The cold, crushing weight of inevitability was a physical force, threatening to bring Riven to his knees. He knew the script. He knew how this story ended: in fire, ash, and the solitary scream of a single survivor. Despair was a tide, and it was pulling him under.
But then, something else ignited in the abyss of his soul. It was a hot, stubborn thing. A rebellion. A single, defiant spark of courage in the face of absolute doom.
No. Not like this.
Even if it's just for myself… I will not die like a coward. The thought wasn't just a thought; it was a vow. It was the birth of a new, desperate purpose. To save himself. To save Robin. And maybe, just maybe, to tear a page from the book of fate and write his own ending. The desire was so fierce it felt like a physical hunger.
He caught Robin's arm, his grip surprisingly strong. She stopped, turning to him with wide, frightened eyes. "Robin, go!" he commanded, his voice ringing with a conviction he didn't know he possessed. "Get to the Tree of Knowledge! Find the Director, find Clover… find anyone! I'll buy you time! I'll slow these bastards down!"
She stared at him, her expression a mixture of fear for him and confusion. He was just a boy, the same as her. What could he possibly do? But then she saw the look in his eyes. The fear was still there, but it was burning as fuel for something else—a terrifying, unyielding resolve. The look of someone who had already accepted the price.
Her own eyes reddened with unshed tears. She gave a single, sharp nod, a silent acknowledgment of his sacrifice. Then, she ran. She ran with all the speed her small body could muster, not looking back, because looking back would mean admitting what he was about to do.
Riven watched her go, a small figure shrinking against the backdrop of the colossal tree. Only when she was out of sight did he turn to face the approaching shadows. He was alone. Truly alone, standing on the edge of the world's end.
A frantic, desperate prayer began to unspool in his mind. Come on, gods, fate, whoever is in charge of this cosmic joke! Don't be so unfair! Where is it? Where's the transmigrator's golden ticket?
The black-suited agents of Cipher Pol were getting closer, their polished shoes making no sound on the grass. They moved like wraiths, their faces blank slates of professional indifference.
A lottery system! A character-summoning system! Anything! Riven thought, taking an involuntary step back. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Fine! Forget the fancy stuff! Just give me a cheat! A powerful bloodline! He remembered stories he had devoured in his past life, tales of heroes reborn with the blood of gods, capable of shattering mountains and defying destiny. A power like that… if he had a power like that, he could rewrite this entire, tragic symphony. He could tear down the World Government with his bare hands.
Just a taste! Just a sliver of that power! Is that too much to ask?! His mind screamed into the void, a torrent of desperate, bitter frustration. But the cosmos remained silent. The only answer was the rustle of leaves and the steady, unhurried advance of the men in black.
"You. Boy." The voice was flat, cold, and devoid of any human warmth. An agent had stopped, raising a standard-issue rifle. The black hole of the barrel was aimed directly at Riven's chest. "What are you doing, skulking around here?"
A strange calm washed over Riven. The panic, the desperate hope, it all evaporated, leaving behind something cold and hard as diamond. Perhaps it was because he had already seen his own death a hundred times in his mind. He knew who these men were. Not just government thugs, but agents of Cipher Pol. Killers. He was a child. He stood no chance. The equation was simple.
But if he was going to die, he would die on his feet.
You can lose the fight, but you don't have to lose your dignity, a voice in his head whispered. For my own honor. For Robin.
"I, Riven, fear nothing," he whispered to himself, a mantra against the encroaching darkness. He straightened his small frame, lifted his chin, and stared down the barrel of the gun, his obsidian eyes holding the agent's gaze without a flicker of fear.
And in that moment of absolute defiance… it happened.
A blinding, pure white light erupted from his wrist.
It was so intense, so sudden, that it washed out the world, forcing Riven to shield his eyes. He stared, stunned, as the simple, black-screened watch he'd worn since waking up in this world blazed with the light of a miniature sun.
"This… What is this?!" he stammered.
The watch had always been there, a strange, inert piece of plastic. He'd assumed it was just something his predecessor had owned. Useless. But now, as the light pulsed, a shape began to resolve itself in his mind's eye. A memory from his past life, from a different story, a different world. A small, handheld device. A digital monster's key to evolution.
Wait… I remember this, he thought, his mind reeling. This isn't a watch… this is a Digivice. From Digimon. This is the Holy Plan.
The brilliant flash of light had not gone unnoticed.
"Hey! Kid! What is that thing on your wrist?" the agent barked, his rifle wavering for a second. The calm indifference on his face was replaced by suspicion and greed. "Hand it over! Now!"
Riven's hand instinctively closed over the device. The light subsided, but a faint warmth now pulsed from it, a steady, rhythmic beat like a second heart. He looked from the device to the hostile faces of the agents, and the last vestiges of his fear were burned away by a hot surge of defiance.
"I don't think so," he snarled, the words sharp and clear. "You can't have it."
A flicker of annoyance crossed the lead agent's face. "Hmph. Stubborn brat. You must be one of the scholars' brats." He gestured to his subordinates. "Grab him."
Before Riven could react, two agents lunged forward. Rough hands seized him, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. His arms were pinned, his feet kicking uselessly in the air.
The first agent smirked, stepping forward and reaching for Riven's wrist. "If you won't give it to us," he said, his voice a low sneer, "we'll just have to take it from you."