“So, who will you choose, my dear?” Superbia purred, his voice dripping with condescension. “Such a difficult decision, isn’t it? Choose the wrong person, and we both know what awaits you.” He reached out with a casual, callous grace, tangling his fingers into Future Iris’s hair as though claiming a trophy.
“Go to hell,” Future Iris spat, her eyes blazing with a fierce resolve. In that instant, she jerked her head back, and before Superbia could react, a sickening crack and a spray of distorted energy accompanied the sudden separation of his hand from his wrist. She stepped away from him, standing taller and prouder, even as the stench of fire and cut flesh lingered in the air.
Superbia let out a hiss of pain, glaring down at the stump. His draconic eyes widened in startled fury, and before a single drop of blood could fall, he willed his hand to regenerate with a sickening crunch and twist of bone and sinew. Within seconds, it was as though it had never been severed. “W-when did you do that?” he demanded, voice betraying a hint of incredulity. He was not used to being surprised.
Future Iris’s smile widened, a predatory curve to her lips. “You have a habit of letting your guard down, you prideful bastard.” The mockery in her tone was as sharp as the flaming blade that had just amputated him. “Just like in the game, you thought you had all the time in the world. You thought I’d fold. You thought wrong.”
Superbia growled, his composure returning as he flicked an invisible speck of dust from his pristine sleeve. “Enough theatrics, Iris,” he said, voice cold and clipped. “Just tell me your decision. Make it quick. I tire of these games.”
Future Iris reached into a nearby drawer and retrieved a red book. At once, a flurry of flaming butterflies emerged from its pages, each delicate wing a burning ember dancing in the air. Their soft glow cast shifting patterns of light and shadow across the room. Superbia’s eyes narrowed, anger turning his draconic pupils into slits.
“Where did you get that? That’s cheating,” he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He hated unpredictability, and hated when the script he wrote was challenged.
Iris’s grin turned razor-sharp, her voice now dripping with mock sweetness. “Show me the rules, Superbia. Show me where it says I can’t use every available resource. If you’re as powerful as you claim, you should be able to handle a little improvisation.” She paused, letting the tension coil between them. “I’ll do you one better: Here’s the order of elimination. Theo first. Celia second. Sarah and Emily at the same time. Then Noah, and lastly, Alice. That’s exactly how it will go, and I dare you to prove me wrong.”
For a moment, the air crackled with raw hostility. Superbia’s face twitched in disbelief and then hardened with wrath. Faster than thought, he lunged forward, clamping his regenerated hand around Future Iris’s throat. He pulled her close, his crimson hair falling around them like a curtain, his breath hot against her face. His draconic eyes flared with a molten intensity, as if daring her to repeat her insolence.
“Get a single one of those wrong,” he hissed, his voice low and full of menace, “and I’ll consider that a loss on your part. Understand?” His grip tightened fractionally, emphasizing the stakes.
Despite the choking pressure, Future Iris’s smile did not waver. Her eyes sparkled with a daring, rebellious light. “G—game on,” she managed, forcing the words out through compressed lungs. Even now, with his hand around her throat, she refused to show fear. Instead, she projected the same unwavering confidence that had caught him off guard moments before.
The tension between them stretched taut as a bowstring. The flaming butterflies spiraled above them, casting frantic, dancing shadows on the walls. Iris could feel Superbia’s fury vibrating through his hand, and yet, she met it with defiance. They stood locked in their silent contest, neither willing to yield an inch.
Thus, the next stage of their twisted game was set. Iris, armed with knowledge and audacity, and Superbia, incensed and determined to crush her spirit, squared off in a deadlock that would echo across time and destiny.
In the present, the dodgeball game raged on like a war unleashed. The gym’s atmosphere crackled with tension and raw energy, every movement laced with deadly cunning. Sparks of flame, fragments of dolls, and glimmers of strange conceptual powers danced across the court. Students hurled dodgeballs that soared like meteors, some charged with raw elemental fury, others guided by preternatural precision.
High above, Maxwell hovered in midair, wings spread, scanning the frenzy below. His eyes darted between his teammates and their opponents, searching for the subtle patterns and rhythms that would yield victory. Nearby, Iris unleashed volleys of flaming arrows, each a streak of scarlet slicing through the dizzying chaos.
In a realm beyond mortal perception—somewhere far off in time and space—Superbia stood with Future Iris, narrating every twist and turn of the present. His voice bristled with anger, every syllable a blade of irritation as he recounted the events. “So, as you predicted,” he hissed, “Theo was the first to fall. Are you pleased, my dear?”
