You Already Won

"Please, please—wait! We'll give you the gems you don't have—!"

The half-bird, half-salamander contestant didn't get to finish the plea.

Zog brought his fist down, flattening the creature into a crater of blood and fractured bone. The screams of his teammates followed, all begging the same way. One by one, their voices were silenced.

He moved with practiced calm, checking their Ryun-encased pouches until he found what he was after. A purple gem—still warm from the dying grip of its former owner. He added it to the miniature rock orb that floated beside him, humming with aura resonance. Another step. Another offering.

Zog stood like a mountain, his grey skin slick with steam and gore. Muscles corded under blood-streaked armor. His white hair fell to his shoulders in jagged tufts, and his brown eyes—with those unnatural violet pupils—glinted without remorse.

A Wu'Tuken. One of the stoneborn forged from Harmo's blessing, shaped in the image of balance and discipline. But Zog had long outgrown his service to the goddess. He would return to her side. She one day left with the Vari and was never seen again. But he would reunite with her soon.

Until then, he'd walk a red path.

Becoming a Ranker wasn't the dream—it was a tool. A title. A way to earn the gaze of Harmo once more. And if a team could speed that process, so be it. Not because Zog feared violence. The craters littering the mountain slope around him made that clear.

But Harmo's Pantheon served the Holgelic Family—one of the Supreme Eleven. And while they tolerated some carnage, their ideology frowned upon needless slaughter.

Zog didn't mind the contradiction.

These small deaths were dust. Inconsequential echoes. Not even ants beneath the eyes of gods. But to win the Fortune Holder event through slaughter—that would make a sound. That might turn a divine head. That might… count.

The only problem?

Everyone was trying to kill him.

And he was starting to enjoy it.

Eight purple gems.

That was all he had.

6 billion points—not even close to the 150 billion needed to win. And now that the gold gems had vanished, the path ahead seemed carved in smoke.

Zog stood in silence, wind curling around his massive frame. His eyes narrowed at the empty sky above. If the prize was slipping out of reach, then the consequences of winning had to be considered too. In Requiem, there was no such thing as mercy, even for those who won.

He tapped his foot once.

The world responded.

A deafening crack split the air, followed by the groaning rumble of stone fracturing reality. An entire mountain range erupted around him—rock, earth, and dust launching upward like the world was throwing a tantrum. Spires of soil climbed eighty feet high, rising like jagged fingers from a furious giant. Trees were shredded. Rivers rerouted. Creatures fled screaming beneath the sudden tectonic fury.

The landscape buckled and reshaped to his will.

Zog exhaled, calm amidst chaos.

He crossed his arms—and surged.

The stone beneath him obeyed, carrying him atop a sliding platform of earth as wide as a temple courtyard. Dust plumed behind him in a stormfront as he rode the land like a war chariot, carving across hills, forests, and shattered valleys. The platform moved faster than a hurricane, tearing through the environment like a divine avalanche.

Birds scattered. Mountains cracked. Villages in the distance blinked from existence as walls of moving terrain swallowed them whole.

He aimed for the nearest tower—the nearest answer.

If the Fortune Holder's endgame lay beyond reach, then he would force his way through the middle. Speak to his goddess directly. Rip clarity from the hands of fate if he had to.

Behind him, the world groaned in his wake. Ahead, the tower loomed like a needle piercing the sky.

And Zog raged forward, carried by the wrath of the land itself.

——

"The tower is ready, Lady Civen."

Civen approached the base of the alien structure. Her towering presence, dressed in a blood-hugging crimson dress, demanded no less.

Civen—the Flayer of Three Rivers—smiled, her long red hair flowing in rippling waves down her back like liquid flame. Her upper half was undeniably feline: sleek, sharp, and sinuous. Auburn fur framed her powerful arms and shoulders, and her ears twitched with every lie told behind her. A feline tail flicked lazily at her side, the end tipped in glinting crimson. Below her waist, however, the sleek, glistening scales of a mermaid shimmered with emerald and gold hues. She looked every bit the legend they feared—and followed.

