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Despite living by the ocean for the entire game, the heat of the world was unbearable. The sun overhead cast long, stark shadows that stretched across the battlefield, as if the land itself were shrinking away from the destruction that had befallen it. Martyn’s every step felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of every kill he’d made so far was now pressing down on him. The red-life hunger still gnawed at him, insatiable, consuming every thought.
Now, there was no more strategy or alliances. Only the final fight remained.
Scott, his closest ally and only person he could comfortably call his friend, stood next to him. The two of them had been inseparable in this game, always watching each other’s backs. But now, everything had changed. The thin thread that had held their partnership together had snapped.
Scott had suggested it—this brutal, almost nostalgic idea of a fistfight to the death. No armour or weapons, just raw, primal strength. Martyn had agreed. He had no intention of honouring it, but for a moment, he had considered it. Maybe he could survive without losing himself, without giving into the darkness that had always been there, lurking beneath the surface.
That was before he remembered the ticking clock. Before the hunger gnawed at him, tearing through his resolve like paper in a fire.
Scott’s eyes, filled with a mix of confusion and resignation, met his.
Scott knew.
And Martyn knew that Scott knew. They’d been partners for too long and understood each other too well for there to be any illusions left. They both knew what this would come to, even before Scott suggested the idea. It was a noble way to end it, and to preserve some sense of honor in a world where that concept had long since been buried.
But that wasn’t how Martyn worked anymore. He was beyond the point of nobility. He needed to win.
“Nah,” Martyn muttered, his voice low and gravelly. He rolled his shoulders, letting the grip tighten around the handle of the lava bucket in his inventory, and didn’t react when he felt the heat from it simmer against his skin. The hunger was demanding to be fed. “I don’t want to play this silly game… I want to do it this way…”
Scott’s expression faltered. A knowing look passed between them, but there was no anger in Scott’s gaze, only acceptance.
He didn’t give Scott a chance to speak. He hurled the lava forward with a sudden vicious throw before he could even flinch. The molten liquid splashed at Scott’s feet, and they were easily swallowed by the flames. It spread quickly, turning the ground beneath them into a pit of fire. Instead of scrambling to escape, he just stood there, almost as if he were waiting for the inevitable.
“I want to do it exactly this way!” Martyn shouted into the wind, his voice rough with the strain of the moment. His heart hammered in his chest, but it wasn’t from the thrill of victory. It was from the knowledge that he had crossed a line and wasn’t sure he could ever go back now.
Scott’s body stiffened as the lava began to consume him, but he didn’t fight. He had made his peace with it. He hadn’t expected this outcome, but he’d known Martyn would go this far for victory.
Martyn watched, unable to turn away as Scott fell. His form crumpled to the ground, melting into the flames. For a moment, Martyn felt the stirrings of something—regret, maybe, or sorrow. It passed quickly.
The hunger in his chest swelled.
The clock ticked in his head, relentless.
Before he could even catch his breath, he heard the scramble of feet behind him. Impulse.
“Woah, woah, woah, woah!” Impulse shouted, voice rising with panic as he reached for a sword that wasn’t in his sheath. He could hardly process what had just happened to Scott, let alone the finality of Martyn’s actions. It didn’t matter—Martyn was faster.
Martyn moved in an instant, driven by the same hunger that had consumed him since he was a red name. Impulse didn’t even get a chance to defend himself. His sword was a blur of blue as he drove the blade into Impulse’s chest, driving into the soft flesh with a sickening crunch. The force was enough to send the air from Impulse’s lungs in a ragged gasp, the life draining from him as Martyn took the blade out.
“Doesn’t matter if you’re a Mean Gill, a Bad Boy, a Neighbour, or a Clocker—” Martyn hissed, his voice dripping with venom, “You’re all going down. None of these niceties, this is a death match for a reason! Ohhhh, it feels so good. Time is delicious!”
The warmth of Impulse’s blood stained Martyn’s hands, but Martyn didn’t feel satisfaction. It was just…emptiness. The hunger still remained.
But in that moment, Martyn couldn’t stop.
As Impulse’s breath left his body, his chest tightened.
What had he done?
