You Already Won

A TALE UNFOLDS

THE FORGE OF ABSOLUTES

You, who has scorched the weak and mocked the divine.

You, who has not bowed to the laws of Kings nor trembled before the stare of Supreme Beings.

You, whose wrath burns brighter than celestial favor.

You, whose tale defies category—

I have seen you.

Where gods placed walls,

You placed fire.

Where kings set trials,

You set your jaw.

Let it be known:

Your defiance is not unnoticed.

Your ambition is not unworthy.

———————————————————

A MYTH IS READY TO BE WRITTEN.

QUEST LINE UNLOCKED: THE FRACTURED ASCENSION

"When tales fail to end,

When heirs fracture and stars fall out of rhythm,

One not of bloodline—but of wrath—may rise."

———————————————————

Primary Objective:

Slay the Fractured Heir — a Jujisn destined to claim a King's title.

Steal their right.

Take their crown.

End their story. Begin your legend.

———————————————————

Road To Objective:

Defeat the Five Champions of the Land:

Chosen vessels of ancient territories.

Each holds a fragment of the challenge.

Each, a different horror.

Each, a gate you must shatter.

Champion One: The Hollow Grove's Revenant

Champion Two: The Skybreaker of Lethel Vaults

Champion Three: The Beast-Queen of Tharn's Maw

Champion Four: The Mirrorless Monk

Champion Five: The Sealed Crimson Prophet

Absorb their Essences of Worth. Ascend to become worthy enough to face the Fractured Heir.

———————————————————

Rewards:

Access to King-level Ascension Trial

Title: [Claimant of the Absolute]

Authority: [Supreme Divinity]

Trait Evolution: [Transcendental Core Initiation]

????

Warning:

This is a Quest of Legacy.

Failure is Final.

Time Limit: The end of the Fortune Holder.

———————————————————

Cawren stared at his screen. Silence. The mighty slayer of the Fortune Holder, undone not by skill or strength, but by sheer, wretched timing. The glitter of gold and the arrival of these new players had shattered his rhythm, and with it, his personal quest.

One must not forget: in Requiem, quests unfolded in living environments. They were not static, not bound by neat save points or scripted inevitabilities. They could be altered—derailed—failed—before the first objective even appeared on your log. Like some cruel, cosmic version of Dark Souls, where pulling the wrong lever or slaying the wrong NPC set the entire world aflame.

For most, it would be a painful setback, yes—but one still recoverable. A lesson etched into scar tissue. But for Cawren? For someone whose legend hung on precision, timing, and momentum? It was more than failure.

And yet, it wasn't worth crashing out in the way he did. His silence was not calm reflection but a storm roiling behind clenched teeth. He could almost feel the system laughing at him, the questline slipping further from his grasp.

The first town was a blur. Screams, tears, desperation—whether they begged or fought made no difference. It all dissolved under the weight of his advance. Violence was second nature to him, long before Requiem.

It was why he loved Halo Reapers 3. The structure. The precision. His UI here was the same—military-grade overlays with cold bullet points and glowing kill-trackers, every victory tallied without flourish. Brutal efficiency, no wasted motion. Fun raids, god-tier deathmatches, arenas where only the ruthless thrived. He'd been among the top percentile once. High ranks, high kill counts. For a time, it made him forget. Forget everything.

A blade cut toward him, pulling him back into the present. For once, resistance. A lone figure braced against his strike, defiant even as the ground quaked beneath them.

Cawren's lips curved in something like satisfaction. "Good."

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His aura surged—sigils flaring in a burst of crimson fire that devoured the air. The defender's block shattered in an instant, their body consumed in the detonation. Ash drifted where they'd stood.

"Now that's over," he muttered, exhaling.

He looked around. The town was gone, painted in ruin. The system tallied another row of names, another achievement scored. And for the first time since the collapse of his questline, he felt the hollow, dangerous comfort he craved.

Better.