The Spiral Tower loomed before her, jutting from the scorched stone of Delark like a fossilized claw. Its surface pulsed with pale gold veins, swirling in patterns that never repeated, flickering like they were remembering ancient equations. It wasn't built. It grew. Each segment of its twisted alien frame floated half-detached from the others, like a spine pulled apart and stitched together by impossible forces. The tower sang softly—though no ear could follow the tune.

She paused, letting the awe settle behind her. The tower loomed like a monolith etched from nightmares, pulsing faintly with alien resonance—but it was her silence that carried weight. Her army, thousands of contestants and natives alike, watched from the foothills below the platform, eyes brimming with hope and fear.

She had told them—lied to them—that she had foreseen the Eighth Day Rule Change before it happened. That her "divine intuition" and exclusive connection to the gods made her the only one who could enter the Spiral Tower safely. That if anyone else tried to ascend, they would die almost instantly. She convinced them it was another trap by Vari.

And they believed her.

Why wouldn't they?

She had made sure the information came from multiple directions, echoed and whispered through the chain of command. Not by her own voice, of course. That would be too suspicious.

Instead, it came from her inner circle within the inner circle—the true minds she trusted, and manipulated in equal measure. The trusted five that no one questioned. Each had a public role—tacticians, seers, enforcers—but privately, they worked to shape her image into something inevitable. They orchestrated the rumors, quelled the dissenters, arranged the disappearances. One voice might be doubted. Five coordinated ones became gospel.

It made her word absolute.

Even her second in command Keryna Vel Dross, sharp and ruthless, did not realize how deep the manipulation went. She believed herself above Civen schemes. Most of them did. And that belief—that pride—was what made them useful.

She stepped forward, ignoring the whispers. The door to the tower cracked open—not with mechanics or hinges, but with space folding in on itself. The interior was no more normal than the outside. She stepped into a structure that was both narrow and infinite. Gravity was confused. Angles made no sense. And in the center, suspended on nothing, floated a single obsidian disc, as wide as a carriage wheel.

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Civen causally walked over and stepped on the disc. The disc accepted her weight and hummed like a heartbeat. Then—without warning—it rose, pulling her upward into the strange, spiraling abyss.

Somewhere at the top of this tower—if directions even mattered here—was her god.

The disc slowed to a halt.

Silence reigned as Civen rose into a vast white expanse. The space stretched endlessly in all directions, but overhead—up in a sky that wasn't a sky—black stars shimmered like flecks of ink on a blank page. There was no ground. No air. And yet, Civen could breathe.

There was no voice. No screen. No announcement.

But she felt it.

"Call out for your patron."

The instruction wasn't spoken—it bloomed inside her mind like instinct, like a memory she never had but had always carried.

Civen placed a clawed hand over her chest and whispered, "I call upon thee… Shess'va Hissaria, the Veiled Serpent of Silent Splendor."

The moment the name left her lips, the space around her shimmered. A coil of golden scales unraveled across the void, radiant and quiet—like royalty that no longer needed applause.

From the light, she emerged.

Shess'va Hissaria—the goddess punished and forgotten, once accused of mimicking the divine stylings of House Vari. But Civen knew the truth. She knew envy when she saw it. The one before her did not copy Vari—she simply surpassed her in elegance, allure, and grace.

Hissaria's golden eyes glowed with ageless, amused malice. Lavender hair wound with serpents draped across her back like a royal curtain, and her presence carried the authority of someone who used to rule, and would again. Her gown shimmered like molten gold, slit high to reveal the serpentine coils that made her both divine and deadly.

Civen bowed—not deeply, but with the reverence due an unjustly cast god.

The goddess didn't speak. She didn't need to.

The stars flickered, the coils shimmered around her body, and Civen smiled, before standing tall before her goddess.

Shess'va Hissaria gazed down at her chosen with golden eyes like twin furnaces, flickering with ancient purpose. Her serpentine grace coiled silently in the ether behind her, waiting.

Civen lowered her head just enough to show reverence. "My goddess."

