[Kuroda Shigure's POV — 10 years ago]

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the ceiling. I pushed myself up immediately, head pounding, vision swimming. My hands pressed against cold concrete and something crunched beneath my palm—a bag of chips. Crushed and empty.

  The fat man's chips.

  I looked around the platform, scanning the fourteen faces that remained—fifteen including me. They were scattered across the surface, shoulders hunched, heads down, avoiding the edges where the platform fell away. Not a single one dared meet my eyes. Their expressions were guilty, the kind people wear when they’ve done something unforgivable… and would probably do it again anyway.

  Blood covered everything—the walls, the floor far below, body parts scattered like discarded props. An arm here, something that might have been a torso there, and the metallic stench hit me all at once, thick and choking.

  I turned to the side and vomited until my stomach emptied in violent heaves, leaving nothing but bile and the acid burn in my throat. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, gasping, and forced myself to look up at the presenter.

  He was smiling with that same malicious, delighted expression he'd worn since the game began, like this was exactly what he'd hoped for.

  I turned back to our platform which had stopped descending, frozen in place maybe two meters off the ground. My gaze drifted across to Platform A and what I saw made me vomit again.

  There was nothing left—no platform, no people, just a crater of meat and metal where thirty-three human beings had been standing minutes ago. The axes had come down, all of them, and the blades were still there, dripping, tangled with pieces of fabric and flesh.

  I couldn't look away as my brain kept trying to make sense of the shapes, to reconstruct what had been there before, but it couldn't because there was nothing to reconstruct.

  I staggered back, gasping for air that didn't taste like iron.

  "Wha—what happened?" I managed to choke out.

  The voice that answered came from my left, casual and matter-of-fact. "Well, when I knocked you out, we threw away the fat dude."

  I turned to see a young man, maybe early twenties, with thick brown dreads cascading past his shoulders. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't ashamed either.

  "Honestly, I feel bad, bro, but it's him or us, y'know?" He shrugged. "We didn't throw you off because we might need more people for the next game. Plus you weigh like my little sister, so it was aight."

  I stared at him as my mouth opened and closed, no words coming.

  He kept talking, oblivious to my expression. "The other team couldn't throw more people off. They were too exhausted. And not a single one of those greedy bastards wanted to jump voluntarily, so they all got chopped up, man."

  Are they really human?

  "Also, bro," he continued, "we didn't notice because of the stress and shit, but you're a Candidate, man. I think we really might need you for the rest of the games, y'know."

  Rest of the games? Is he insane? Who would want to continue playing this nightmare?

  Deep down, I knew we wouldn't be able to leave so easily since the presenter had made that clear. But I wanted to find reasons to hate them more, to insult them, to channel the rage burning through my chest into something sharp and cutting, though nothing I could say felt adequate.

  I walked to the edge of the platform and sat down with my legs dangling over the side. My hands were shaking so I pressed them flat against the metal to stop the trembling, but it didn't help.

  A shadow fell over me and I looked up to see a tall man. He was built like a stone wall, with broad shoulders, thick arms, light brown skin, and small glasses that seemed out of place on someone so physically imposing.

  He extended a hand. "Genda. Former special forces."

  I stared at his hand for a long moment before taking it. His grip was firm and controlled. How had I not noticed him earlier—maybe the stress, maybe the chaos, maybe because I'd been too focused on survival to register anything beyond immediate threats.

  "Kuroda Shigure," I muttered.

  Genda sat down beside me and his weight made the platform creak slightly as he looked out at the remains of Platform A.

  "They were going to throw you off," he said calmly.

  I turned to stare at him. "What?"

  "The others." He gestured toward the group behind us. "Those dumbasses didn't care whether you were a Candidate or not. They were about to throw you even though we'd already sacrificed one person."

  My throat tightened.

  "That's why I knocked out the other one who was talking too much and threw him off the platform myself," Genda continued, his voice still calm.

  He said it like he was describing breakfast, casual and satisfied.

  I turned around, scanning the faces again, and realized the man who'd been arguing with me before I got knocked out was gone. Genda had killed him and seemed genuinely happy about it.

  "ATTENTION, EVERYBODY!"

  The presenter's voice cut through the warehouse and all eyes snapped toward him.

  "CONGRATULATIONS ON WINNING THE FIRST ROUND OF THE FIRST EDITION OF THE HARVESTING GAME!"

  His smile widened impossibly far.

  "BUT AS YOU KNOW, MANY MORE CHALLENGES AND FUN GAMES AWAIT YOU!"

  My stomach dropped.

  "I REMIND ALL OF YOU THAT THE WINNER WILL WALK OUT WITH A STAGGERING ONE THOUSAND VOTES!"

  The number hung in the air as a few people around me straightened slightly, eyes gleaming with instant, reflexive greed.

  "SO DO YOUR BEST!"

  The screen behind him flickered to life showing,

  THE WEAK RULE

  REMAINING PARTICIPANTS: 15

  TIMER: 60:00

  with each name beside a score of zero.

  My name was there.

