You Already Won

Gold gems:

300 × 50,000,000 = (15 billion) points

Black gems:

3 × 450,000,000 = (1.35 billion) points

Total:

15,000,000,000 + 1,350,000,000 = (16.35 billion) points

Tinsurnae perched high in the tangled canopy, legs dangling from a thick branch, the forest humming beneath him. He idly spun a gold gem between his fingers, the other 299 stashed in a velvet pouch at his side, three black gems nestled like precious stones in a separate, heavily knotted bag. Sixteen-point-three-five billion points after only four days—by any measure, he was thriving.

He exhaled, watching shafts of golden light flicker through the leaves, distant explosions and strange cries echoing now and then from deeper in the woods. Birdlike creatures flitted from branch to branch, a few dropping offerings of berries and shiny rocks, as if they recognized him as some new part of the ecosystem.

This wasn't what he pictured when Rhan first dumped the "ten-year plan" on him. He'd thought being a Rituain meant feasts and wild parties, the kind of chaotic fun he'd come to love in their sky-palace. Instead, here he was—hunting, hoarding, surviving, and sometimes fighting for his life.

He rolled his eyes. I already won, didn't I? Why keep pushing? Why not just enjoy it? But the answer always circled back to Rhan's inscrutable goals. If this brutal, nuke-riddled "game" was just the opening act, what came next?

Tinsurnae stretched out along the branch, glancing down at the glinting pile of gems in his lap. Five years ago, Earth felt like a lot. Here, even the trees felt ancient, and the sky seemed endless.

Still, he thought, beats working retail.

He let himself drift in the gentle sway of the tree, savoring the peace.

"Hey!" a voice barked from below.

Tinsurnae looked down through the sun-dappled leaves, squinting. A small army of contestants—twenty at least—clustered around the base of his tree, every one armored or robed in some wild, impractical fashion. He knew better than to judge by appearances; in Requiem, strength builds dressed like wizards, and the cleverest mages sometimes wore full plate. Ryun made deception easy, and outfits were just a layer of strategy.

He let his eyes linger on their leader—a striking figure who stepped forward. Purple skin, long orange hair braided tight, six golden eyes and a face built without a nose. Their robe was a split of identities: one side rigid like a knight's tabard, the other flowing, embroidered with celestial script. It was a look that screamed half-preacher, half-paladin, and absolutely all business.

The leader called up, their voice low but ringing with practiced authority. "You look like you've done well for yourself. Word travels—especially when a tree's practically radiating high gem energy."

Tinsurnae just glared, green eyes cold under the hood. He didn't say a word, letting the silence—and the height—work for him.

The leader didn't rise to the bait. "We're not here for a fight. Quite the opposite, actually." They motioned to their group, who all stood ready but didn't reach for weapons. "We've been collecting gems, but carrying them like that? Makes you a target for more than just us. We could combine what we have. Share the burden, increase our odds, and take the win together. Or," they smiled with all six eyes, "you could keep hoarding, and every group from here to the center will come hunting."

The offer hung in the air, tension thrumming between branches and earth. It wasn't a bad pitch. In a world where trust was a currency even rarer than gold, it was also probably a trap. But Tinsurnae had survived the Rituain for years—he knew how to play the long game, and how to bluff when needed.

He rested his chin on his hand, pretending to consider as he watched them all, calculating.

"Last night was pretty loud. Lot of screaming—someone was out here raiding groups and natives alike. I assume that wasn't your people?" His smile was sharp.

The purple-skinned leader stepped forward, hands spread in a gesture of innocence. "No. Name's Focvie by the way. Whoever was doing that, it wasn't us. Maybe they left us alone because of our numbers, or maybe we just got lucky."

"Lucky?" Tinsurnae echoed, eyebrow raised beneath his hood. "Luck tends to run out around here." He shifted slightly, gems clinking in the pouch. "How about those gems you want to pool together—how many have you collected?"

Focvie hesitated, the six eyes flicking over his group, measuring Tinsurnae in turn. "Enough to get us noticed. Not enough to draw the kind of raid we saw last night." The group behind him shifted, wary.

"'Enough' isn't a number," Tinsurnae pressed, tone still light. "I thought this was about teamwork. Full transparency, right? You said combine our hauls and increase our odds. So how many?"

A quiet stretched between them. Focvie didn't answer immediately. The forest's hush was suddenly louder, tension winding tight.

Tinsurnae's smile widened. "Something wrong? I thought we were all supposed to work together." His gaze sharpened, studying the group for the slightest twitch. "Or is this more of a 'your pile first, ours second' situation?"

Focvie met his stare, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Trust is a precious thing here. We can talk numbers when we know you're serious. Wouldn't want to show all our cards before the deal's made."

Tinsurnae nodded, as if considering a business offer. "That's fair. Just so you know, I'm not much for blind trades either. As a fellow Rituain, I'm sure you understand."

