A wave of murmurs rippled through the banquet hall the moment the golden scoreboard materialized, floating above us like an otherworldly relic.
Names shimmered across the screen in a language that seemed ancient yet perfectly legible—an arcane tongue I somehow understood. There were a hundred names in total, each paired with a numerical counter sitting at zero.
My name sat humbly in the 63rd spot: Einar Sanguis - 00
A few people glanced my way when they noticed it. Nothing too overt. Some squints of confusion, a few smirks of dismissal. I could practically hear the silent assumptions: Oh, that's the 'useless' Sanguis kid.
I was getting real tired of people underestimating me.
Then the golden-haired man raised his hand again, and the murmurs died down like someone had pressed a mute button. His violet eyes scanned the crowd like he was choosing who'd live and who'd die next.