The next towns bled together. Faces, screams, smoke—none of it mattered. Then came a city. Fighters threw themselves at him, their Ryun sparking against his runes. For a moment it almost felt like resistance. But the nameless city fell all the same.

NPCs, he told himself. That was how he made it easy. Just NPCs. But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. The failed quest had shattered months of carefully built forgetting. His rhythm was gone. His mind cracked around the edges. And the Blood Prince still loomed, impossible.

The race that resisted him here—beings of stone and leaves, bodies half-forest and half-statue—watched as the Outlander descended in fire. Infernal script writhed across his skin, every rune searing brighter than molten steel. A demon's mask hid his face, a king's mantle burned from his shoulders. They didn't understand why he paused—why his head tilted for the briefest heartbeat, as if reconsidering.

They prayed the pause would last.

It didn't.

Orange and yellow flame erupted outward, swallowing them whole. Churches cracked like kindling. Royal halls melted into slag. The nameless city died screaming beneath the rage of living fire.

And his UI system sang.

+3,520 EXP — Stonemeld Sentinel

+2,910 EXP — Leafborne Spearcaller

+3,780 EXP — Barkhide Juggernaut

+2,550 EXP — Granite Howler

+4,120 EXP — Obsidian-Root Chanter

+3,240 EXP — Ash-Leaf Raider

+3,960 EXP — Thornskin Marauder

+2,880 EXP — Ironbark Acolyte

+3,410 EXP — Verdant Reaver

+3,775 EXP — Hollowwood Beastguard

+2,700 EXP — Stonevine Duelist

+3,820 EXP — Leaffire Caller

+3,160 EXP — Redwood Ravager

+4,050 EXP — Graniteblood Zealot

+2,990 EXP — Barkscale Skirmisher

+3,640 EXP — Obsidian-Wrought Fanatic

+3,270 EXP — Thornroot Hunter

+3,920 EXP — Stonebloom Herald

+2,850 EXP — Ironleaf Pilgrim

+3,500 EXP — Ashbark Champion

+4,220 EXP — Verdant Crownkeeper

+40,500 EXP — High Priest of the Grove (Bonus EXP: Destroyed Sacred Temple)

+50,200 EXP — Warden of the Hollow Courts (Bonus EXP: Annihilated Royal Seat)

+40,880 EXP — Root-Seer Ascendant

+100,300 EXP — King of the Leafstone Line (Bonus EXP: Dynasty Eradicated)

…

The list kept scrolling, endless, until the orange glow of notifications blurred together like a tide.

Cawren's crimson eyes flickered, but there was no joy, no triumph. Only a void.

"This isn't close to enough," he muttered. Even with a mountain of corpses, he couldn't reach the level needed to fight an event-class being. Not the Blood Prince.

Worse, he could feel the heat of other gazes now. Candidates, Outlanders, Rankers—drawn by the same signal. It didn't take a genius to know why they were here.

Everyone with a system had seen the damn message.

He sat atop a broken mountain, crimson eyes fixed on the dead stretch of land. Not his doing—at least, not this time. Battles had swept across the region, flattening forests, cratering plains, erasing entire towns. Once, Curtenail had been beautiful. Now it was a graveyard. But beauty never lasted. Nothing did.

He flicked his system open, the pale glow washing over his masked face. The objectives crossed out.

FAILED.

He clenched his jaw. The gold ruined everything. He couldn't bypass it. The quest might be lost if he couldn't gather the Essences of Worth. And even if he grinded the exp, what did it matter? Would sheer levels ever be enough against a Jujisn? Or was it like every rigged raid he'd suffered before—bosses that ignored damage until you found the one key item?

He scrolled to his inventory. Maybe. Just maybe.

[Inventory – 6 Items Scanned]

Cracked Soulglass Pendant – once gleamed with trapped essence; now nothing but a dull bauble.

Tarnished Crest of the Hollow Grove – proof of a Champion slain; worth nothing without the other fragments.

Half-Broken Halo Chip (HR3 Replica) – nostalgic, useless, a shard from a game that no longer mattered.