He stayed silent, letting the next move belong to Focvie, all while watching the way the group fidgeted below.

Focvie leaned forward a little. "I expected nothing less from… uh, sorry, what was your name again? For a Rituain, you're more human-looking than demi-human." His eyes flicked to the green and purple robe, the sigil gleaming on the back, and then to the black sandals. So he figured this man was from the Top Tribe.

Tinsurnae smiled thinly. "That's an odd thing to say. Rituains come in all shapes and sizes."

Focvie shrugged. "Fair enough. What's your name?"

"Name's Tinsurnae." He straightened up, dusting off his robe. "And just so we're clear, I have a little over sixteen billion points."

That revelation sent a ripple through the group. Contestants muttered, glancing at one another with greed and disbelief. Even Focvie's six eyes widened for a heartbeat before he schooled his expression.

Focvie tried again, his voice all diplomacy. "That's exactly why we should work together. With that many points, we could—"

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Tinsurnae waved him off, tone turning cold. "No thanks. You want to try teamwork, go find the burning sigil guy. Maybe he'll help—if he's not insane."

Focvie pressed, a hint of desperation now. "Look, there's strength in numbers. If we—"

Tinsurnae cut him off, voice soft and final. "Go on your way. I'm not sharing my haul."

Focvie's expression hardened. "Unfortunately, we can't let sixteen billion points just walk away." The group fanned out, weapons and Ryun gathering.

Tinsurnae just sighed—and the ground beneath Focvie's group split open. A monstrous mouth erupted from the earth, swallowing the entire squad in one swift, impossibly silent gulp. Only Focvie remained, staring in horror as the last echoes of his team's screams faded.

Tinsurnae grinned, leaning forward on the branch. "Guess that puts me just over seventeen billion."

Focvie stumbled back, eyes wide with shock and a dawning fear. Tinsurnae just waved, unconcerned, letting the silence grow.

——

The armored warrior smashed through the temple wall, stone and earth thundering down in their wake. They barely hit the ground before their Ryun surged, rising behind them as a colossal battle avatar—hulking, spectral, wreathed in flickering runes. With a roar, the avatar hurled back the rubble, its hands blazing with force.

The warrior stood, battered but unbroken, and with a guttural yell, projected their Ryun-amped voice, a shockwave rippling toward the figure striding through the smoke.

Destiny was regal and fearsome—braided blonde hair so pale it nearly gleamed silver, black and gold battle robe swirling around her as she advanced. Her aura shimmered gold, shields layering and fractaling before her like the petals of a divine flower. She raised her hand, and hundreds—no, thousands—of Ryun blasts shot forward, pelting the warrior and avatar with relentless, burning precision.

The warrior summoned a titanic Ryun blade, meeting the onslaught head-on, carving through blasts as the avatar shielded him. But she was relentless. With a flick of her wrist, a golden whip snapped into existence, crackling with energy. It lashed out, wrapping around the avatar's arm and yanking it aside, opening the warrior to her next assault.

She pressed forward, summoning a sword—less metal than molten, burning like a sunlit saber, its edge spitting molten energy. The whip in one hand, the saber in the other, she darted in, trading blows with the avatar and its master. Energy flared and stones melted under the pressure, the two combatants locked in a battle of wills.

She moved with impossible speed, a dancer amidst chaos, her whip catching the avatar's leg while her saber carved glowing arcs in the air. Then, her eyes blazed gold and white—her body flickered, phasing forward in a single blinding arc of light.

She cut through both the warrior and his towering avatar in one seamless strike. Time itself seemed to pause—her blade emerging from the other side, molten and humming, the warrior and his spectral protector split in half.

The halves shuddered, the avatar dissolving into smoke, the warrior falling silently amidst the ruin of the temple.

She sighed, rolling her neck as the golden light faded. "Not as fun as I'd hoped," Destiny muttered, stepping over the bisected warrior. His Ryun-encased bag lay exposed—a neat little score for her trouble. She checked inside: one black gem, fifteen gold. Not bad. With practiced efficiency, she added them to her own stash—three black gems and two hundred seventeen gold—sealing the haul in her personal gold zone, a spatial-space pocket only she could access.

She glanced down at the fallen outlander as blood started to pool around them and organs spilled out. Strange, really—fighting someone from her old world, seeing the mix of terror and awe on their face before they died. But in Requiem, that didn't matter much. He attacked first, and she was still recovering from her battle with Cawren—that flaming lunatic really did treat this like a massive PVP tournament, hunting for thrill more than any real goal. The idiot barely cared about the gems at all.

That's what I signed up for, Destiny thought, a small, wry grin on her lips. Idiots chasing glory, monsters tearing through the world, every fight like extreme sports or MMA on steroids. There was a rush to it, an addictive pulse in her veins—dodging death, outmaneuvering creatures that could snap a mountain in two. Way better than languishing in that golden castle, day after day, a pretty bird in a jeweled cage.

