Kujima stared at the dripping fish in his hand, water still running from its limp body. Then—like divine script etched behind his eyelids—writing shimmered before his eyes.

  [HARDEN INSTINCT ACTIVATED]

  First Blood Achievement: +5 Power Points Gained.

  Active Class: Undefined.

  He blinked. The words vanished as suddenly as they had come. A spear was in his hand, and the fish still hung at its end.

  First blood… Was it because I killed the fish?

  Isaak’s words echoed in his memory.

  “Go and kill all the dead Harden clan.”

  So this is what he meant. I got power points for killing something. It’s a system… a system that rewards killing. Everyone’s going to try to get stronger. But I’m alone. I don’t even know any other Hardens. The rest probably came here with allies.

  I need to survive. I need to grow stronger… or I won’t last.

  Kujima resumed fishing. No new writing appeared. He wasn’t sure if he was gaining more power.

  No use worrying now. First, I need fire.

  Near a rough tent made from stitched leaves and branches, he rubbed two sticks together until smoke whispered into flame. He cleaned the fish’s skin and entrails with a stone shard. The fire crackled as he grilled it over a makeshift frame of stones.

  This place... it’s like a battlefield I was never trained for. All the Hardens will turn on each other. Of course, those who know each other will form temporary alliances—soldiers and commanders. But every soldier wants the commander's place.

  They’re all aiming to be the last one standing. I’ll need allies eventually. But right now, I’m just a bastard Harden. No skills. No name. No one.

  The night was quiet. Only an owl hooted in the dark, and the fire’s warmth pressed against his skin. The fish tasted better than it had any right to. His belly full, he drifted off inside his leaf tent.

  The Next Morning

  He awoke to cold steel at his throat.

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  A man stood before him—tall and gaunt, his pale skin ghostlike in the morning light. Sleepy eyes glared through strands of greasy hair. The stench of leftover fish clung to his breath.

  Kujima’s heart thudded. The man had eaten what was left of his dinner.

  “Who are you?” Kujima rasped. “Why the knife?”

  The man tilted his head. “Why talk like you don’t know? This is the Harden Death Game. We’re here to kill each other.”

  “Then why didn’t you kill me in my sleep?”

  No answer. Instead, the man pulled a rope woven from dried grass and began binding Kujima’s wrists.

  “Unlucky you,” he muttered, “you haven’t met your kin yet.”

  “I’m a bastard,” Kujima said calmly. “I don’t know any of them.”

  The man’s eyes flickered with something—pity or disgust, it was hard to tell. “Who dared to spawn someone like you? Every Harden should know about this game before it begins. In the real world, they were preparing. But you? You got tossed in like trash.”

  He cinched the rope tight. “I almost feel sorry for you. Day three and you’re still alive? I’ll do you a favor and end it quickly.”

  “What’s your name, then?”

  “Nael. Descendant of the First King. But no other kings followed in my line.”

  “That must sting.”

  Nael said nothing.

  He pushed Kujima forward, leading him through a dense patch of trees. Nael kept his distance, knife still visible in his hand The forest grew thicker—tangled branches, clawing thorns. Kujima staggered, muttering.

  “You’re not even curious about my name?”

  Nael didn’t respond.

  “I’m Kujima. They say my father was king. Never met him.”

  Still no answer.

  Kujima worked his wrists, slowly widening the rope, his fingers patient. He stumbled suddenly, falling hard onto the ground.

  Nael rushed forward, slipping his knife into his pocket as he moved to lift him.

  That was the moment.

  Kujima jerked his hands free with a surge of strength. The rope snapped. His fist slammed into Nael’s face, knocking him back.

  Nael hit the dirt. His knife had flown loose, now lying just beyond his reach.

  He lunged for it—but Kujima stepped on the blade.

  Nael looked up at him, blood on his lips.

  “You really thought grass rope would hold me?” Kujima said coldly. “You and I—we’re the same. Bastards. But here’s the difference: I accept it. You sold yourself to serve your brothers. You’re a slave.”

  Nael laughed, bitter and hoarse. “Big words from someone who kept quiet while I held a knife to his throat. Where was this pride then?”

  He sat up, watching Kujima carefully. “Go on. Kill me. Take the power points. That’s what this is, right? That’s what it always was. You’re not surviving this game anyway. You’ve never seen your real enemies—not even in the real world.”

  He grinned. “Some Harden families gave up everything—wealth, legacy—just to prepare for this death game. They’ve trained since birth. Some might’ve even built villages here. If they unite, they’ll become a kingdom.”

  Kujima hesitated.

  Nael saw it. “Surprised? You should be. You’re already outmatched. But maybe I felt like doing you a kindness. Maybe because… we’re both misfits.”

  “What’s your class?” Kujima asked.

  “Spinner,” Nael said without hesitation. “You?”

  “I caught a fish. A light appeared. Said… ‘Undefined.’”

  Nael raised an eyebrow. “Then you’re nothing yet. You can't think win.”