The voices would not stop.

  I didn’t want to die!?

  Why did I have to die!?

  Why were we attacked!?

  What did we do!?

  Why must everyone suffer?!

  They folded over one another, a chorus of grief and rage, echoing forever. Wails of the damned. Of the forgotten. Of the people who never had a chance to matter before the world decided they were expendable.

  She was falling.

  Not physically—this was worse. She was sinking inward, dragged down by the weight of a land that remembered every injustice ever committed. Every betrayal. Every prayer that went unanswered. The burden pressed against her soul until names blurred, until purpose frayed.

  She was forgetting herself.

  And in that forgetting, hatred grew teeth.

  I hate the Supremes.

  I hate the world.

  I hate—

  The word hate repeated until it lost shape, until it became sound instead of meaning.

  Then something shifted.

  Beneath the borrowed fury, beneath the chorus that wasn’t hers alone, an older hatred stirred.

  A kingdom in ruin.

  She saw it again: banners torn and burning, stone walls split open like ribs. Soldiers laying down weapons not in surrender, but because there was no point anymore. And there—her father—cut down by a fiery Outlander whose masked face she never forgot, even as time tried to bury it.

  The memory sharpened.

  “This isn’t a siege,” Gieventi had said, voice calm in a way that hurt more than panic ever could. “It’s a slow, sinking end. There’s no line to hold. No army left to rally. There’s no battlefield here, Ashan.”

  Ashantiana had clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.

  “Then I’ll make one.”

  Gieventi had nodded—not approval. Understanding.

  “You’ve always needed something to charge into. It’s how you hold your shape.”

  The memory fractured, bleeding into another.

  Selcentra.

  Bloodied. Smiling anyway.

  “That sister you knew?” Selcentra rasped, bitter laughter bubbling through ruined lungs. “She’s dead, Tiana. I don’t know what I am now.”

  Ashantiana’s hands had shaken then. They were shaking now.

  “I murdered children,” Selcentra whispered. “I forced my sister to carry a burden she didn’t deserve. All because I wanted a little more time. A few more memories. I’m… sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Ashantiana had cried. “It’s the gods. It’s the Supreme Families. It’s this cursed realm and the monsters who made us their sport.”

  Selcentra’s eyes had softened.

  “You’ve always been the best sister,” she’d said. “The strongest warrior I’ve ever met.”

  The memory collapsed inward, replaced by quiet.

  Dolen.

  They sat beneath a sky that refused to warm them, watching light die behind the clouds.

  “Let’s say you did have the power,” he’d asked, voice low. “The way these gods do.”

  He’d turned toward her.

  “How would you mess with the game?”

  Ashantiana hadn’t blinked.

  “I’d burn it all down.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes.” Her voice had been flat.

  “I’d tear down the towers. The gilded cities. The nations that watched and called it fate. If this land’s dying, I’d rather be the one to kill it myself. At least then… it’d mean something.”

  Dolen hadn’t answered. He’d just looked at her.

  Then came the last memory. The one that simplified her purpose.

  “We die burning,” Dolen had said, standing tall despite the end closing in, “so that our memory becomes a curse they can’t wash off.”

  One woman had stood.

  Then another and another.

  Hands to the ground. Palms to chests. Nods exchanged without words.

  Ashantiana had stepped back, horror flooding her. “No. Stop. This isn’t right. I never—”

  “It’s not about what you want anymore,” Dolen had said gently.

  He’d smiled.

  “It’s about what we choose.”

  The memories snapped back into the present like a blade locking into place.

  The voices didn’t stop.

  But they changed.

  They were no longer dragging her down.

  They were lifting her up.

  Ashantiana opened her eyes.

  And the land listened.

  She tore through the sky like a wound ripped open, the air screaming as her presence expanded. The black circle of her aura bloomed outward for a mile in every direction—land buckling, stone dissolving, life collapsing into dust as her Sryun chewed through existence itself. Forests withered in seconds. Rivers turned to sludge, then nothing. Villages didn’t even get the dignity of panic—one breath, then silence.

  She welcomed the screams in her soul.

  They were the only choir that still knew her name.