  Kuroda Shigure — 0.

  The presenter pulled a lever and a massive metal chain descended from the ceiling with a grinding screech, stopping just above the floor. Hanging from its end with his ankle locked in a shackle was an unconscious man, his head lolling forward with hair matted in sweat.

  The presenter pulled out a gun and threw it onto our platform where it clattered across the metal surface, spinning twice before stopping in front of a woman. She was young, maybe thirty, with short black hair and eyes wide with terror as her hands trembled violently while staring at the weapon.

  "IN THIS GAME," the presenter announced, "THE SPECTATORS AREN'T SIMPLY SPECTATORS ANYMORE. THEY HAVE THE CHANCE TO PARTICIPATE IN THE GAME!"

  He spread his arms wide, grinning.

  "THIS IS WHAT I CALL REAL IMMERSION!"

  His gaze locked onto the woman.

  "PLAYER NAKAMURA YUKI, TAKE THE TOOL IN FRONT OF YOU AND SHOOT THIS SPECTATOR."

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  Yuki stared at him as her face went completely white. She looked like she might faint. She didn't move.

  Another man stepped forward—older, with a weathered face and cold eyes—and he picked up the gun without hesitation, aimed, and fired.

  BANG.

  The hanging man's body jerked once as blood sprayed and his head snapped back.

  The screen updated.

  Hayashi Kenji — 1

  The presenter clapped his hands together, delighted, then began hopping from one leg to the other in a grotesque little dance.

  "YOUR ONLY GOAL AS PLAYERS IS TO KILL THEM. EVERY SPECTATOR YOU HARVEST IS ONE POINT. THEY ARE SCATTERED AROUND THE NEXT PLAYGROUND. YOU WILL SEE—IT'S VERY FUN!"

  He paused, tapping his chin.

  "FOR THE ELIMINATION, EVERY PLAYER WITH LESS THAN TEN POINTS WILL BE ELIMINATED. THE REST WILL PROCEED TO THE NEXT GAME!"

  Another pause.

  "Oh yeah, I forgot..." He smiled wider. "There is one rule in this game. If you kill another player, you lose five points."

  He snapped his fingers. "GOOD LUCK!"

  ***

  The presenter gestured toward the doorway. "Follow me."

  We walked back through into the main area where people had been drinking and dancing before the game began, and my breath caught in my chest. It was the carnival entrance, but the place had been destroyed with stands overturned, doors sealed shut with metal plates, and the main entrance barricaded with steel beams welded into place. No one could leave.

  The screen above us flickered.

  Click.

  59:59, and the timer began.

  Everyone scattered immediately, running and shouting, desperate to find spectators before anyone else could.

  I walked slowly through the wreckage, trying to process what was happening. The game's difficulty was obvious now since the spectators weren't chained like the first one—they could move, defend themselves, hide, which meant gathering ten points wouldn't be easy.

  I moved through the carnival grounds methodically, checking every corner. The popcorn stand had been overturned with kernels scattered across the ground like spent shells, so I crouched behind it, searching for any sign of movement, but found nothing.

  The ticket booth was empty with its door hanging open, the small space inside barely big enough for one person, let alone someone trying to hide from armed players.

  I passed a ring toss game where the bottles still stood in neat rows, untouched by the chaos, and a balloon dart stand with half the balloons already popped. Every few minutes, I heard screams in the distance, gunshots, the wet sound of metal hitting flesh, while the leaderboard flickered with climbing numbers for players whose names I didn't know.

  My lungs burned and my legs ached from moving non-stop, covering ground but finding nothing.

  Where are they? How can there be so few spectators in a place this size?

  I looked up at the screen.

  31:58, my score still zero.

  I scanned the leaderboard where most people had one or two points already and one had four, but then I saw it.

  Genda — 0.

  He was the only other person with zero points.

  What the hell? He's clearly strong. Why isn't he hunting?

  I pushed the thought away. I had my own problems.

  How am I supposed to survive this without killing anyone?

  I walked a few steps.

  Besides, even if I tried... I haven't seen a single spectator since the game started.

  I stopped walking. I closed my eyes and forced myself to think clearly.

  If I was a spectator, how would I act?

  Where would I go?

  Where would I hide?

  Then it hit me.

  I ran toward the circus tent in the center of the carnival grounds, the massive striped structure looming ahead with its entrance sealed with wooden boards and debris.

  When I arrived, the other players were already there, standing in front of the barricaded entrance looking frustrated and armed with makeshift weapons—metal pipes, broken chair legs, anything they could find.

  Genda stood off to the side with his arms crossed, and when he saw me, he waved.

  I approached.

  "They're smart," Genda said calmly. "They blocked the entrance and now they're hiding inside. We won't be able to get in for at least thirty minutes."

  Hayashi Kenji, the man who'd shot the first spectator, laughed bitterly.

  "Man, I had luck finding a family hiding behind a popcorn stand. But even with four points, I won't survive to the next round."

  I clenched my fists.

  Is he serious?

  He noticed my expression and grinned.

