We only take a few steps before I notice movement from behind. Other people exit their cubicle accommodation, rushing past us without sparing us a glance.
I pull Moe closer to my side. It feels as though we’re in slow motion while the rest of the world is accelerating.
Everyone runs forward at full speed. Some almost bump into us in their hurry.
“There,” Moe points forward.
I follow her gaze.
The obelisk stands a short distance away, its dark surface cutting sharply against the fractured terrain. I frown and narrow my eyes. Was it always there? Why was I under the impression that it was much farther away from our accommodation?
“I think it just appeared,” Moe mentions. “It definitely wasn’t there before.”
“Definitely,” I echo.
A crowd of people is already forming around it. Each person steps forward, seemingly choosing their opponent before walking away.
“That doesn’t seem too hard.”
As we get closer, the obelisk appears even more unsettling than it looked from afar. The stone isn’t still. It ripples faintly,as though it’s alive. Faint lines of light move across it in patterns that refuse to settle.
We approach cautiously, stepping through the throng of people. Already, small groups have formed to the side, with everyone animatedly discussing their upcoming match.
To my surprise, these people don’t seem scared. On the contrary. They’re excited and looking forward to their fight.
As if it wasn’t a life or death match.
Why?
The question doesn’t go unanswered.
Moe’s augmented senses come in handy as she whispers.
“I think they’re mid-level fighters. They’re talking about the points they will gain from their fights.” She pauses and scrunches her nose. “One is saying his opponent is worth ten points. Another mentioned eight.”
“If that’s mid-level then what’s entry level?” I grumble.
“Only one way to find out,” she says as she lightly pushes me toward the obelisk.
The moment I step within reach, the surface reacts.
The dark stone liquefies into light, and suddenly, there are words.
Names, numbers—point values.
They flicker across the surface, rearranging themselves faster than I can fully process, until they slow just enough to become readable.
There’s three options. Each one is paired with a name I don’t recognize, their level—all a one or two—and their point value.
Two points. Three points. Four points.
All low.
The guide’s voice echoes in my head again.
Higher risk, higher reward.
If I want a different level batch, I can refuse this one.
