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Chapter 5: The Roll of Fate
The nightmare's fog clung to their skin like icy fingers, swirling around jagged rocks and dead trees. The stale scent of decay filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Every sound was amplified—the crunch of footsteps, the ragged breath of Chester's companions, the distant howl of unseen beasts.
Chester's fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the dice from his pocket. He'd already spent one roll days ago to glimpse betrayal percentages among the sixteen, a secret that both terrified and empowered him.
Now, with only five rolls left before the next reset, he risked two more.
The dice tumbled across the cracked stone floor.
First roll: 5% chance of survival if he engaged in direct combat today.
A chill ran down Chester's spine. The odds are brutal. But he forced a wide, foolish grin, voice bright and careless. "Looks like I'm walking the razor's edge today, huh? Ha! Who's afraid of a little danger?"
Second roll: 10% chance of betrayal from within his own group.
He felt a pang of regret but quickly masked it with smile well today is not my lucky day
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Suddenly, a guttural roar shattered the uneasy quiet. From the swirling mist emerged grotesque creatures—twisted amalgamations of shadow and sinew, eyes burning like molten embers, claws scraping the stone with bone-chilling menace.
"Form up! Stay sharp!" Keen's voice cut through the haze like a blade.
Marlo melted into the shadows, his form flickering as he blinked between spots, striking with veil-enhanced blades that sang through the air.
Keen's hands glowed with ethereal light as he muttered an incantation. Thick roots erupted from the earth, wrapping around the nearest beast, its snarls turning to frustrated growls.
Chester's heart hammered in his chest as he dodged a swipe that grazed his arm, hot pain flaring sharply. "Ow! Guess luck's taking a vacation!" His laughter rang out, but beneath it, his mind raced—analyzing every movement, every weakness.
Veyna's gaze was fierce, her silent command unleashing a wave of crackling energy that tore through the fog, disintegrating one of the monsters into ash.
The group fought with desperate fury. The sharp scent of blood mixed with sweat and fear. Each second stretched taut with the promise of death.
When the last beast collapsed, an eerie silence reclaimed the nightmare's grasp—broken only by their ragged breaths and the drip of crimson pooling on cracked stone.
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As they tended wounds, a sudden scream shattered the fragile calm. Every head snapped toward the east ridge, hearts pounding.
"It's from over there," Marlo said, voice tight.
They sprinted toward the sound, breath ragged, nerves on edge.
There, slumped face down in the dirt, lay a member of another group—cold and lifeless, skin pale and untouched by wounds.
A shadow flickered at the edge of their vision, vanishing into the mist.
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The nightmare had claimed its first victim.
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Trust no one.
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