in one of the small viewing stands. A pile of cards had collapsed onto her lap, and beside her, Dreaming_Tyrant was pouting, her tail flicking behind her in frustration.

"You moved!"

Dreaming_Tyrant complained, crossing her arms.

"I was almost done!"

Lauren blinked, still disoriented.

"Done with what?"

"My card castle. On your head."

She replied with a huff.

"It was my best one yet."

Lauren rubbed her forehead, sitting up straighter.

"Wait, I fell asleep? I didn't think Patrons could sleep."

Dreaming_Tyrant tilted her head and shrugged.

"I don't know. I mean, I've seen some doze off sometimes. But it's not like we need it. Maybe it's just for fun."

Lauren looked down, her thoughts still clouded by the vivid dream she had just had. It hadn't felt like a dream. It had felt too specific. She remembered every moment of it. Adam. The Prophet. The images of his parents. The glitch. That strange override message. The way it all ended with Adam turning away.

She frowned, running a hand through her hair. If she was remembering right, that part of the story had never gone like that. In the original novel, that was the moment Adam lost all hope, when he fully accepted his role as a villain and cast aside the last of his humanity. But her dream had shown something else. Something new. And that message… Gilgamesh. She knew that name from somewhere.

But before she could process it further, Dreaming_Tyrant was already tugging at her arm.

"Come on!"

The little Patron said brightly.

"There's a new scenario starting at the west wing stand. It's a mid-tier team, but I heard it has good character drama and at least two betrayals. You'll love it."

Lauren hesitated for only a second longer, then pushed the dream to the back of her mind. She could think about it later. There were too many questions she couldn't answer yet. Besides, Dreaming_Tyrant was already halfway down the hallway, turning back with her usual smile and impatient bouncing.

With a sigh and a smile of her own, Lauren stood up and followed her, the last fragments of the dream fading behind her as the glow of the next scenario called them forward.