Future Iris said nothing. She only watched through the lens of Superbia’s voice, each detail painting a vivid picture in her mind’s eye. She could feel his rage crackling, taste the bitterness in his tone as he was forced to acknowledge her prediction coming true. It amused her, even as it unnerved her.
On the court, Theo fought valiantly, splitting his attention between the barrage of incoming dodgeballs and his sister, Celia. He darted left, then right, tentatively hoping to maintain a front line. Maxwell took notice—he saw how Theo’s every action was tethered to Celia’s safety. If a ball veered toward her, Theo rushed to intercept it. If she looked cornered, Theo positioned himself as a shield.
In the stands of time’s distant corridor, Superbia’s voice dripped with grudging respect. “He tries so hard,” he snarled, “this foolish boy. But watch how Maxwell exploits his weakness.”
Maxwell’s hypercognition flared, discerning Theo’s pattern of protection. Instead of targeting Theo directly, he launched a coordinated assault of dodgeballs at Celia. Iris, sensing his plan, provided cover fire of her own, forcing the siblings’ formation to crumble. Caught in a pincer move, Theo had to act—and act fast.
Celia’s eyes widened as several balls streaked toward her from multiple angles. Theo rushed in, determined to shield her no matter the cost. He extended his arms, trying to bat away or catch them, but there were too many. Each dodgeball slammed into him—one, two, three blows in rapid succession. He grimaced, fighting the urge to cry out as more balls pummeled his sides and chest. It was too much. He couldn’t defend himself and Celia simultaneously against that hailstorm of rubber and raw force.
At last, he stumbled, the final ball striking him with a dull thud. Theo collapsed to one knee, then lowered his head, acknowledging his defeat. The referee’s whistle—or Mrs. Stone’s voice, in this twisted scenario—rang out: “Theo is out!”
Celia gasped, lurching forward. She wanted to help him, to argue that it wasn’t fair, but rules were rules. Theo stood slowly, meeting her worried gaze with a small, apologetic smile. He’d done all he could. He’d protected her, and now the best he could do was leave the battlefield with dignity.
A hush rippled through the gym. One down, as predicted. The other students glanced at each other warily, wondering what would change now that Theo was gone. Maxwell said nothing, only settled back into a calm vigilance. Iris tightened her grip on her flaming bow, a subtle nod of respect for the fallen adversary. Xavier pressed his lips together, noting the shift in team balance. Anya smirked quietly, pleased that the chaos deepened. Noah’s blind gaze didn’t waver, but he inclined his head, acknowledging a worthy foe’s exit.
Back in the hidden future vantage point, Superbia clenched his fists. “You see, my dear Iris?” he growled, anger boiling beneath his polished words. “Your guess was correct. Theo is down. But don’t you dare get smug. One success does not guarantee the rest.”
Future Iris allowed herself a small, triumphant smile, reveling in the crack in his composure. She said nothing, letting the proof of her accuracy sink in. Her silence needled him more effectively than any taunt could.
Superbia inhaled sharply, steadying himself. He would not show weakness. “Your turn grows short, Iris,” he said, voice lower, tighter. “The next elimination will come sooner than you think. And if you fail to predict it correctly—”
He didn’t finish the threat. He didn’t have to. The weight of the bet they had struck, the price of a single miscalculation, hung heavy in the space between them.
On the court, the game resumed with renewed intensity. Without Theo’s protective presence, Celia might be more vulnerable or perhaps freed to move differently. Maxwell, Iris, Anya, and all the others adjusted their strategies silently. Theo's elimination was a single stone thrown into a still pond, sending ripples of consequence outward.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
But as that single prediction locked into history, Future Iris stood tall in the face of Superbia’s fury, and the present continued to unfold in accordance with her whispered prophecy.
Celia knew her limitations all too well. Her ability was never meant for a direct showdown like this—no conjuring flames, no freezing concepts, no manipulating dodgeballs through sheer will. It was a subtle support skill, better suited for marking an enemy’s position or giving allies a heads-up. In a massive, frenzied battle like this, her gifts amounted to little more than a guiding whisper lost in the roar of chaos. She ducked and dodged, eyes wide and uncertain, as spheres of rubber and elemental fury zipped past her. Each close call made her heart pound faster.
Across the court, Emily and Sarah spotted her hesitation. The twins had learned to read fear like an open book, and right now, Celia’s fear shone bright and clear. They circled in, their movements graceful and predatory, ready to exploit her weakness. Already, they’d seen Theo taken out. Another teammate down could tip the balance. Their mantis-like arms twitched, poised to slice through any defense that might arise.