Hissaria's smile was slow and cutting. "You've done well. Only a few more pushes and the ritual can begin. But you'll need more than brute control to break the veil that shields Vari's Jujisn."

Civen's eyes gleamed. "Then guide me."

The goddess extended a single finger, and with a whisper, projected three star-like glimmers into the air. One blinked a soft violet—a cluster of purple gems embedded within a spiraling fortress in the city Veltrisse . The second—a lone red gem, pulsing deep within the storm-wreathed canyon of Cradewatch, guarded by something far older than any contestant.

The third? Hissaria didn't speak of it. She only looked at Civen with solemnity and said:

"You'll need two-hundred thousand souls, three oaths of betrayal, and a broken heir to finish this."

Civen's lips curled. "The last two will come during my second act. I'll take Veltrisse within the week. And prep the next phase of the ritual."

"Once the ritual begins," the goddess whispered, "Supreme Vari will watch her Jujisn fall—and be powerless to intervene. When the sacrifices and broken oaths are fulfilled send another before me."

There was no farewell.

The stars blinked again, and she was gone.

Civen descended the alien tower without ceremony, her tail flicking behind her. Her feline upper half shone with Ryun pulses beneath the long crimson hair that waved like a war banner in the open sun. She stepped out onto the circular balcony, her gaze narrowing as she spotted her second in command waiting below.

The armored woman standing at the front stepped forward and saluted with two fingers to her temple. Keryna Vel Dross, a tactician dressed in forest-green Ryun armor, etched with etchings of war-spirits and old rebellion. Her eyes—bright red and unflinching—watched Civen like a hawk would a shifting battlefield.

"Well?" Keryna asked.

Civen smirked. "We're heading to Veltrisse. It's swarming with purple gems… and enough naive pawns to build a crusade."

Keryna nodded. "Orders?"

"Rally the east flank. We move in an hour," Civen ordered, her voice clear and commanding as she overlooked the gathered forces from the ridge. "Once we have Veltrisse, Harnak falls next. We move carefully though—two powerful Outlanders command an army there. We'll try to bring them to our side. But if not…" Her eyes narrowed beneath the curl of her red bangs, "Be prepared for a long fight."

Keryna bowed her head and secured her helmet with a practiced snap. "As you command, my Lady."

The wind picked up, pulling at Civen's long crimson hair like war banners caught in a silent storm. Behind her, the makeshift encampment bustled with life—steel sharpening, hushed prayers, the grind of preparations. She didn't need to turn to know Keryna still stood there, contemplative.

"You're thinking about the Outlanders," Civen said flatly.

Keryna hesitated. "Caelus, the Calmbrand… Eirian, Blade of the Dawn. They command real presence. Caelus tamed a living aurora on the Seastone Heights. Turned it into a Ryun conduit. Eirian killed a chaos wyrm solo and then negotiated its rebirth contract with a god."

"They serve Familiane," Civen said dismissively. "The Veiled Luminara. Patron of discipline and gentle light. Poetic, but soft. They've survived this long by being measured."

"And dangerous," Keryna added cautiously.

"Yes," Civen admitted. "But they don't act unless it serves their goddess's vision. And Familiane…" She turned fully, eyes lit with ambition. "Is a god of quiet mercy. She won't act first. And neither will her champions."

Keryna's stance relaxed slightly. "Then we strike first."

"We shape the story first," Civen corrected, lips curling into a confident smile. "We're not reacting anymore. From now on, we control the rhythm of this event."

The distant sound of horns echoed from the western cliffs. Civen watched the rising light curve over the crags of Delark's coastal sky.

She smiled.

Every piece was where it needed to be. Every word, every lie, every god she'd whispered to—perfectly placed.

Let the others scramble for favor and rules. She was already writing the ending.

For the first time in ages, Civen felt it deep in her core.

She wasn't just winning.

She was in control.

——

Shess'va Hissaria, the Veiled Serpent of Silent Splendor, had once been a name etched into reverence and dread. A couple hundred thousand years ago, her dominion stretched across hundreds of realms. Her pantheon shimmered like a distant constellation—quiet, precise, elegant. No wars. Just coils. And control.