  Once, she had been a commander, protector, sister. Once, she had fought so others wouldn’t have to. Now she carried the cries of thousands, maybe millions, layered into her like sediment. Each death added weight. Each soul sharpened her purpose.

  The gold wave loomed in the distance, vast and indifferent, rolling forward like a divine verdict. When her corruption touched it, the black rot flared—then turned into gold. A useless effort.

  She laughed, a dry, broken sound.

  “Figures.”

  Supremes. Kings. Primordials. All beyond consequence. This was never about salvation. It was a game board, and she had been a piece that learned how to bite back.

  Her body barely resembled what it once was. Armor and flesh had fused into one ruinous shell. Skin sloughed away in places, replaced by hardened void and cracks that pulsed with grief. Her eyes burned with a hollow black glow. She was a walking absence, held together by hatred and memory.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And purpose.

  Better her rot than the gold.

  The golden wave would feed souls to the Primordial Golden Viper—an offering dressed up as inevitability. Ashantiana at least left a chance. If a god cared, if a prayer had ever been answered, those souls might still find an afterlife.

  If not?

  Then at least they wouldn’t be eaten.

  Her aura stretched farther, tasting the world. And then—

  There.

  A cluster.

  A grin split her ruined face, stretching skin that barely held together.

  “Let the extermination continue,” she whispered, voice scraping like stone dragged across bone.

  She angled her descent, accelerating until the sky fractured around her. The black circle tightened, condensed, then detonated outward again as she broke the sound barrier—death racing ahead of her like a herald’s trumpet.

  Hopefully the Outlander was there.

  The one with the ball.

  The one who dared make a game out of survival.

  She wanted to see the look on their face when the court collapsed. When movement meant nothing. When there was no dodge, no play, no next turn.

  Vari’s Chosen had also avoided her demise last time. That wouldn’t happen again.

  The golden wave thundered closer behind her.

  Ashantiana didn’t look back.

  The game was over.

  And she was coming to be a curse with her existence.

  ———

  “Don’t tell me to relax or calm the fuck down, da fuck, boy.”

  Ria’s voice cut sharp through the open air. She stood at the edge of the abandoned castle’s highest terrace, broken stone stretching behind her like the ribs of a dead god. Wind tore at her hair—black streaked with violet moving as if it had a will of its own.

  Cawren stiffened.

  “Don’t call me boy.”

  She turned slowly, eyes glinting with amused malice. Her smile was lazy.

  “I’ll call you whatever I like,” she said, arms lifting outward as if presenting the ruin around them. “Besides—”

  “Besides nothing,” Cawren snapped.

  The air between them tightened.

  Ria laughed, low and delighted.

  “You always wanna slow me down,” she purred. “Tell me what’s too far. What’s dangerous. What’s allowed. Like you ain’t been stacking bodies since before I learned your name.”

  Cawren didn’t answer immediately.

  His gaze had drifted—not to her face, but above it.

  To the title hovering faintly above her head.

  It hadn’t been there before.

  It was now.

  {Ria Dyusin: The Malefic Temptress;

  Malefic Hunger’s Chosen}

  His jaw tightened.

  “…You should have told me,” he said at last, quieter now. “Before you went into that tower. Before you made a choice like this.”

  Ria’s smile vanished.

  Her eyes sharpened, pupils narrowing, “Told you?” she echoed. “Oh that’s funny.”

  She stepped closer. The stone beneath her feet blackened where her aura brushed it, fine cracks spiderwebbing outward as if the castle itself wanted to pull away from her.

  “You don’t get to lecture me about choices,” she hissed. “Not after what you’ve done. Not after what you are.”

  Cawren’s expression hardened.

  “You don’t understand what you aligned yourself with.” He exhaled slowly, forcing his voice down from the edge it had climbed to. “It’s how Requiem is,” he said, more tired than defensive. “This isn’t like you.”’

  Ria laughed—sharp, bright, and venomous. “Oh my god, listen to you.” She spread her arms, hips cocked with theatrical disbelief. “You talk like I owe an audience a redemption arc. Like I gotta slow down, learn a lesson, show some growth.”

  She stepped closer, eyes burning. “I don’t exist to entertain anybody.”

  He felt an unease that crawled under armor and into bone.

