Charlie leaned against the rusted vent, the October wind ruffling his brown dark hair, sharp against Maplewood's glowing skyline. I'm doing it, he thought, the jungle mission's call - learn survival, hire a teacher, tough out a weekend—drowning the knot in his gut. The Systema's perks weren't like the muscle boost that carved his abs tight or the cash piling in his pocket. It dangled something bigger: titles, legendary ones he'd glimpsed in a glowing list back when tasks were simple, just runs and punches to claw free of "Sludge." Names like "The Honored One" burned in his mind, a league beyond plain "Honored One." A "The" title felt mythic - galaxy-crushing, dripping power, like a secreto hummed by the system's chime, a code spanning worlds. Charlie craved one, hell, even without the "The." A title would etch his name past Maplewood's cracked streets.
A new itch sparked. System, what's your name? He'd never asked, first a shock in this building's dust, later piling cash and stats. Every system had a name, he'd heard - maybe in that same whisper, faint as static. One with "The" in front ruled galaxies, legendary, not some local trick. Is mine one? The hum stayed quiet, heavy, like it guarded something vast. Charlie's breath caught, the city's pulse syncing with his own. "I'll get a title, and I'll do the right thing... Jungle time next summer," he muttered, locking in, his path cutting clearer than the skyline's edge.
Bucharest
In Bucharest, where moonlight spilled over marble rooftops, Mihai Cantacuzino paced his mansion, the silence thick in his family's estate. At 24, he turned heads - dark eyes sharp as cut glass, jawline carved, handsome like he'd walked off a silver screen. But wealth, not looks, framed his world. The Cantacuzinos ruled Romania's elite, their empire - Cantacuzino Global—a titan of green energy and private banking. Mihai's father, Victor, had built it from Bucharest's post-communist ashes, wiring solar fields across Europe and locking oligarchs' fortunes in vaults only he could crack. By 20, Mihai's deals - snapping up wind farms, outsmarting Swiss bankers - doubled their reach, his IQ of 300 a blade slicing markets to ribbons. Victor's boardroom hummed with Mihai's ideas: green tech lighting cities and cash flowing like the Danube.
Yet Mihai wasn't some spoiled prince. His parents - Victor's stern handshake, Elena's warm but piercing gaze - loved him fiercely, their rules iron: excel, honor the name, spend without worrying, but Mihai said no to being spoiled. His brother, Tomas, 18, trailed him like a shadow, sketching Mihai's contracts in awe, dreaming of boardrooms. Mihai saw deeper. Life's a coin toss, he thought, eyeing the estate's chandeliers. War tore kids apart, fake justice propped up crooks, and joy skipped most - his wealth was dumb luck, not a crown. What if I'd been born in a dirt village, scraping for bread? He didn't flaunt gold; it meant nothing when he couldn't fix the world's tilt. Even his genius - best negotiator in Bucharest, reading rivals like open books - felt small against death's shrug or justice's lie.
Tonight, boredom gnawed. Cantacuzino Global's latest coup - a solar grid spanning Romania to Germany - sat done, inked in Mihai's sharp cursive. Another win, another night staring at walls. "Leave, Costel," he told his butler, his voice low, edged with restlessness. The old man nodded, slipping out, the oak door clicking shut. Mihai turned, then stopped cold. A new door stood in his wall - carved mahogany, swirling with knots, like it grew from the stone. Never there, not in twenty years of pacing these halls. His pulse ticked up, but fear didn't bite. A game? A glitch? A simulation? His mind, sharp as a trap, laughed at danger - death was just a bad deal, and he'd talked down remorse.
If I die, I die. He pushed the door, hinges silent, and stepped into a crimson glow - thick, warm, pulsing like blood over velvet. It swallowed him, his breath snagging as he reached out, fingers grazing the light. A flash, sharp as a blade, and he was back - sprawled on his mansion's rug, the door gone, moolight steady through the drapes. His heart pounded, not fear but something alive. Then, a chime rang in his skull, deep as a cathedral bell: System synchronization complete.
"Oh, what's this?" Mihai murmured with a frown. A voice answered, smooth, commanding, heavy with shadow: I am your System: The Crimson Sovereign. The name landed like a throne, vast, untamed, hinting at rule beyond Bucharest's glow.
Mexico
Javier Morales stood on the jagged lip of Copper Canyon, Mexico, where the earth dropped a thousand feet into shadow. July's dusk bled purple over the cliffs, the wind howling like it carried the screams he'd buried for years. At 38, his face was a map of ruin - sunken eyes, stubble graying early, and lips cracked from days without water. His flannel shirt hung loose, threadbare, and stained with sweat and dust, and his boots were scuffed to leather scraps. Once, he'd been a mechanic in Chihuahua, hands steady on wrenches, a husband to Maria, and father to Sofia and Mateo. Now, he was nothing - a husk hollowed by loss, debt, and a world that didn't give a damn.