Still, it gnawed at her. This world seemed built for people like her—designed for outcasts, adventurers, gods-in-waiting. Yet Vari and she were so different. What was it about this place, about fate, that split them so completely? Why could this world spawn both the ruthless Vari and someone like her?

She shoved the thought aside. There were gems to win, secrets to find, and plenty of worlds left to conquer. Whatever came next—idiots, monsters, or gods—she'd be ready. If Vari could do it, so could she. She wasn't lesser. Never would be.

Destiny grinned, stretching her arms and feeling the bite of her own exhaustion. One step, one fight at a time. That was the only way forward in a world this wild—and she was determined to make every step count.

———

Hunger makes you do crazy things. Jonathan was at the end of his rope—mind foggy, hands shaking, and ready to try eating almost anything that didn't move. The city was a warzone, screams echoing in the streets, but the buildings at least offered cover. If this is a cosmic Hunger Games, I must be the guy raiding the supply drop, he mused. Or maybe it was more like PUBG, considering how many abandoned homes he was rummaging through.

Food was food. He didn't care about the labels anymore. Fruit looked safe, especially if it was left in easy-to-reach spots and wasn't crawling with anything alive. He found a pile of dried berries, a half-loaf of something like bread, and what he hoped was actual cheese. He wolfed it all down, not bothering to savor the taste—just filling the gnawing pit in his stomach.

Slumping into a weirdly ornate chair, Jonathan let himself take in the room. The architecture was wild—a blend of ancient stone and floating crystals, with strange glyphs lining every surface. Would've been a cool tourist spot, he thought. Shame it's all getting leveled.

He stretched, finally feeling human again as the food settled in. With his energy back, the aches faded and his mind cleared. It was almost funny, thinking how two days ago he was dying, buried under rubble, barely holding on. Now? He was fed, healing, and—technically—thriving. Sure, he was stealing to survive, but if all the best stories started at rock bottom, he was destined for greatness.

Jonathan barely had a moment to enjoy his full stomach before he swung the door open. Immediately, a catlike turtle humanoid—shell cracked, fur singed—crashed onto the front steps, gouging a crater into the flagstones. The creature stared up at him with wide, pleading eyes, a look that screamed, Help me!

He stared back for half a second, then—without missing a beat—closed the door quietly. "Nope." There was a time and place for heroics, and Jonathan was in survival mode, not save-the-day mode.

He slipped out the back, weaving through a maze of alleys while chaos reigned in the streets. Raging Ryun blasts lit up the sky, shouts and distant detonations echoing everywhere. He kept his head down, skirting around brawls and leaving would-be challengers in the dust. Stealth was a skill worth leveling up, too.

It paid off: he stumbled across a toppled market cart wedged in a quiet lane. The canvas was torn but inside he found bottles of bright juice—tart and strangely refreshing, hopefully non-alcoholic—and, jackpot, a pile of clothes. They weren't perfect, but after two days of wandering in shorts and shreds, anything remotely clean and vaguely fitting felt like luxury. He dressed quickly, swapping out his battered rags for loose trousers and a tunic in muted city colors.

Whoever lived here must've been at least kinda human-shaped, he thought, glancing at his reflection in a polished pan. He hadn't met many locals, and with the wild mix of species in Requiem, he figured he wouldn't know a native from a competitor anyway.

Juice in one hand, gems jingling in his pouch, and a fresh outfit to blend in, Jonathan felt more like a player than a pawn. Next stop: more gems. Survival was cool, but winning—even just a little—was starting to look possible.

He rounded the corner—and froze. The cobblestones were slick with blood, a harsh, metallic scent twisting his stomach. Instinct screamed at him to get out, but a sudden spike of killing intent slammed into his senses. He spun just as a blast of Ryun energy streaked toward him, obliterating three city blocks in its wake.

"Shit!" he gasped, launching himself to the edge of a building. Black and red lightning surged around him, crackling across his arms as he barely dodged another burst—this one splintering the stone at his heels.

He dove through a broken window, tumbling into a shadowed parlor. Dust swirled; broken glass rained down. No time to breathe—the next blast tore through the wall behind him, forcing him to dive again, shoulder-rolling through a side room. He crashed out another window, landing hard in an alley.

Not thinking, just acting, he spun and unleashed a storm of Ryun—black and red lightning arcing from his hands, shattering the remains of the house. For a heartbeat, the world glowed with raw power.

Then a cyclone of Ryun twisted through the air, snuffing out his attack like a candle in a hurricane. At its eye stood a woman, armored and grim, halberd raised, eyes burning with righteous fury.

"How dare you wear our clothing, you beast!" she snarled, voice laced with hatred. Her aura crackled, sand and stone swirling around her, halberd ready to strike.

Jonathan staggered back, arms up. "Lady, I have no idea what you're saying! Relax, damnit!"