  “I’m not saying that,” he said carefully. “I’m saying whatever that thing is—Malefic Hunger—it’s dangerous. You don’t bargain with something like that and walk away clean. Again, this isn’t the real you…”

  She tilted her head, smiling sweetly. “Real me?” she echoed, then laughed again. “You don’t know the real me.”

  He opened his mouth.

  “You weren’t there,” she snapped, the sweetness evaporating. “You didn’t live my life. I was a millionaire on Earth. You made six figures—congrats.” She slow-clapped, eyes glittering. “Your ex cheated. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

  Cawren stiffened.

  “My family cut me off for being an OnlyFans model,” she continued, words tumbling faster. “Cosplay. Twerk vids. FaceTime. That’s how I made my money! I wasn’t even doing half the shit people accused me of. Still got death threats. Still got treated like a whore.”

  Her voice dropped, darkening. “Then I got trafficked between worlds because some fat piece of shit decided I was expendable. I didn’t consent. I didn’t want to know what he felt like. I just wanted to escape. And he died before I could kill him myself.”

  Cawren took a step forward. “Ria—”

  “No.” Her eyes flared. “Then I was trapped again. Used again. Forced to give my essence like bait. Over and over. This world kept fucking me raw and calling it fate. Even when you found me… you treated me as expendable until I got some real fucking power!”

  She spread her hands, power humming beneath her skin. “Now I have favor. Now beings beyond imagination are looking at me. On Earth, I ran shit. Here? You’re damn straight I’m doing the same thing. Da fuck?!”

  Silence swallowed the ruins.

  Cawren stared at her, demonic mask hiding everything but the narrowing of his crimson eyes. Part of him wanted to argue. Another part—the part that had learned survival the hard way—recognized resolve when he saw it.

  “So we stick to what we’re good at,” she finished softly. “Taking what we want. Getting stronger. By any means. This world’s full of NPCs, and my legacy won’t fade like theirs.”

  He felt the truth of her words press against his ribs. He’d told himself that the sex was transactional. Power for resistance. Hunger for control. But something about the way she stood—unapologetic, blazing—made the lie harder to hold.

  They locked eyes.

  “You’re right,” he said at last.

  Her smile was immediate. “I know.”

  “Shut up,” he hissed, turning away, forcing the doubt back down where it belonged.

  “So,” she said casually, as if they hadn’t just torn open each other’s scars. “What’s the next objective?”

  Cawren snorted, folding his arms. “Over it already?”

  She shot him a sideways look. “Pull your head out your ass. What’s next. I’m ready to get this over with.”

  He studied her for a moment longer than necessary. The title still burned in his vision when he looked at her name—

  {Ria Dyusin: The Malefic Temptress; Malefic Hunger’s Chosen}

  It unsettled him more than he’d admit. Not because of what she was becoming—but because of how easily she wore it.

  “You’ve got no intention of telling me about the god you met,” he said at last.

  “Nope.” She smiled, sharp and unapologetic. “Not your concern. Let me handle my business.”

  He exhaled slowly. “So we’re just… focusing on winning.”

  She tilted her head, eyes glittering. “Do I need to find another P.W.B?”

  He blinked. “Another what?”

  “Partner With Benefits,” she said sweetly. “You’re annoying, but the dick’s good, so.” She shrugged, like it was basic math.

  Cawren barked out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Real motivating. Guess I should get my head back in the game.”

  “Finally,” she teased.

  His tone shifted—lighter, but edged with intent. “We’re going after the Mirrorless Monk. It has the last part of my quest.”

  She nodded, instantly serious now. “For your Essence of Worth.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have to say it.”

  She smiled wider. “You know I can see your UI. Hard not to peek.”

  “Don’t,” he warned.

  “Sorry,” she said immediately, then grinned. “I won’t.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I know!”

  They stood there for a moment longer, the wind carrying a faint hum.

  They lifted off together, the ruined castle shrinking beneath them as wind tore past stone and bone alike. Ria flew lazily, almost reclining in the air, her aura trailing behind her like a dark silk ribbon caught in an updraft. Cawren moved with more intent—flames cutting clean paths through the sky as if distance itself annoyed him.