But Iris stepped in, a protective shadow cutting between Celia and the twins. Her sword of flames crackled into existence, the heat rolling off it in shimmering waves. Iris deflected incoming balls with fierce determination, sweat beading on her brow. She wouldn’t let another teammate fall. Not if she could help it.
With a swift move, Iris stooped low, snatching up a stray dodgeball. She channeled her flames into it, igniting its surface with a brief burst of pyrokinetic force before launching it with a kick that sent it rocketing across the gym. The ball streaked like a miniature comet, forcing Sarah to jink to the side, barely escaping its fiery bite.
“I won’t let anyone else get eliminated,” Iris called out, voice firm but laced with tension. She knew the odds were stacked against them. The twin's cunning, Maxwell’s relentless strikes, Noah’s skill—they needed unity to stand a chance. Yet Iris despised Anya, she couldn’t rely on that twisted puppeteer. Alice was too unskilled to wield her potential effectively, and Celia was already floundering. The team was on shaky ground.
Sensing an opening, the twins moved into their next play. Emily grabbed a dodgeball and tossed it high into the air. As it soared, Sarah darted in close and cupped her hands, providing a makeshift platform. With perfect timing, Emily sprang onto her sister’s clasped hands, and Sarah heaved upward, sending Emily soaring above the fray. High above the chaos, Emily had a bird’s-eye view of the trembling Celia, who stared up in alarm.
There was no time to react. Emily, poised midair, drew back her arm and spiked the dodgeball straight down, putting all her strength, and a dash of gravity behind it. The ball streaked earthward, a deadly meteor of rubber aimed squarely at Celia’s head. Iris tried to intervene, swinging her flame sword to intercept, but the twins’ teamwork was too swift, too sudden. The ball passed Iris’s guard by a hair.
Celia’s eyes widened in shock a split-second before impact. The ball struck her skull with a resonant thump, the force knocking her off-balance. She stumbled, and across the court, Emily descended gracefully, her fall broken by Sarah’s waiting arms. The twins smiled at each other, a silent note of satisfaction passing between them.
Iris’s stomach sank as Celia went down. Another comrade lost. The echoes of Celia’s elimination rippled through the gym like a tragic chorus: too many falls, too few allies left to rely on. The game had become a vicious spiral, each move more desperate than the last, and each casualty carving a deeper line between victory and despair.
“Good work everyone, we’re almost there! Let’s win this,” Maxwell called, his voice resonating with steady confidence as he hovered mid-air. Across the court, Sarah and Emily grinned ear-to-ear, exchanging a victorious high-five that crackled with triumph. They had secured another elimination, and their morale soared. Noah lingered at the periphery, smiling to himself, his next throw already forming in his mind, guided by uncanny instincts.
Meanwhile, in Fate’s boundless library—a place between worlds where knowledge and destiny intertwined—three gods observed the match as though it were a scene from a captivating play. They lounged in armchairs, sipping delicate cups of tea, each swallowing a mouthful carrying infinite implications. Rows of shelves stretched into eternity, filled with tomes that could rewrite reality with a single phrase.
“Poor Iris,” Pandora said, leaning forward with a malicious grin. He stirred his tea slowly, as if savoring each ripple. “Brother, it looks like your precious champion might burst into tears at any moment.”
Fate narrowed his eyes, taking a slow, measured sip. “Oh, shut it, Pandora. Iris has endured more than this. She won’t break so easily. She’s no fragile glass figurine.”
Eden, cradling her teacup like a cherished jewel, chimed in with a dreamy sigh. “At least my dear Maxwell will win.” Her tone brimmed with pride, imagining Maxwell’s inevitable triumph.
Pandora’s lips curved into a cruel smile. “Oh, is that what you think, dear sister? Yes, it does look that way. How sad that he’s going to die before the game’s end.” He savored the revelation, each word poised like a blade.
Eden’s composure snapped. With a swift motion, she flung her tea at Pandora’s face, scalding liquid splashing across his features. “You dare say that?” she spat, anger turning her voice into a sharpened edge.
Pandora merely blinked, apparently unbothered by the burning liquid streaming down his cheeks. “So mean, sister,” he remarked, voice calm. He continued sipping from his own cup as though nothing had happened, hot tea dribbling down his face. “I must ask, what poison did you use in this?” he inquired, almost conversationally, as if discussing the bouquet of a fine wine.
Fate rested an elbow on his armchair, eyes half-lidded with mild amusement. “A friend gave it to me. A very special poison, one that doesn’t even exist yet. Just a single drop. It’s quite strong, I’d say.”
