[Welcome to the Continuum.]
A cold, detached voice echoed not in Mike’s ears, but directly inside his skull. He looked around, bewildered. An oppressive, absolute darkness pressed in from all sides, a void so complete it felt like it could swallow the world. The only thing visible was his own body, illuminated by some unseen light source that cast no shadows and touched nothing else.
“Heatstroke?” he muttered, the word sounding flat and dead in the silence. It didn’t feel like delirium, though. It felt far too real. Before he could grasp another explanation, the monotone voice cut through his thoughts again.
[Planet Earth scanning complete. Low F-grade mass, ungraded energy.]
[Due to insufficient energy and mass, planet Earth will be merged with additional worlds drafted for initiation. New values: Low D-grade mass, low D-grade energy. Topography readjusted. Spawn points randomized by cohort. Local wildlife deemed insufficient; upgrading to provide adequate challenge. Link to the Continuum system activated.]
“What? Hello?” he shouted, but the blackness seemed to smother the sound before it could leave his lips. The voice was either unaware or completely indifferent.
This was no practical joke. It wasn't a hallucination. The chilling finality in that voice felt more real than the ground he’d been standing on just minutes ago. Mike pinched the back of his hand, hard. The sharp sting confirmed it: he was awake.
He tried to parse the voice’s words, but they only deepened his confusion. It spoke of Earth, but in terms that sounded ripped from a video game. The voice, however, gave him no time to ponder, droning on with relentless momentum.
[Initiating Incursions. Spawning Heral–]
[ERROR! Apex occupying same coordinates as local lifeform! Adjusting…]
A new, more strident tone interrupted the first, blaring like an alarm.
The ominous words sent a spike of pure adrenaline through Mike. A sinking feeling settled in his gut; this madness was real, and if it was real, he was in serious trouble. He was sharing a space with some "herald," and that couldn't possibly be a good thing.
He threw himself to the side, a desperate attempt to evade whatever was coming, but his body didn't move. He floated in place, limbs flailing uselessly in the void as if he were suspended in deep space.
[Merge unfeasible. Protocol SL-34572 initiated.]
“Phew.” A small gasp of relief escaped him. At least he wouldn't be fused into some human-herald hybrid. But that relief was short-lived. The fact that the system had even considered it was horrifying. Unease curdled into outright panic.
Mike squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to wake up. When that failed, he slapped himself hard across the face. Nothing. He was still trapped in the suffocating darkness.
[Roll for survival. Due to the massive power disparity between Apex Damien and you, odds are heavily in his favor.]
“SHIT!” The word came out as a strangled squeak. Full-blown panic seized him, adrenaline flooding his system. “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”
Again, only silence answered. Then, a rupture in the blackness. A rectangular screen flickered into existence before him, hovering silently in the void.
It was a simple blue window with white borders and text, like a pop-up from an old computer game. The sheer absurdity of it made his mind go blank for a second before the words on the screen registered.
It was a prompt, just like in a game. The familiarity was almost calming, until he processed the text and its horrifying implications. The panic returned with a vengeance, threatening to tip into hysteria.
The window was a prompt for a dice roll between him and this Damien. But the stakes weren't loot or experience points. They were rolling for their lives. And the ranges were so skewed, his odds were practically zero.
“Hello? This isn’t funny anymore! Let me out!” he screamed, grasping at the last, desperate hope that this was all some twisted experiment. But the cold reality of his situation was settling in, a weight in his chest. He stared numbly at the screen, his mind struggling to comprehend.
“This is insane,” Mike muttered. “Wanting me to gamble with these odds? Why the hell would I ever roll?” The moment the word "roll" left his mouth, the screen flashed. The numbers next to his name began to spin, a blur of rapidly changing digits.
[Protocol SL-34572 accepted by participant. Rolling…]
“No, no, no, wait! Stop! Let’s talk about this!” he yelled, waving his arms frantically as if he could physically halt the process. But the numbers kept spinning, a merciless countdown to the end of his life.
Panic gave way to a surge of pure rage. Rage at the impossible situation, at the utter lack of answers. Rage at the system's casual dismissal of his existence, the blatant favoritism shown to this Damien. Rage at being tricked into starting the roll, as if the voice had been waiting for him to say the word.
A red haze filmed his vision. With a guttural roar, Mike lunged forward and smashed his fist into the hovering screen. But it didn't shatter. It didn't even crack. It just flickered slightly, his knuckles stinging from the impact against its unyielding surface.
Ignoring his outburst, the spinning numbers slowed, wobbled, and finally locked into place. As an afterthought, an infuriating new line of text appeared where the roll button had been.
Something about that clinical, game-like message drained the fight right out of him. It wasn't a bad roll, he thought with a flicker of morbid humor. In a game, he’d have won the prize. But he knew, with chilling certainty, that this was no game.
He still clung to a sliver of hope that he was passed out in the woods, delirious from heatstroke. But if that were true, he was probably dying anyway. Death by sunstroke or death by video-game god. Neither was the ending he’d planned for. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A sickly grin stretched his lips as he stared into the void.
Of course, it wasn't over yet. The other person hadn't rolled. But in a rigged game, what did it matter? His gaze fell once more on the screen, his eyes lingering on the roll range for the other entity.
The grin vanished from his face. A long sigh escaped him, like air from a punctured lung, and he slumped into a sitting position in the void. The adrenaline, the rage, the fear—it had all been wrung out of him. All that remained was a hollow despair. This was it. He was going to die alone, without a chance to say goodbye.
No great epiphanies came, no life-altering regrets, only a deep, aching wish that he had been a better son, a better brother. His mind drifted, seeking solace in memories.
He saw his mother, her long brown locks cascading around him in an embrace that always smelled of home. He saw his dad’s quiet smile as he left for work each morning, his eyes tired but full of a love that needed no words. He saw his youth, spent mostly in front of a computer, ignoring the younger sibling who looked up to him. College, a blur of parties and cheap beer. His first day at his job, the crushing realization of how unprepared he was for the real world.
[Protocol SL-34572 accepted by Apex. Rolling…]
The monotone voice droned on, an executioner reading the final verdict.
Mike didn't even register it. Memories flashed through his mind, a montage of friends, family, triumphs, and failures. Not the most exciting life, but it had been his.
Wait. What? Congratulations? His eyes snapped open, refocusing on the screen.
He stared, stunned into silence, until the voice broke through his stupor.
[Protocol results in the continued existence of Michael Atwood. Damien vanquished. Resuming standard protocols.]
Before he could process the words, reality detonated. A nauseating explosion of light, color, and sound slammed into him, disorienting him completely. His body felt like it was being torn apart and set ablaze at the same time, an agony that seared every nerve. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the small forest clearing he had vanished from, and a colossal pillar of red light erupting from it, clawing its way toward the sky.