Impulse’s body lay still beneath him. Martyn stood over it, breathing heavily as sweat trickled down his forehead. The hunger inside him was satisfied, but it was fleeting. It always was.
The body started to vanish, and Martyn stepped back. The sick feeling in his stomach wasn’t triumph. The emptiness deepened. What had he done? He hadn’t just killed to win—he’d killed the only ally he had left, the only person who had ever trusted him.
Manic and cold laughter escaped. It echoed in his chest, and he could feel the weight of his choices crushing down on him harder. He staggered backward, unable to shake the futile feeling that clung to him. He turned away and began to walk.
The world stretched before him. What had once been a world full of life now felt like a graveyard. He passed through the dark oak forest, its trees looming like silent sentinels. The leaves rustled above him, but it was a hollow sound, as if the wind whispered of things long forgotten. His thoughts spiraled in a torrent of conflicting emotions.
The clock continued ticking in his mind.
Every step felt like a journey to an inevitable conclusion. He couldn’t linger around and had to move, but where was he going? There was nothing left for him here.
His feet carried him through the forest, the ancient trees continuing to tower over him, acting as witnesses to the destruction that had unfolded within the past few weeks. He emerged into the open, where he saw the remnants of Bread Bridge, now little more than smoldering wood and waterfalls. The bridge had once been a symbol of unity and power for the whole server, but now it lay in ruins, just like everything else in this broken world.
Martyn didn’t stop. The path ahead was more important now than the memories of what had been.
He moved toward the Bad Boy’s mansion, its once-proud walls now charred and burnt like its accompanying bridge. The mansion, where there was once laughter, alliances, and plans for the future, now stood as a skeleton of its former self. The air was still thick with the scent of ash.
Martyn paused at the entrance to the mansion, staring at the remains. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was just that he couldn’t stop, and couldn’t bring himself to turn away from this haunting reminder of the past.
“I did this,” he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible, though no one was around to hear. “I did all of it…”
But there was no time for regrets. The ticking clock wouldn’t allow it. It kept pushing him forward.
The journey continued. Martyn travelled through the incinerated mansion, up the bubble column and ladder on the roof to get to Skynet, and followed the familiar wooden path. The silence was suffocating. He got down from Skynet and passed by the Clocker’s base, its stone walls crumbling into ruin.
He didn’t really stop to mourn it. His mind was far away, and his thoughts were a jumble of self-loathing and the desperate urge to keep moving. The ticking of time was deafening now, louder than the sound of his footsteps.
Martyn walked along the cobblestone path, passing the remnants of TIES’ base—another casualty in this war of attrition. The world around him was falling apart, and Martyn’s journey felt endless.
His destination was clear, though he didn’t know why it mattered anymore. He passed through the ocean, the saltwater stinging his arms as he rowed toward the Coral Isles. The sea stretched out before him, vast and indifferent, mirroring the emptiness that lay within him.
The Coral Isles were quiet now. The peaceful serenity of the place was now marred by the chaos of the game that had destroyed everything. Martyn stood at the shore, looking out across the water. The waves lapped gently at the land, but it wasn’t a calm sound. Instead, it only acted as a reminder for all that was lost.
What was left for him? What had he truly won?
He didn’t know.
All he knew was that the ticking of time was growing even louder. It was the only sound that seemed to matter now—a relentless countdown that never stopped. His time was slipping away, no matter how far he walked to outrun it. The world seemed to be falling into darkness, and in a way, Martyn felt like he was too—he was walking through a shadow of a world that he barely recognized as his own anymore.
As he stood by the shore of the Coral Isles, looking out at the water, a shiver ran down his spine. It was all gone. The game, the alliances, the friendships—everything had been reduced to this, a cold, broken shell of what had once been.
Martyn felt a sense of isolation. He had always been able to count on Scott, even on other players he didn’t know well when it really mattered, but now there was no one left. The last person who had trusted him and fought beside him was gone—melted away in the lava, and Martyn had been the one to send him there. And for what? So he could win? The taste of victory was bitter, twisted, and foul.
Martyn didn’t have the answers. He didn’t even know what he was looking for anymore. His feet carried him onward, pulling him away from the remnants of the past and the weight of his actions.