Maria was gone three years, caught in a cartel drive-by, wrong place, wrong second, her sundress soaked red outside the market. Sofia, 10, and Mateo, 7, vanished a year later, snatched from their yard, likely sold or worse. Javier had torn Chihuahua apart, begging cops and bribing dealers, but the trail died cold. Debts piled like graves - hospital bills for Maria's final hours, loans to chase leads on the kids, and cartel threats when he couldn't pay. His shop foreclosed, his house taken, friends turned away, muttering "bad luck" like he was cursed. Homeless, he drifted, scavenging scraps, sleeping in alleys, each day a blade twisting deeper. No wife, no kids, no hope, until he saw his kids... in trash bags, in pieces... Since then he has felt a weight that crushed his chest, heavier than the canyon's stone.
Tonight, he'd walked hours to this cliff, the highest in Copper Canyon, where the air stung and the drop promised an end. His legs trembled, not from fear but exhaustion, his lungs raw from the climb. He'd come to die, to stop the pain that gnawed his bones, the memories that burned worse than hunger. Nobody cared - not God, not man, not the stars staring cold above. Javier's voice broke the wind, a rasp at first, then a scream that tore his throat. "Why, God? What the fuck did I do to you?" His fist clenched, knuckles white, as he staggered closer to the edge, gravel crunching under his boots. "You took Maria, my kids - my goddamn life! Why me?"
No answer came, just the canyon's echo, mocking his rage. He screamed again, louder, lungs burning, voice crackling like shattered glass. "Why's this happening to me? WHY?" the words spilled, jagged, raw. "I hate this life! Fuck humanity - my faith's gone, God! I believed in you, but this world's cursed!" His knees buckled, tears streaking dust on his cheeks, each sob a knife. "You cursed me! You bastard, you left me nothing!" His voice gave out, a hoarse gasp, as he swayed, one foot dangling over the abyss. The drop yawned, black and final, whispering freedom from pain. One step. He thought, chest heaving, eyes blurred. No more.
Just as his weight shifted, a glint caught his eye. He froze, breath snagging. There, carved into the cliff's face, stood a door - black stone, tall as two men, etched with symbols that pulsed red, like veins under skin. Pentagrams, twisted horns, eyes that seemed to watch—nothing holy. Javier blinked, heart slamming, expecting it to vanish. It didn't. The symbols glowed hotter, their curves coiling like snakes, daring him closer. "God?" he whispered, his voice a broken thread, half-hope, half-dread. The wind died, the air thick, as if the canyon held its breath. A trick? A hallucination? He didn't care. Nothing left to lose.
He stepped back from the edge, boots scraping, and shuffled toward the door. His hand shook, reaching for the stone, cold as a grave but humming under his fingers. The symbols flared, red light spilling, bathing his gaunt face in fire. A door to hell, God? Is this where I belong? He thought, his heart breaking to pieces. He pushed, the door swinging silently, revealing a void - black, endless, threaded with crimson wisps like blood in ink. Javier stepped in, and the world dissolved. A rush hit him - not pain, but release, like chains snapping, his soul unmoored. Liberation flooded his veins, freedom sharper than any knife, as if the weight of years - grief, debt, despair - burned away. He gasped, falling, then landed hard, sprawled on the cliff's dirt, the door gone, stars back above.
His pulse raced, not from fear but from something fierce and alive. Then, a chime cracked his skull, deep, guttural, like a furnace roaring: System synchronization complete. Javier scrambled to his knees, dust stinging his eyes, heart pounding. "What is this, God?" he rasped, voice hoarse, half-expecting silence. A voice answered, low, searing, like coals hissing: I am your system, the infernal Harbinger. The name sank in, heavy, final, conjuring images of ash and claws, a power to rend worlds. A glow flickered before him - a window, like the RPGs he'd played years ago, Diablo 2, when Maria laughed at his late-night grinds. Stats blinked: strength, vitality, soul count - zero, for now. A line pulsed: Spend souls to summon demons. Purer souls yield greater power.
Javier's breath hitched, the cliff's edge sharp behind him. God? No-this is me. The stats, the System - they mirrored Diablo 2's dark dance, Baal's growl, Mephisto's schemes. He wasn't cursed; he was chosen. His life - Maria's blood, Sofia's scream, Maeo's empty bed, debts that choked him - flashed clear. "I get it," he whispered, voice steadying, eyes glinting with something new, not tears but purpose. "You showed me the worst - humanity's rot, life's fucking lies. War, greed, betrayal - they're the curse." He stood, legs firm, the canyon's wind no match for the fire in his chest. "This world's accursed, but I'm your blade, God. I'll purge it, burn every soul to ash, so it can be reborn."
His hands clenched, nails biting palms, as the System's hum grew, approving, hungry. The Infernal Harbinger wasn't salvation - it was judgement. Souls - pure or filthy - would fuel his demons, tear down the world's rot. He saw it: cities crumbling, skies red, humanity's end paving rebirth. "All my suffering," he murmured, a grim smile cracking his lips, "it was to forge me. I'll save this world by ending it." Javier turned from the cliff, the drop forgotten, his steps heavy but sure.
He didn't look back, the canyon's silence louder than his screams had been. The System pulsed, ready, its chime drumbeat to war. Javier Morales, broken no more, walked into the night, the first already marked - his own, if it came to that. The world would burn, and he'd light the match.