CHAPTER 11: JEOPARDY
Chaos devoured the place like wildfire.
Anon's eyes darted left, right, back again—sharpened by panic, trying to make sense of the hell unraveling around him. Screams tore through the air. Players shoved, clawed, trampled over one another in blind desperation to escape the carnage.
'Crap... This is bad. Real bad.'
He had no idea how it started—no warning, no system message. Just violence. Sudden, savage, and senseless.
Dozens of players were turning on each other. Weapons flashed in the artificial sunlight connecting with bone and flesh as fellow bystanders suddenly became predators.
Anon saw it happen—really saw it. A man's throat was carved open right before him. A deep, clean slice. Blood erupted in a jagged arc, a rich vermilion spray painting the asphalt. The victim's eyes rolled back, knees buckled—and then he collapsed like a ragdoll, twitching once before going still.
Then the killer started to glow.
A blinding, golden radiance swallowed him whole—resplendent, like a miniature sun igniting from within his body. Anon had to blink the glare away. But when he looked back…
The killer was gone. Disappeared.
Nothing left but the corpse of his victim.
"What the hell…? Did he just vanish?"
Anon staggered backward, the horror clawing up his spine. His mind struggled to process the scene, but he didn't get the chance.
Pain struck him like lightning.
A cold yet searing object tore into his back—fast and deep.
"GYAAAAHHH!!! AAAAHHHHH!!!"
His scream was primal. Unfiltered.
"Hey, hey, hey—what are you spacing out for?"
A voice—male, cold—cut through the white noise of agony, but Anon couldn't focus on the words. The pain blazed through his nerves like fire through dry brush.
He collapsed to his knees, the bat in his hand trembling as he fought to stay upright. His fingers reached behind him, fumbling to touch the object buried in his back—metal, thick, still warm. Blood poured down his spine, slicking his palm. He tried to breathe, but each inhale tasted like copper and smoke.
"Don't just sit there, dumbass! This is a battlefield—move!"
A heavy boot slammed into his face.
Anon's head snapped sideways. His vision blurred. The ground welcomed him harshly—jaw-first. His cheek kissed gravel. Teeth cracked. Blood pooled in his mouth, thick and iron-tasting.
Agony clawed at every nerve.
He wanted to move. To scream. To live.
But his body rebelled.
He'd never felt pain like this. Not in seventeen years. Not in real life. Not in any game. This wasn't pain—you didn't just feel this. It happened to you. Violent. Intimate.
Still—he needed to see. To know who did this.
He lifted his head slowly, pain flaring with every inch, and locked eyes with the man standing over him.
Long white hair. Black clothes. A single strand of hair hung over one side of his face like a curtain. Circular glasses flecked with blood. And those eyes—flat. Cold. Emotionless.
Anon's glare sharpened, pure hate burning behind his gaze.
"Oh? You're still alive?" the man said, his tone dry as sand. "You've got some vicious eyes, kid. Quit staring—I might get scared."
He crouched beside Anon and placed a gloved hand on the knife's handle.
"You were trying to pull this out, weren't you?" he asked casually. "Damn thing's stuck in there deep. Here—let me help."
Anon clenched his teeth.
"ACK—!"
With a sickening shlick, the blade came free. The man didn't stop there. He slapped the wound—hard. Once. Twice. A third time. Each hit sent fresh waves of white-hot pain screaming through Anon's body.
"Name's Jericho," he said, grinning down at him like they were old friends. "Be sure to remember that. You'll want to thank me later."
Anon's vision was swimming now, but one thing burned crystal clear through the haze:
He hated this man.
Every cell in his body wanted to kill him.
Anon growled, trying to lift himself from the ground, shaking, bleeding, feral.
Jericho just watched. Smiling. Calm. Like a god observing a mortal squirm.
Then—another voice shattered the tension.
"H-Hey! Get away from him!"
High-pitched. Fragile. Desperate.
Jericho turned his head, raising an eyebrow at the interruption.
A girl stood not far off—small, delicate, trembling. Her fists were clenched. Her eyes glistened with tears.
And in that moment, something in the air shifted.
Jericho threw his head back and let out a laugh—sharp, loud, full of theatrical glee.
"Ohoho~! What do we have here? Is this your little girlfriend?" he jeered, eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. "My, my, my... you both ended up in this hellhole? That's either tragic or romantic—I haven't decided yet. But hey, at least you've got someone to hold your hand while you die. That's sweet, isn't it?"
The smirk that curled on his lips wasn't just mocking—it was enjoying every second of it.
Anon's jaw clenched so tight it hurt. 'Goddamn it… What the hell is she doing here?! Why didn't Viper stop her?!'
Almost on cue, Viper emerged from behind Brea like a phantom—silent, calm, unreadable. His gas mask gave no hint of emotion, only the cold reflection of flame and blood in his lenses.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
"Hey, pal," Viper said, his voice deep and gravelly, "why don't you turn around and bugger off while you still can."
Jericho turned toward him, the grin never leaving his face. "Intimidation tactics, huh?" he said, feigning a thoughtful hum. "Alright. I'll bite. Let me see what you've got if it can truly scare me off."
His tone dripped with mock interest, like a cat eyeing a particularly noisy mouse.
Viper didn't flinch. He simply reached into his coat and pulled out something small, something crude.
A glass bottle.
Half-filled with liquid.
Wrapped with a rag.
He held it up alongside a cheap, disposable lighter.
"You really wanna test me right now?" Viper asked, calm and steady as he flicked the wheel of the lighter—click. A small flame danced to life.
Jericho's eyes flicked to the molotov. For the first time, the air around him stilled.
The smile didn't vanish—but something in it changed.
Jericho's eyes flicked back to Viper, expression unreadable but tinged with curiosity.
"And you'd actually throw that thing at me?" he asked, voice smooth like oil over glass. "Even if it meant your little friend here burns with me?"
Viper didn't hesitate.
"He's already dying," he said with a shrug, the flame still dancing between his fingers. "Might as well take you with him—give him something to smile about in the afterlife. Even if his plus-one happens to be the bastard who gutted him."
Jericho tilted his head slightly, amused. "Technically, wouldn't that make you the one who killed us both?"
Viper's eyes narrowed behind the lenses of his gas mask. The lighter flared brighter in his hand.
"Don't get smart with me," he growled. "I'll do it. Get the hell away—now—or I'll set you on fire and watch you scream."
The weight behind his voice left no room for bluff.
For the first time, Jericho's smirk faltered—just slightly. Not fear. Not panic. But a flicker of calculation behind the eyes. A recognition that the man standing in front of him wasn't just making threats.
He meant it.