Pandora took another slow sip, thoughtfully rolling the taste over his tongue. “Interesting, indeed, if I could die, I’d likely be writhing in agony now. Instead, it tastes rather sweet—like honey with a bitter aftertaste. Such a rare flavor.”
Eden and Fate exchanged glances as Pandora continued speaking as if unaffected, smiling through the pain that didn’t come. “I guess that’s what sets us apart,” Fate mused. “Now, Pandora, care to explain your master plan?” His voice dripped mockery, a slow, steady trickle of venomous curiosity.
Fate's eyes flickered with distaste for this game. “I placed an extreme concentration of death energy into her—Cynthia,” Pandora answered, enjoying his role as narrator. “That, and a special catalyst. She’s a ticking bomb of madness, and at any moment, I can trigger her to activate. The longer I wait, the stronger she becomes.”
Fate frowned, his gaze flicking to Eden, who was looking at her empty teacup with melancholy. “So you hold the keys to this doomsday,” Fate said, voice low. “And we were under the impression we had more time.”
Eden shrank under Fate’s glare, her sadness palpable. “I’m sorry…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if confessing a secret sin. Then she ventured timidly, “Can I have more tea?”
Fate’s reply was immediate, brusque, and final. “No, you may not.”
Eden looked away, her shoulders trembling slightly under the weight of her remorse. Pandora chuckled softly, wiping tea from his face—his smug smile made it clear he relished every drop of discord. The atmosphere in the library was thick with tension, the silence only broken by the quiet rustle of Fate’s robes as he reached for the teapot.
“Care to make a bet, my dear brother?” Fate asked, his voice deceptively calm as he refilled his cup with a measured hand. The delicate clink of porcelain provided a small, cultured contrast to the malicious undertones of their conversation.
Pandora’s eyes narrowed, a single gleaming flash of intrigue. “A deal with you, Fate, is always dangerous,” he replied, tapping a finger on the arm of his chair. “But I won’t deny I’m rather interested.” He downed the last of his tea, as if toasting the risk he was about to take.
“It’s simple,” Fate said lightly, though a predatory edge lurked in the curve of his lips. “If you can’t eliminate either of our chosen champions, you’ll hold off for the rest of the year. However, if you manage to kill just one of them, I’ll give you anything your twisted heart desires.”
Pandora clicked his tongue, his eyes drifting thoughtfully toward the ceiling. “No can do,” he said, shrugging languidly. “I’ve got two more plans lined up for this year—carefully set into motion, I might add. It would be such a bore to scrap them. How about this: if you win, I’ll tell you which one of you will be targeted next? A fairer offer, wouldn’t you say?”
Fate’s brow arched, amusement warring with suspicion on his face. “How fitting,” he mused. “Even with your master plan moments away from starting, you admit to countless back-up schemes. We do share that tendency to be over-prepared, don’t we, brother?”
Pandora gave a small nod, feigning modesty. “I guess so,” he replied. He lifted his empty cup again, rattling it slightly. “May I have more tea?”
Fate smiled, but it was a smile without warmth. “I’m finished wasting poison on you,” he said, pouring a fresh cup with a steady hand. The steam curled into the air, carrying a hint of bitterness. Eden watched them both silently, sadness pooling in her eyes as the two men discussed murder and deceit over tea.
Pandora took a careful sip, then grimaced. “Dreadful without the extra kick of your poison. And you’ve made it far too hot, brother,” he complained. Without warning, he flung the scalding tea in Eden’s face. She let out a strangled cry, stumbling backward and rolling on the floor, clutching at the burning pain. The smell of scorched flesh hung in the air like a vile perfume.
“So,” Pandora said, ignoring Eden’s agony with dispassionate ease, “do we have a deal?”
Fate didn’t even glance at Eden. His eyes remained locked on Pandora’s face, ice-cold and unwavering. “Yes, we do,” he said at last. “I promise you, you won’t win. My trump card is unbeatable.”
Pandora leaned in, his wicked grin expanding. “Of course it is. But how many times can you use it?” His voice slithered into the space between them, a challenge wrapped in a taunt.
“Enough times,” Fate said softly, his tone like a blade drawn from its sheath. “Enough times for it to matter.”
They fell silent, the tension humming like a taut wire, Eden’s muffled whimpers the only sound. Far away, in the mortal realm of dodgeballs and desperate struggles, students fought and fell, hearts pounded and curses lingered in the wings. And here, in the endless library of knowledge and doom, the gods set their stakes, forging destiny with quiet threats and half-smiles, as the next move in their deadly game lay waiting just beyond the next breath.