Ash-Slick Banner of the Verdant Courts – burned into ruin; only a reminder of cities lost.

Blackiron Fang (Unbound) – powerful, but incompatible with his current build; its resonance refused him.

Crown of Withered Leaves – looked regal, felt cursed; provided no stats, no buffs, only the weight of something long-dead.

He shut the inventory with a snap of irritation. Nothing. Not a damn thing.

The mountain wind howled around him, carrying ash and whispers. His crimson eyes narrowed, lips curling under the demon's mask.

"Still not enough," he muttered.

A few ships cut across the gray skies, their sails gleaming with faction banners. For a moment, Cawren almost rose, almost unleashed fire to bring them down. But he didn't.

Why bother? His goal kept slipping further away. Every step he took, something else ripped the path from under him. He wasn't weak—he knew that—but right now, he felt caged. His fist clenched until his nails cut into his palm.

Then, in the far distance, light flared. A battle. The kind of battle that carved scars into continents. He could sense it even here—the Blood Prince, still alive, still clashing against the world itself.

Relief sparked in him that the prince was surviving. But alongside it, bitterness burned hotter. If he went now, he'd lose. He knew it. Testing himself against an event-tier being might answer his doubts, but the cost would be his life. He wasn't ready. Not yet.

Self-doubt pried at the edges of his thoughts, whispering that he'd missed his chance, that he wasn't enough. He let it in for a heartbeat. Then he crushed it.

Cawren stood, pulling the demonic mask free. Cool air struck his face as he stared out over the ruined horizon. His crimson eyes burned steady.

"This isn't like before," he told himself. "I've got more power here than I ever did back home. And I always wanted to see what I could do with it. That hasn't changed."

His grip tightened around the mask. End goal's still the same. Kill a Supreme Family Head. Don't lose focus over a setback. One wall didn't fall? Break it harder. First jump didn't work? Jump higher.

He opened his system. Objectives scrolled past until one name froze him in place.

Mirrorless Monk.

That would be the first. No elaborate schemes. No desperate planning. Just him, his strength, and the trial ahead. A test, not for the system, not even for the end goal.

For himself.

He tore across the sky, fire trailing from his body like a comet. His intent blazed, the system charting out a clear path ahead. Close enough. The Monk must be—

Then he stopped.

No. This wasn't the Monk. The system's marker wasn't on the Champion at all—it was… something else. A new objective blinking, demanding attention.

He froze midair, suspicion cutting into his momentum. Hacked? No. That was impossible here. Systems in Requiem couldn't be tampered with by mortals. He was able to deflect most gods. And if one of the Supreme Families were meddling? He doubted they'd waste their time with him directly.

Caution wrapped around his resolve. But alongside it came something harder to resist—curiosity. Who would even dare to pull me off course?

So he followed. Carefully. Step by step through the burning skies, the objective marker drawing him closer.

The confusion set in once he arrived.

It wasn't a fortress. Not a battlefield. Not even a shrine.

It was a hole.

A bellowing pit punched into the ground, and from within it, aura swirled upward in slow, undulating waves. Strange. But not hostile. Not violent.

If anything, it was… enticing.

Cawren frowned beneath his mask, drifting lower. The aura thickened as he descended, pressing against his skin, against his runes, against his mind. It was sultry, coaxing, almost teasing—like whispers dragged along the edge of a bed. It didn't feel like death, or rage, or anything he'd braced himself for.

It felt sexual.

He grit his teeth. What the hell is this?

His body betrayed him, burning with a different kind of heat. He hadn't even thought about whether things downstairs still worked—hadn't mattered for months, years even. Back on Earth, it had been dead weight. Forgettable.

But now… it was very much alive.

He shifted uncomfortably, thankful for the weight of his armor and the long drape of his cloak. At least his attire kept his sudden "enthusiasm" hidden.

The aura pulsed again, wrapping around him like a lover's breath.

And deeper in the hole, something waited impatiently.