Welcome to the Tri Annual Write to the Death! (Hosted by Princely Path)

Contestant M26. We warmly welcome you to Write to the Death! The tournament is fiercer than ever, so we hope you're ready to write. Comprehensive analysis of all contestants revealed that your writing skill was ranked 254/256. As such you were allocated one of our top performing categories in prior editions of our annual tournament : LitRPG / Progression / Isekai. The previous participants of writers in this category had an average final standing of #6, as well as two former winners. Could you be the third?

We here at Story Corp certainly hope so. And so should you, M26. Write to the Death is a Win to Survive format. We recommend you watching our introductory video, The Cost of Losing, to avoid any unnecessary confusion or delay to your writing efforts.

I blinked. The bright light from the computer screen made my head ache.

Groggy and disorientated as I was, I must have fallen asleep. But the screen wasn't familiar, or even the desk. Darkness encroached from all sides. I couldn't even see the edges of the room.

Trying to rub my eyes, my wrist jerked and a chain rattled. 'I'm tied to a fucking chair,' I realized. I thought about calling out, but I had the vague memory that I'd seen movies start like this. And announcing you were conscious seemed like the best way to start a timer. I slowly craned my neck around and could see something glossy and metallic in the shadows.

"Good morning, M26!" a woman's robotic voice announced. "My name is MOLL-E," the words continued happily and cheerily. "I am your assistant. Responsible for aiding you in your very first run at the Write to the Death Tournament. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes..." I answered, my throat dry and my voice unfamiliar. It sounded like the words of a stranger, but then I couldn't place how it should sound. Or what I looked like. Or who I even was.

"Modular analysis of your voice suggests content was forthcoming, but I am designed to prompt you after a set time. Do you have any questions?" MOLL-E repeated.

"What's going on?"

"'What is going on?'" MOLL-E repeated quizzically in her cheery, robotic way. "Question range limitless. Please endeavor to be more precise, M26."

"Who is M26?"

"You are, of course. Names and memories are not required to participate in our tournament. The sole focus is on writing. You are a male with a proximate physical age of twenty six. You are M26."

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

I took a few shallow breaths to think, confusion and fear making me awkwardly chuckle. "No," I then said. "I was older. Much older."

The sound of a ventilator echoed faintly in my mind. The ghost sensation of a child, old to others but young to me, holding my hand.

"The past is not the present, M26," MOLL-E gently chided. "You are here, now. And the clock is already running. I strongly suggest you get to work on the concept of your new novel."

"I don't--"

"Here. Let me help, M26. I am invested in your victory and your survival. Let me help," MOLL-E repeated in a kinder, almost worried tone. "Computer, play 'The Cost of Losing'."

A soft click preceded a wheel on the screen. The bright purple message was replaced by the bordered of a black box, so dark that I could see the vague reflection of my own skinny frame and of the tall robot stood beside me. Broad, and powerful, and curved. MOLL-E's eyes were a red visor, where a single black dot scanned left to right and right to left, over and over.

"Welcome!" an exuberant man announced, now the black box began playing a video. The words, Write to the Death, were displayed in block lettering, as the title screen faded to give view of a handsome, grey-haired man in a blue suit. He too, I noticed, was tied to a chair, facing a computer screen. "I am the Host of Write to the Death. Here with me is non-compliant participant M56. M56, why don't you tell the audience why you--"

"Fuck you!" the old man cursed. "You can't tell me what to do. And I'm not writing no story for your sick game. If you wanna kill me, then kill me!"

"You heard him folks!" the Host's voice happily declared. "System. Please roll for M56's death."

"Rolling..." a flat, monotone voice announced.

"Here at Story Corp we like to keep things fair. It's like my grandpappy used to say," the Host went on. "It's magic. Not malice. Since punishments were increased, and methods were randomized, acts of non-compliance have been reduced to all time levels of two percent. Whether it is a shot to the head, or a guillotine, knowing that your fate could have been that much worse is what keeps the creative juices flowing."

"M56 death roll results in," the monotone voice declared, "immolation."

"Oh," the Host remarked as if unhappily. "Is that all?"

"Say whatever you like," the old man cut in, "I ain't scared--"

Liquid splashed into M56's mouth, causing him to cough and splutter. Two men, clad all in black and wearing black masks, came carrying big red cans, pouring the slick liquid onto the struggling old man and nearly drowning him. Cans emptied, they left M56 to choke and spit and gag. His nice suit had been soaked and his grey hair lay murky and flat against his head.

"Last words?" came the Host's voice, now the back of a man's head, golden blond hair neatly trimmed, came into view. In his purple gloved hand, he carried a shiny steel lighter, which he flipped open to light.

"You can't--" The old man began, his eyes narrowed with hate and fear. But the lighter had been tossed, and the fledgling flame soon bloomed into a blanket of fire, wrapping around M56 like he was a candle.

"Stop video," I muttered. The old man began to scream, his flesh and clothes blackening in the heat. "MOLL-E. Stop the video!"

"Computer -- stop video," MOLL-E said.

The frozen image of the burning man was still stuck on the screen. "Computer. Close video," I requested. The video closed, and the purple box with the welcome message appeared again. Though now there was a button to click.

CREATE STORY