Water began to fall from the sky. The rain pattered against the floor-to-ceiling window as the setting sun peeked into the room, illuminating the yellow wallpaper. A static hum filled the air; I sighed, dark bags beneath my eyes as I rubbed my temples. The system also sighed, panting as it finally gave up trying to persuade me. Finally, it had thrown in the towel. Don’t the wicked ever eat? I rubbed my stomach, and a loud growl echoed through the room. I stared at the system screen and demanded, “Food.”
The system hissed through its interface, wounded and annoyed. “What now? You want food?” it spat, the shredder and paper vanishing with a flicker of digital exhaustion.
And then—like a show-off with divine Wi-Fi—a banquet table materialised.
It stretched like a challenge across the room, dressed in crisp linen and scattered with star-dazzling baubles, wreaths, and candles that flickered like whispering galaxies. To my left, golden mashed potatoes gleamed. To my right, beef steak glistened, steeped in garlic oil so rich it should’ve paid taxes. At the centre, seafood steamed like it was auditioning for Olympus.
A Greek salad shimmered with peppers in bold, bright reds and yellows. Three porcelain bowls bubbled with stew—beef, chicken, pork-each one a bubbling cauldron of home. Beside them sat sadza, spinach, and tender goat meat, neatly portioned like sacred offerings. A quad-colour parade of rice—brown, white, black, and red—lined up with matching bean soups like a culinary chessboard.
A few metres off, charred kebabs smoked gently—chicken, beef, sausage—presented like trophies of flame. The mini fridge hummed by my side, stacked with wines, juices, sparkling chaos, and water so crisp it looked offended by flavour.
I picked up my fork.
The first bite—a spoonful of beef stew and black rice—was warfare. Nutty, warm, defiant. It danced across my tongue like a rumba of rebellions, an armada of flavour clashing like glittering combat. Steam flared from my nose as my eyes watered with heat.
Twenty-five minutes passed in indulgent silence. Attack on Titan played across the system screen, each tragedy somehow less intense than the emotional arc of my stomach.
Then the system muttered, mechanical but smug, “Host… you forgot something.”
I tossed a bone aside, wiped my mouth, and narrowed my gaze. “You forgot the salt and tomato sauce.”
The interface glitched like a liar mid-sentence.
“How dare you!” it wailed. “Can’t you thank the hands that feed you?”
I shrugged. “You kidnapped me mid-soup. Feeding me is damage control, not charity.”
With a theatrical sigh, the system blinked the feast out of existence. A new table appeared. Familiar. The contract lay across it like fate with a bad attitude.
Twenty-five minutes had passed as the system began to play the classic "Attack on Titan" series on the screen.
“Host, I think you forgot to say something to me...” Its mechanical voice echoed in my mind while my mouth and stomach were too busy devouring mountains of food.
I looked up at the system interface hovering in front of me, raising an eyebrow as I replied, tossing a bone aside. “You forgot the salt and tomato sauce.”
The system's indignant voice echoed back, furiously responding, “How dare you! Can you not even thank the hands that feed you?” – Well, I wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t kidnapped me, and yes, this is classified as kidnapping, I coolly said, my mind attention pulled towards episode six of Attack on Titans.
The system screamed in frustration, displaying glitches.
Finally, it signed. Making the table of food vanish as I wiped my mouth. WHOOSH! A table with the familiar contract appeared. I picked it up. A cool breeze drifted through the room. This again. Man, I want to sleep. I stared down, my fingers brushing over the contact as the system stated I had changed the clauses on the contract. You now have free will over your own choices, and we will provide you with assistance. My blue eyes scrutinised the document for a while.
Three centuries later...
I finally finished, feeling satisfied, with my lips curled up and dimples appearing on my cheeks. I had signed the document. A mark appeared on my thigh, reading "One Thousand." I glared at the mark, my eyes bulging as I tried to wipe it off. No, it wouldn't come off. The system, as if reading my mind, coolly replied, “That is your rank as a summoned one.”
A summoned one? Rank? Wait…
Before I could continue, the system's screen interface changed to a new display. The system went silent. A feminine voice echoed from the screen. I saw a woman with fire-red hair styled in two Dutch braids swaying with her movements. Her bold, smoky makeup and sleek black business suit accentuated her curves. Her high-pitched voice filled the deathly silent room as she stood with her hands on her hips, declaring with pride:
“Welcome, heroes and heroines. I am the administrator, Ariadne Vance, tasked with hosting this momentous event. Now, I won’t bore you with long 'I have a dream' speeches, but I will introduce you to how this works. So that our dear beloved spectators can see. A fight to the death”
Systems bring all hunters to the main room.....12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8UB3Y2rb0A
The screen cut to black. I blinked at the empty void, a knot tightening in my stomach.
A death game? Seriously? What is this—divine Hunger Games rebranded by sadists with glitter?
Before I could complain aloud, a sharp gust twisted through the room.
Whoosh.
A door materialised ahead of me—splintered, worn, practically gasping for retirement. Stamped across its faded surface in cracked gold lettering: One Thousand. My rank. I hadn’t even unpacked my trauma, and already I was labelled.
The hinges moaned as it creaked open, and my eyes flinched against a blinding wash of white light. Dust tumbled through the threshold like it had been waiting for centuries to throw itself on someone. I stepped forward—and instantly regretted it.
3. 2. 1. 0.
The sky erupted.
Rain slammed down, heavy and sharp, like iron needles piercing the skin of reality. My pyjamas clung to me, sodden and pathetic. The wind howled around me—mocking, theatrical.
Fantastic. Mother Nature is having a tantrum.
“System?” I shouted, squinting through the downpour. “Where the hell am I?”
Nothing. No response. Just rain biting my face and mud clinging to my steps like emotional baggage.
I trudged forward, hair slapping against my cheeks, soaked and tangled. Mosquitoes dive-bombed my ears with cruel precision. Thorns scraped my ankles, each step stinging with fresh bruises. The world had turned into a walking punishment.
This is giving cursed jungle. I did not pack for the cursed jungle.
Then, another door emerged from the blur. No glowing edges. No divine chorus. Just rot and rust curling in its crevices.
I pushed it open. It groaned dramatically, because of course it did. The stench hit instantly rancid, cloying, the kind that clings to your soul and mocks your nose.
"Comme c’est atroce." How atrocious. I gagged a little. My pride gagged harder.
Without warning, the ground betrayed me. My foot slipped, and I plummeted through the foul threshold like I’d just lost to gravity in a scripted plot twist.
I landed hard. Marble beneath me—cool, polished, painfully aware of my existence.
Around me, light flared—smooth and deliberate, a theatre curtain rising on Act One.
Then the system reappeared. Cheerful now. Almost smug.
“Congratulations, Summoned One. You’ve reached the Main Room. Your story begins now.”
I lay there for a moment, soaked, bruised, and slightly offended. My heart thumped once, then twice—slow, steady. Something shifted.
Fine, I thought, pushing myself upright, my soaked hair trailing like dramatic punctuation. Let the story begin. But I write the edits....
NOW THAT IS WHAT I CALL A CONTRACT.
ns216.73.216.79da2
and then Add to home screen.