  "Wow, are you mad, little guy? You know it's not my fault, right? It's either me or them. And I choose me."

  His grin widened.

  "Besides, don't look at me like that. I'm the one holding the gun."

  He raised the pistol, pointing it directly at my forehead with his expression shifting to something proud and happy, as though he wasn’t killing for the game but because he truly enjoyed it.

  Genda's voice cut through the tension.

  "Hey, man. The family you killed—I assume it was two parents with their children?"

  Hayashi shrugged. "Yeah. So what?"

  Genda smiled.

  "I just... DON'T THINK KILLING CHILDREN IS SOMETHING NECESSARY TO WIN A DUMB GAME."

  He moved fast.

  BANG.

  BANG. BANG. BANG.

  Hayashi fired wildly, but Genda was already inside his guard and the bullets went wide, hitting nothing but air. Genda's hand closed around Hayashi's throat, lifting him off the ground.

  Hayashi gasped as his face turned purple. His legs kicked uselessly.

  "If... you kill me..." he choked out. "You'll be... at negative five points... You'll lose... for sure... and you'll die..."

  Genda hesitated and for just a moment, his grip loosened.

  Then he pulled out a knife and drove it into Hayashi's chest.

  "Like I care," Genda said flatly.

  The body dropped as blood pooled rapidly across the ground.

  The screen updated.

  Genda — -5

  I stared at him.

  "Genda... what will you do now?"

  He wiped the blade on his pants, then slid it back into whatever hidden sheath he'd been keeping it in. How had he smuggled a knife past the security check? Military training, I assumed.

  "I participated to win the votes," Genda said simply. "Then sell them to a Candidate for a large amount of money. Something I needed to cover my son's medical expenses."

  His expression didn't change—calm and resigned.

  "But I'm not going to play a game that makes me watch children die."

  We sat down on the broken remnants of a carnival stand, watching the group of players in the distance. They kept their distance from us now, clearly terrified after what Genda had done, whispering among themselves and stealing nervous glances our way, but none dared approach.

  "Your son," I said quietly. "What happened?"

  Genda's expression softened for the first time since I'd met him as something almost human broke through the military precision.

  "Wrong people found out about my work," he said. "Retaliation. They came to my home while I was deployed." He paused, jaw tightening. "My wife didn't make it. My son survived, but barely. He suffers from a traumatic brain injury. He needs constant care and expensive treatment."

  He looked down at his hands.

  "I did what I thought was right, and they paid the price for it. Now I do whatever it takes to keep him alive. Even if it means coming to a place like this."

  I didn't know what to say to that.

  Behind us, the sound of splintering wood echoed through the carnival as the other players found a way to breach the circus entrance. They tore through the barricade, shouting with weapons raised.

  Fifteen minutes left on the timer.

  They went in, and we followed them.

  ***

  "NOBODY MOVES!"

  Genda's voice exploded through the circus tent like a shockwave, so loud and authoritative that everyone inside froze instantly—players and spectators alike.

  Everyone except one man.

  He walked forward slowly and deliberately, an older man in his sixties with a frail build. A few strands of white hair clung to his mostly bald head, and his eyes were sharp and calculating despite his age.

  He stopped a few meters from Genda.

  "I'm Takahashi Ryou," he said calmly. "And you are?"

  "Genda. Nice to meet you."

  Takahashi studied him for a moment, then glanced at the spectators huddled behind him.

  "You want sacrifices for your survival," Takahashi said—not a question but a statement.

  "That's right," Genda replied. "We only need some. Not all. Just enough to let everyone here reach ten points."

  Takahashi's expression hardened.

  "I'm sorry, it won't be possible."

  Genda's tone sharpened.

  "We don't have much choice. You understand that, right? This isn't about morality. It's about survival."

  "I don't really care," Takahashi said. "I won't let you hurt the people I'm protecting."

  A faint aura radiated from him—not overwhelming, but present and noticeable.

  Genda's eyes flicked down to Takahashi's forearm: 24.

  A low-tier Candidate who'd either gathered votes slowly over years or collected them today from desperate spectators willing to trade anything for protection. Either way, it didn't matter.

  Genda pulled out his knife again.

  "Wait," I said, stepping forward. "What are you doing?"

  Genda didn't look at me as his eyes stayed locked on Takahashi.

  "What I have to."

  "You just killed a man for murdering a child," I said, voice rising. "And now you're going to kill innocent spectators yourself? How is that any different?"

  "It's different because I'm not enjoying it," Genda replied flatly.

  "That doesn't make it right!"

  "Right doesn't matter here." He shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the knife. "Only survival does. I told you—I need to get out of here. For my son."

  "So you're willing to become exactly like them?" I gestured at the other players behind us, still frozen, watching. "Willing to slaughter people who did nothing wrong just to collect points?"

  Genda finally looked at me and his expression showed sadness and guilt.

  "I'm confident I can take out a low-level Candidate," he continued, turning back to Takahashi.

  Takahashi's aura flared, and the tension in the circus tent became suffocating.