But all serpents, even divine ones, are prey to larger jaws.

She had not challenged Vari—how could she? Even in her prime, Shess'va was but a flicker in the golden inferno that was the Supreme Being Vari. No, it wasn't Vari herself who moved. It was her twin heads—Siumone and Enomuis Vari—the monstrous god twins. Enomuis, the rule-maker and unmaker. And Siumone… the devourer of legacies.

Enomuis had set the flame.

Siumone danced in it.

First, they burned her domain—Enomuis with a wave of law, dissolving the pacts that kept her pantheon safe. Then Siumone followed, not just erasing but mocking her. Her shrines desecrated. Her followers butchered in ritual displays. Her name scrubbed from myth and scripture. Festivals were held in her dishonor, where her teachings were parodied and her likeness mutilated into comedy.

The message was clear: Only one serpent line deserves to shine gold.

The rage birthed from that isn't the kind that fades. It simmers. It scars. It festers. And even gods are susceptible to the rot of desperation. Especially gods with nothing left to lose.

Now, the once-feared Shess'va lay sprawled beside her shattered throne in her hollow, lightless domain. Her claws scraped against the broken stone. Her Ryun—once a thing of elegance and subtle terror—was unraveling. Cracking. Thrashing against an unseen weight.

A presence had arrived.

She hadn't heard it. Hadn't felt its entry. She simply… fell.

Collapsed like a mortal before the presence of something not just divine—but primordial.

Pressure unlike anything she had ever experienced crashed down on her, as if the first moment of existence itself had turned its attention her way. Her aura bled and screamed. Her thoughts blurred, bones shifting as her body tried to stabilize under the ancient awareness now watching.

A fraction of a gaze.

That's all it was.

And yet her knees shattered. Her heart trembled. Her fangs cracked in her jaw.

The presence didn't speak so much as impress itself into reality. The sound wasn't heard with ears—it was remembered. A vibration older than memory, textured like wild fields and laced with hearth warmth. It pressed against her consciousness, impossibly vast and indescribably near.

"You've moved the tale well."

The words unspooled in her mind like threads of molten iron. Each syllable stretched her thoughts, cracking through the scars left by her fall from grace. Shess'va could barely lift her head, let alone respond. Her tongue felt wrapped in thorns, her breath shallow. Yet, despite the agony, the entity—understood her intent. Her willingness.

"You will be rewarded," it continued, voice coiling with quiet finality. "Push the folklore further. Shape it with blood, betrayal, and flame. At the end… your final gift will arrive."

And just like that, the pressure collapsed inward.

The cracks in reality sealed themselves, and the presence receded—not in retreat, but like something slipping back behind a veil that never should have lifted. Silence returned.

Shess'va gasped, lungs spasming as if learning to breathe for the first time. She clawed against the floor, coughing black smoke from her throat. Her form twitched. Snakeskin cracked along her arms. But she pushed herself up—slow, shaking, alive.

Used? Of course she was.

Afraid? Not anymore.

A pact, forged from the binding of supreme will, could not be undone. Not even by another god. Not even by them.

And this one had been forged not with prayers or words.

But with hatred.

As the pressure faded and the cracks of reality resealed behind that ancient presence, a new force stirred—quiet, unseen, but undeniable. Shess'va gasped, her fingers digging into the stone as she steadied herself.

Then she felt it.

A warmth beneath the cold dust of her abandoned realm. A thrum in the walls of her palace, long dead. A whisper in the bones of temples that had been turned to ash.

Her domain was healing.

Not quickly, not fully—but enough to matter. The broken statues realigned. The rivers of star-dust began to flow again. Her throne glimmered with the faintest shimmer of reverence. For the first time in hundreds of thousands of years, faith stirred in her name.

And with it, the first reward of their bargain:

She understood that she really could bring her pantheon back.

Not all at once. Not easily. But it was possible now.

The bloodline Siumone had tried to erase from existence… would rise again.

And when they did, Requiem would remember what it meant to insult a forgotten god.