The letters pulsed with a rhythmic glow, casting an ethereal light over the cobblestones below. Zaria paused, her curiosity battling with the wariness curling at the edges of her thoughts. The words hung in the air like a challenge, and she couldn’t help but wonder what choosing a Game Master entailed. Was this the point where she would finally get answers, or was it just another layer of the bizarre nightmare she’d stumbled into?
Zaria stopped in her tracks, her gaze drifting across the vibrant bustle of the village. For the first time since her chaotic arrival, she felt a flicker of calm. The surreal mix of rustic charm and futuristic glow created an atmosphere that seemed untouched by the deadly stakes she knew lay beneath the surface. Beings moved about with ease, chatting, laughing, and carrying on as if their lives weren’t tied to a game where survival wasn’t guaranteed.
Her jaw tightened. Don’t go there, Zaria. She forced the dark thoughts down, her fists clenching at her sides. Focus. If you start thinking about how trapped you are, you’ll end up raging and curb-stomping innocent NPCs. She exhaled sharply, glancing at the crowd. For all she knew, these beings were just as stuck as she was, resigned to existing in a system they couldn’t escape. Maybe this was just how you coped when faced with no way out—you went about your day and pretended the horror wasn’t waiting at the edges.
A cluster of small beings dashed past her, their laughter ringing out in carefree bursts. They chased each other in circles, their game a moment of unfiltered joy that seemed to mock her simmering tension. She zeroed in on one of them, watching as the text materialized above its head:
Amanda NPC
Child Delinquent in Training
Zaria blinked. Well, that’s… encouraging. She shook her head, bemused, and turned her attention to the nearest building. Above each doorway, holographic codes flickered, the alien script morphing into readable words as her gaze lingered.
Some doors flashed Occupied in bold red letters, while others glowed Unoccupied in green. She tilted her head, lips pressing into a thin line. Pick your Game Master? The phrase hovered at the edges of her mind like a bad joke. Was this meant to be her salvation, or just another layer of the twisted reality she’d been thrown into?
As she scanned the codes—AB, CAT, MOP, Ky—one in particular caught her eye: Xy. The simple letters triggered a flicker of memory, a snippet from her childhood. XYZ, she thought with a faint smirk. “eXamine Your Zipper.”
The corner of her mouth tugged upward, the smallest trace of a smile breaking through. It was a silly joke her friends used to whisper in class, usually after some poor instructor had to explain the concept of a zipper to a generation raised on self-sealing clothing. The thought of using such a primitive mechanism to hold your clothes together seemed absurd now, but as a child, it had made her giggle uncontrollably.
The memory deepened as she recalled the lesson: the hazards of catching body parts in zippers, the mortifying possibility of one bursting open in public, leaving you exposed. Zaria winced just thinking about it. No wonder our ancestors were so eager to ditch those things. She gave a small shake of her head, pushing the thought aside. If her childhood laughter could rise to the surface in this moment, maybe she wasn’t as broken by the Trials as she feared.
Zaria hesitated at the glowing door marked Xy, the faint warmth of its light brushing against her face. The air seemed to shift as she approached, growing warmer, softer—like stepping into a memory of safety. A faint, unfamiliar scent tickled her senses, something between sandalwood and the sharp tang of ozone after a storm. The door slid open with a soft hiss, releasing a subtle wave of energy that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.
“Well, here goes nothing,” she muttered, stepping across the threshold.
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The room was unlike anything she had encountered. The walls shimmered faintly, alive with intricate patterns of light that pulsed in a soothing rhythm. It was as if the very space was breathing, a steady inhale and exhale of energy. At the center of the room stood a figure—tall, humanoid, but undeniably alien. His skin glistened with a blend of organic material and glowing circuitry, the faint lines of light tracing elegant, fluid patterns across his form. They pulsed faintly, like veins carrying some kind of luminous lifeblood.
Above his head, words flickered into view, seemingly suspended in the air:
NPC Identified: Xyros
Species: Seeder
Technomancy Potential (TNP): unlimited, technomancy master
Role: Game Master
Zaria froze, her gaze darting between the display and the figure before her. NPC? The term felt jarring here, like it didn’t fit the being that radiated presence and intelligence before her. She squinted at the glowing text. Seeder? That wasn’t any species she recognized, and she’d studied a lot of alien biology and cultures.
The being—Xyros—turned to her, his glowing eyes locking onto hers with a mix of calm and amusement. When he spoke, his voice was rich and resonant, reverberating through her chest like the low hum of a starship engine. “Ah, Zaria Jenkins. You’ve chosen well. Or perhaps, your childhood humor chose for you?”
Her breath hitched, a chill running up her spine. “Wait, how do you know about… my childhood? Who—what—are you?”
Xyros smiled—a serene, knowing expression that seemed to carry the weight of countless lifetimes. “I am Xyros,” he said simply, his words carrying a strange comfort. “And I know many things. Including why you have been chosen as a leader in these trials.”
Zaria’s arms locked across her chest, her lips pressed into a firm line. “Chosen?” she echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief. Her fingers dug into her sleeves as if grounding herself against the absurdity of it all. “There must be some mistake. I barely survived the last few hours. Leader?” She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Not exactly my strongest skill set.”
Xyros didn’t argue. Instead, he tilted his head, watching her with that unreadable expression of his. “Pulse,” he said simply.
Zaria’s brow furrowed. “What?” Her irritation flared. Maybe I was wrong about him being the best guide. “Yes, I have a pulse,” she said, placing a hand over her chest for emphasis. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Xyros exhaled through his nose, an amused glint in his gaze. “Not hour, a pulse. Time moves differently here in the Maelstrom Galaxy, even in the Nexus Arena.”
Before she could demand an explanation, the floor beneath them rippled like liquid metal, sending a slow vibration up through her boots. The material twisted, stretching and reshaping itself with eerie precision. A chair molded into existence as if it had been waiting beneath the surface all along.
Zaria took an instinctive step back, her muscles coiled with hesitation. The chair looked solid—sleek and strangely elegant, its design almost too perfect, as though it had been made just for her. She hesitated before finally lowering herself onto it, half-expecting it to collapse or shift again. Instead, the seat adjusted, contouring to her frame with unsettling familiarity.
She barely had time to process the unnatural comfort before the floor shifted once more. A table emerged beside her, forming in fluid, effortless motion. Plates materialized on its surface—steaming dishes, vibrant fruits, and glossy beverages—each one instantly recognizable.
Zaria’s stomach twisted. It was all too familiar. She reached for a drink, hesitating as she stared at the deep blue liquid inside. USS Horizon Seeker rations. Every single meal before her was a perfect replica of what she had eaten aboard the ship.
Her grip tightened around the cup. “What the hell is this?” Her voice was quieter now, but the weight of unease settled deep in her gut.
Xyros leaned against the table, watching her carefully. “The Arena provides what it thinks you need,” he said, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And right now? It thinks you need a reminder of where you came from.”
Zaria swallowed hard, staring at the meal laid out before her.
“There is no mistake,” Xyros said, his voice gentle but firm. He stood across from her, his presence commanding without being overbearing. “You were chosen because you possess the highest potential for mastering technomancy. It flows within you, even if you cannot feel it yet. With guidance, you will learn to harness it.”
Zaria leaned back, eyes narrowing as she studied him. The warmth of the room, the glow of the walls, the familiarity of the food—it all felt calculated, as if this place had been tailored to disarm her. Her heart pounded, and she gritted her teeth, her scientific instincts warring with the nagging sense that there was more to this being than he let on. Still, there was something about his calm confidence that made her want to listen. Maybe, just maybe, Xyros held the answers she desperately needed.