Thief of blood and souls

[One million creatures between the ages of 15 and 65 will be randomly selected to become players.]

[These players will gain access to the Infinite Continent, where anything is possible—a place where mere mortals have the opportunity to rise to greatness.]

[The future awaits the fortunate, but be cautious. Although it may seem like a game at first, the Infinite Continent is very real, and death in that space also means death in your world.]

[Good luck, Earthlings.]

The golden light faded, and the entire world was plunged into a sepulchral silence. Every person within the age range waited anxiously, the excitement palpable on their faces.

When the golden light disappeared, everyone knew what would happen next: a million randomly selected people would see a glowing panel appear before them, welcoming them to the world of players. Shortly after, they would be transported to the Infinite Continent.

The fortunate ones would be chosen within minutes of the global announcement, so everyone watched in anticipation, fully aware of what this opportunity meant.

For ordinary or wealthy people, being selected was a chance to dramatically improve their social status—to obtain wealth, power, and longevity beyond their wildest dreams.

They would gain access to opportunities that a normal human could never experience, more than enough reason to desire being chosen, despite the high mortality rate. Ambition and greed outweighed the potential risk of death.

For the people in the suburbs, however, being selected meant something even more. Of course, wealth and power were just as tempting to them as to anyone else.

But above all, it meant that once chosen, they could finally escape the filthy hellhole they called home, return to society, and be treated like real humans again.

Most past crimes would be immediately absolved upon becoming a player. Even in severe cases like murder or child molestation—offenses that were not pardoned upon ascension—there would still be many powerful underground organizations willing to recruit and invest resources to bring them back into the city.

No matter who they were, everyone wished to be chosen.

Kyle was no different, but in his case, he only felt a vague, ironic expectation rather than a strong yearning. He understood perfectly well how slim the odds were—it was simple math. With a global population of around 10 billion, even excluding the 40 million players who had survived on the Infinite Continent, the probability of being selected was only one in ten thousand.

He didn't trust his luck enough to entertain false hopes, so he returned to his hideout, content with the idea of spending the night reading after a long time.

However, in life, sometimes—very rarely—miracles do happen.

[Congratulations.]

A golden, almost blinding text screen appeared before his eyes, stopping him in his tracks as if an invisible wall had suddenly appeared before him.

His expression went blank as he stared at the glowing text for several seconds. But the game didn't grant extra time to those in shock.

[You have been selected to become a player.]

[You will be transported to the Infinite Continent in thirty seconds.]

Kyle struggled to process what was happening, but as he read the notification, reality hit him like a freight train.

He sprinted toward his hideout with all the speed he could muster. His eyes darted around the room for a few seconds before landing on the old mattress he used as a bed. Lifting it, he reached underneath and grabbed an eighty-centimeter-long butcher's machete he had found a couple of months ago.

Next, he grabbed a small lighter he had taken from a corpse a few days prior—one with enough fuel to last several hours. He also grabbed a box containing three bottles filled with oil, each sealed with a cloth stopper. He had once heard them referred to as Molotov cocktails by a gang member who lived in the dump.

One day, he had seen a gang member making them and memorized the process. He always made sure to keep a few on hand—just in case.

Once he had everything he deemed useful, the thirty seconds of borrowed time came to an end.

At that same moment, all around the world, every chosen individual rushed to grab a weapon.

It was common practice to have at least one weapon in every household, just in case someone was selected. It was a custom shared by much of the population, as new players could take anything with them—except magical items or firearms. Cold weapons were the best option.

Wealthier individuals had custom-made weapons and armor of the highest quality, perfectly suited to their needs. Others, with fewer resources, settled for more affordable weapons bought specifically for situations like these. Then there were those who barely had enough to survive, let alone buy a weapon for an occasion that would probably never happen to them, leaving them unarmed.

Some, due to specific circumstances, simply didn't have the time or ability to get a weapon before their departure.

And when the thirty seconds were up, exactly one million people vanished from the face of the earth. Some would return as players. Others would simply never return.

When Kyle regained consciousness, he found himself in a dark space, floating in a void with absolutely nothing around him. There was no air, no ground, no sky—nothing that even remotely resembled the material world. It was simply... emptiness.

[Beginning the awakening of innate talent.]

[The process will be slightly painful. The player is asked to endure.]

"Huh?" Kyle took a moment to adjust to his surroundings and register the notifications. But by then, the process had already begun.

"!!!AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"