  “So,” Ria said lightly, hands laced behind her head as she drifted sideways, matching his pace without effort. “Tell me about the other Outlanders.”

  Cawren glanced over. “What about them?”

  “You’ve seen more than I have,” she said, lips curling. “The kinds that come here. The kinds that survive.”

  He snorted. “There’s no single type. Some drop in as regular people—no system, no guide, just instincts and luck. Most of those die fast. Some come with UIs, skill trees, quests, the whole hand-holding package. We already discussed those. Others…” He tilted his head, thinking. “Others bring baggage. Manga powers. Book logic. Movie rules. Entire mythologies stitched into their bones.”

  Ria hummed, amused. “So nerds?”

  “Pretty much.” He paused, then added dryly, “A lot of them are losers back home. Shut-ins. People who never amounted to much until the universe gave them a gun and told them they were special.”

  She laughed—sharp and delighted. “Oh, that’s perfect.”

  Cawren frowned. “Perfect?”

  “Means they’re easy,” she said without hesitation. “Easy to flatter. Easy to direct. Easy to break.” She rolled onto her stomach midair, chin resting in her palms as she looked at him. “You give people meaning after they’ve had none? They’ll follow you into hell and thank you for the chains.”

  He didn’t argue. That silence was answer enough.

  They flew for a while without speaking, the land below them shifting from rot-choked plains to jagged ridgelines carved by old wars. In the distance, something vast loomed.

  “That it?” Ria asked, eyes narrowing with interest.

  Cawren nodded.

  She stopped so abruptly that the air itself seemed to hesitate with her.

  Cawren halted a half-step later, flames along his runes flaring once in irritation. “What?”

  Ria’s eyes unfocused for a fraction of a second as translucent screens bloomed before her. Her lips parted slightly as she read, then curved into a pleased smile.

  “We go through the front gate.”

  Cawren stared at her. “That’s ridiculous.”

  She glanced at him sideways, amused. “You can try flying in if you want. It won’t end well.”

  “I can tear through wards like paper.”

  “Yes,” she agreed lightly, “and trigger every doctrinal defense, contingency curse, and sanctified relic this place has been hoarding for centuries.” She tilted her head. “Or we can walk in.”

  He scoffed. “You just want to make a scene.”

  “I always want to make a scene. Plus entertainment is key.”

  They stared at each other for a beat, tension crackling.

  “Rock, paper, scissors,” she said suddenly.

  “…What.”

  “Rock, paper, scissors. Best of one.”

  “This is stupid.”

  “You’re scared,” she teased.

  His jaw tightened. “Fine.”

  They counted off.

  She won.

  Cawren exhaled through his teeth. “That was ridiculous.”

  She started toward the long stone path leading to the monastery gates. “You’re just bad at chance.”

  They walked.

  The monastery emerged from the fog, white stone, clean lines, banners that whispered rather than waved. At the front gate stood two young monks in layered white and grey robes, heads freshly shaven, posture rigid with discipline.

  They were mid-conversation when they noticed the figures approaching.

  Their words died in their throats.

  The woman came first—yellow slit eyes catching the light, long black-and-violet hair flowing freely down her back. Her dress shimmered as she walked, catching sunlight in a way that felt intimate. Even from a distance, something about her presence softened the air, tugged at breath and thought alike.

  Behind her walked something else entirely.

  Cawren’s body was etched in living script, runes crawling across his skin like molten commandments. Heat bled from him in slow waves. His demonic mask reflected the monks’ frozen faces back at them, eyes burning crimson beneath its gaze.

  The bell at the gate should have been rung.

  It wasn’t.

  The monks stood rooted in place, caught between awe and an unfamiliar, dangerous ease settling into their chests.

  As Ria drew closer, she smiled.

  “Hello, boys.”

  Her voice carried without force, without effort—and somehow they understood her perfectly.

  Cawren noted it with mild surprise. Interesting.

  One monk swallowed, finding his voice through the haze. “H-how may we… assist you?”

  Ria stopped just within arm’s reach, hands clasped behind her back, head tilted in something almost affectionate.

  “Oh,” she said sweetly. “We’re just here to end your lives.”

  The words landed gently.

  Like a kiss.