"This is where it ends," the voice of a man rang out, cold and sharp as the long sword punched through Saoirse's chest. A jolt of searing, blinding agony exploded inside her. Her lungs seized, and all she could do was gasp for air, each breath scraping it raw. Blood gurgled up inside her, the bitter and metallic taste that enveloped her mouth tasted familiar.
Then a grotesque fountain of blood spilled into the blood-stained concrete of what used to be a throne room, now a battlefield.
Saoirse bit her lip trying to ease the pain even just a little bit it almost bled. Her eyes fixed at the man laughing victoriously in front of her.
Her hand jerked reflexively, clutching the hilt of the blade like she knows exactly what will happen next judging from the smirk that formed at the man's face. And just like she guessed the man drew the blade from her chest, jolting her body forward.
Her entire body trembled as she fell to her knees, the world tilted, her vision started to blur, and her emperial robe of what used to be a vibrant red and gold, were now stained in dark crimson liquid.
'Well, shit.'
"This war ends in our victory! " The tin-plated armored figure who'd just skewered her roared, his victorious laugh echoing off the blood-slicked walls. His blood-stained hand snatched the crown that had fallen from her grasp as soon as he stabbed her.
'Yeah, Everyone can see that.'
Saoirse's vision blurred, everything around her turned to a smear of red and gray. But she can clearly see the lit-up interface appeared before her face. It struck her like a sound of a machete that just delivered her judgement.
Her body—and heart—had felt unusually heavy. A part of her badly wanted her suffering to end, to ease the pain while a part of her hoped she would survive. Clinging to the fact that she almost won.
She was so close...And yet she still failed.
The interface blinked into existence with its usual flicker of artificial light, hovering a few inches in front of her face—because apparently, personal space meant nothing in death.
Thin, translucent panels floated midair, framed in what normally looked like faint lines of blue and gold code but now blazed on in bold red letters. Flashed are the words she loathed the most.
[Mission Failed]
How many times was it again? Oh yeah, forty-nine times. Forty-nine goddamn times she'd seen that message appear. Each time, like a kick in the gut, twisted her insides into pretzels, sinking her deeper into despair.
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her lips as her knees crumbled to the floor. The armored man had to step back, startled.
He took a protective stance, the woman in front of him although half-dead, he still find her dangerous.
Saoirse look at the man's confused face, a smirk played on her lips. 'He was probably thinking she'd lost her mind. Well, who wouldn't?'
"God, I was so fucking tired," she cursed under her breath, almost whispering, she closed her eyes in quiet resignation as her body collapsed onto the bloodied marbled floor.
She felt the warmth of her blood and the cold floor hugged her as darkness crept in, warm and comforting, like an old friend.
That was the end of Saoirse's 49th life.
Saoirse jolted upright, gasping for air as she woke up from her death, sweat beading on her forehead. The white room. Of course. The dreaded white room. God, she hated this place with passion.
It's like being trapped inside a giant, sterile sheet of paper, completely devoid of life or color, not even a single piece of furniture, not even a clutter.
Just endless blank walls,
A cubicle-like room that screamed her isolation from everything and everyone she knew. She hated how, of all the things, this would welcome her every time she died in her mission. It's more like a spawn point.
'What could be more depressing than this?' she scoffed.
[The God of War looks at you in disappointment.]
The words flashed on the interface. That smarmy, condescending old man...
"It was your fucking fault I'm in this mess to begin with, you damn perverted old man!" Saoirse snarled at the invisible presence in front of her. It was useless to even argue at this point—she knew that—but it felt good to vent. Keeps her sane.
It's not like she wanted all of this to happen to her, that is, if she had any other choice. She also tried her best. Really, she had. It's just that, the mission wasn't meant for her.
Saoirse was one of a thousand 'Testers'. They are people who get bound to a system and they got to fulfill missions for Gods.
The selection was completely random and completely depends on the Gods.
If their testers succeed they could get a breakthrough, they get to step into a higher level of divinity. If they failed, they perish along with their soul. They would just cease to exist.
A 'Tester' would have 50 chances to fulfill their mission. Each pull a random mission with varying difficulty. They just have to succeed one time. Just one time and they get to keep a heavenly power as a reward.
People dreamed to be one, even setting themselves up to be someone worth choosing.
Except Saoirse Nightingale. She never asked to be here. And she would give everything just to be excluded. But heaven wasn't on her side or perhaps too much in her side that she have to end up in that mess.
Normally, to have better chances for a breakthrough since it's in the rules that a God can only select one Tester per decade. They should select a person that fit well with their power, right?.
But why would they picked someone like here? Pretty is the only thing going on for her.
He's either a pervert or a very dumb gambler. No in between.
A surge of fury bubbled up inside her, her hand turning into fist; if only she could actually see the old man—whom she completely assumed was the God of War's identity even though she had actually never seen or heard him before—she would punch him in the face.
Let her demonstrate what she learned from all those war missions she survived—well, sort of—survive.
[Honestly, you're so bad at this!]
[The God of War shook its head in disbelief.]
The interface—the God of War himself—sniped continuously, and Saoirse can't help but roll her eyes.
"My first 48 failed missions would've told you all of that." she replied in a retired voice. It wasn't like she hadn't figured it out already. If she'd been any good at her mission, she'd already be back in her world, probably with her shiny new godly powers that they promised, or at least a decent souvenir.
Or something war-related—fitting, since she was drafted by that meddling old god. Not that she needed it. She already had a thriving career outside of all this nonsense.
Unless she wanted to go serve her country or do heroic deeds, which she probably won't.
Saoirse hadn't always been so...crass.
Once, she was all rainbows and sunshine, a delicate little gem. She portrayed an elegant, charming doll— or as the magazine always said an angel who descended from heaven. How else would she thrive in her modeling career?
But living and dying 49 times? That was enough to change a person. Desperation teaches you things. And cursing? Well, cursing is a friend if she doesn't want to go completely batshit insane.
She flopped onto the floor for the rooms complete lack of chair, crossing her legs—like it mattered—ignoring whatever snarky comment the interface might throw her next.
Behind the interface, the God of War probably had a panic attack, though she doubted she was the cause—her skill level was pretty clear. It was not her fault she was terrible at this.
'Yea. Enjoy waiting for a decade. Maybe pick better next time'
Well, being a God of War, naturally all her missions include winning a war.
And how the fuck is she going to do that when she has never even been to a military training? She never even held a knife, forget about guns. Her first 5 missions ended as soon as she started.
It's not very reasonable to suddenly drop someone in the middle of World War 3, is it? She didn't even get to activate her perks before the missile hit her. If not for her face, how could a God of War choose someone so unfit for the job?
Saoirse closed her eyes, crossing her arms, her legs shaking as anxiety crept in. Waiting for the system to refresh once again, she only had one pull left. If she failed now, she might as well bid herself goodbye.