***
As the survivors huddled together in tense clusters, the self-appointed leaders from each ragged group finished their grim headcount: just 79 souls remaining. The twenty who were missing? Vanished without a trace. No one dared whisper their fates aloud, but the memory of the first casualty—a man torn apart before their eyes—still hung heavy in the air, choking every shallow breath.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind over dry leaves. "That alien said there were 600 of us," muttered a wiry woman with dirt-streaked cheeks, her voice barely audible. "Did most die already? So fast? What the hell happened to the rest?"
Her companion, a broad-shouldered man clutching a makeshift spear, shook his head, eyes darting to the horizon. "Shh. Don't think about it. Just... survive."
The countdown blared from invisible speakers, each number slamming into their chests like a hammer.
**10... 9... 8...**
Hearts pounded in unison, breaths hitching as if the air itself were thickening.
**7... 6... 5...**
Fingers dug into arms, knuckles white. A young man nearby whimpered, "This is it. They're coming for us."
**4... 3... 2... 1...**
Silence. No flash of teleportation, no horde of enemies bursting from the jungle. Just an oppressive quiet that pressed down like a shroud, broken only by the ragged symphony of held breaths releasing in shaky gasps.
Then, a blinding white flash seared their vision, forcing everyone to shield their eyes with trembling hands. A booming voice echoed across the clearing, smooth and mocking: "Hello...! My dear players. Oh, how *pleasurable* it is to meet you again."
Blinking away spots, they lowered their arms to see him: Tryl, the alien, materializing in a crisp butler outfit—tailored black suit, white gloves, and a bowtie that somehow made his demonic presence even more grotesque. He stood tall amid the group, his razor-sharp smile gleaming against skin as black as the void between stars. His pure white eyes glowed with predatory glee, scanning the crowd like a chef appraising meat.
"Oh my, my, my," Tryl purred, clasping his hands with feigned sympathy. "It seems some *unfortunate souls* believed they could build a raft and flee this delightful island. Do you all wish to see their end? A little preview of what's to come?"
Panic cracked the air before anyone could protest. "No—please, don't!" a woman sobbed from the back, but her voice drowned in the murmurs.
Tryl ignored her, snapping his fingers. A massive holographic image unfurled above them like a nightmare tapestry, vivid and merciless. Lifeless bodies bobbed in the churning sea—men and women twisted in eternal agony. Some floated face-up, half-gnawed by unseen jaws, flesh ragged and glistening. Others sank into the depths, mouths frozen in silent screams, eyes bulging with the remnants of terror.
The hologram zoomed in cruelly. Fish erupted from a woman's eye sockets, wriggling through the hollows as her scattered brain matter became a writhing feast. Nearby, a man's jaw hung detached, his tongue severed and replaced by a pale, cockroach-like parasite that skittered and nibbled at the stump with wet, crunching sounds audible even in the projection.
The crowd shattered. A young man dropped to his knees, vomiting bile onto the dirt. "God, no... those were *people*," he gasped between retches. A teenage girl collapsed into her mother's arms, wailing, "Mom, make it stop! I can't—I can't look!" Tears carved clean tracks through the grime on countless faces. Others stood frozen, faces pale as ash, chests heaving with dry sobs.
Akhu felt bile rise in his own throat, his mind reeling: *Was it him? Or something worse in the water? God, what have we stumbled into?*
Even he felt his earlier bravado vanish, at the sight of such horror.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Tryl clucked, his voice turning icy as his smile widened to reveal fangs like shattered glass. "Such *fine specimens*, wasted so early. But oh, they played their parts beautifully—their deaths were *most entertaining*. Now, I wonder... what delights will *you* bring us?"
He paused, letting the silence fester. "If you wish to leave the island, by all means, try. But if you value even a few more breaths... I advise against it."
Sobs echoed, knees buckled, but no one dared challenge him. The first man's death had seared the lesson into them: defiance meant a swift, screaming end. One survivor, a gaunt elder with haunted eyes, whispered to his neighbor, "He's not bluffing. Those poor bastards... they thought the sea was freedom."
"You may wonder about the timer," Tryl continued, his tone dripping with mock benevolence. "Why the countdown? Simple, really. It was to summon you here—so you might *live*. Anyone who failed to gather has already been fed to the island's... appetites. Hahahaha!"
Laughter boomed like thunder, chilling spines. Realization hit like a wave: the "missing" twenty weren't hiding or fleeing—they were *gone*, devoured in some unseen horror before the game even truly began. "Insanity," someone breathed. "Pure madness. They could've been allies... and now?" No one answered. How could they? The abyss had claimed its toll, and defiance would only hasten theirs.
A blue flash struck again, forcing eyes shut against the glare. When vision cleared, miniature holographic screens flickered to life before each survivor—personal interfaces glowing faintly in the dim light.
"A system!" murmured a hopeful voice from the crowd.
Excitement sparked like a dying ember. "Does that mean powers? Levels? Something to fight back with?" a lanky youth shouted, fist pumping.
"We have a chance! We have a *chance*!" The chant swelled from the back, desperate voices uniting in fragile defiance.
But as eyes scanned the screens, hope curdled. Each displayed only basics: name, age, species—human—and a single button on the right, like a shopping cart icon.
Akhu tapped his tentatively. A shop interface bloomed: crude bows, rusted iron swords, bundles of arrows. No potions. No spells. No guns. Nothing to bridge the gulf between flesh and the horrors they'd glimpsed. *This is it? Tools for animals?*
Despair crashed down. "What the *hell*?" roared the broad-shouldered man, slamming his spear into the ground. "Where are the powers? The guns? This is a joke!"
A woman nearby laughed bitterly, tears streaming. "A chance? This is just more ways to die prettily."
Tryl's laughter erupted once more—deep, bone-rattling, etched into their souls like a curse. It rolled over them, extinguishing the last flickers of hope, leaving only the cold certainty of the game ahead.
***