He wandered around the small island he called home, the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore mocking him with their quiet calm. He passed by his hourglass, shattered from a Skynet attack, and took one look at it before walking away.
Everything he had fought for was in ruins now.
And then, the moment came. The air seemed to shift, and pressure built around him. It felt like the world was folding in on itself. Martyn’s body tensed, and for a brief moment, he felt a strange sensation—a sort of heaviness, as though he was being pulled in two directions at once.
The world around him dissolved, collapsing into darkness.
Martyn’s stomach dropped as the air shifted, and suddenly he found himself falling—no, being pulled—into the abyss. The silence was deafening, and the darkness consumed him. There was no longer a sky or a sea, no world beneath his feet, just an endless blackness that carried on in every direction.
A coldness washed over him as he felt his body float, suspended in nothingness. It was like the void itself was swallowing him whole, every part of him being torn apart by the emptiness. His mind raced, but there was no escape. There was only the oppressive weight of the silence and the darkness.
And then, a voice.
“You have done well, Martyn,” it whispered, smooth and cold. The voice was familiar, distant yet present. The voice of the Watchers.
“You have played our game, you ran the race,
you reached the end, you took your place.
You claimed the win, you crossed the line—
the prize is yours. The cost is time.”
The words settled around him like a thick fog, their meaning sinking into his bones. The Watchers were claiming him, and pulling him into their realm of power and control. Martyn could feel their presence around him. He tried to fight it, but it was hopeless. There was nowhere to go.
The darkness pressed in on him as the Watchers’ voices grew louder. They were everywhere, their whispers wrapping around his mind like chains. The pressure built, almost suffocating him, and Martyn’s breath caught in his throat.
“You cannot escape what we decree,
watched and bound, you’ll never be free.
That stolen time you tried to save,
was priced the day you chose this grave.”
But just as the Watcher’s grip seemed to tighten, something else shifted. A warmth pierced the cold darkness. The pressure around him seemed to ease, and a new presence emerged, gentle yet powerful.
“Not yet free.” Their voices echoed in the emptiness, but this time, there was a sense of calm. “Still you flee from a weighted decision.” These voices were different from the Watchers. They were not harsh or controlling. Their voices were soft, soothing, and yet, they carried an undeniable power. Martyn’s body seemed to relax as the grip of the Watchers seemed to loosen.
The weight on Martyn’s chest lightened as their words wrapped around him like a comforting embrace. It was as though they had the power to undo the very essence of the Watcher’s control, to offer him a choice—something he hadn’t had in what felt like forever.
“In each peace lies a piece that make up the whole,” they whispered, their voices melodic and weaving through the void like a lullaby. “Woven the fragments that make up a soul.”
The Watchers growled, their voices dark and jagged, but the Listeners’ presence continued to shine, pushing back against them. The darkness around Martyn flickered, like a candle being protected from the wind. The battle for control was now tangible, a war of wills that Martyn could feel in every fiber of his being.
“You cannot escape us,” the Watchers hissed again, their words sharp as they tried to claw at Martyn’s consciousness, dragging him toward their cold grasp. “We have you now. You belong to us.”
But the Listeners weren’t done. Their voices carried the weight of destiny, of something far older and more powerful than the Watchers could comprehend.
“You do not know us,” the voices said, almost kindly. “We are not those who watch. We are those who listen.”
The words settled into Martyn’s mind not like chains, but like understanding.
“We listen to the choices made in desperation,” they—the Listeners, continued, “to the thoughts left unspoken, to the moments between violence and regret.”
Martyn felt the pull on him shift—less like being dragged, more like being held.
“You will have a choice,” they said softly, but their words rang with an undeniable strength. "In another world, Martyn. In another game, we will take you for ourselves. You will not be lost forever."
Martyn felt himself being torn in two, the Watchers’ coldness pulling at him from one direction, the warmth of the Listeners offering something else—hope, maybe. Or at least the possibility of escape.
The pull between the two forces was unbearable. It was like being caught in a storm, the winds battering him from every direction. The Watchers, cold and oppressive, against the Listeners, warm and beckoning.
In the end, it was the Listeners who prevailed. Their presence grew stronger, their warmth enveloping him, wrapping him in a cocoon of safety. Slowly, the darkness began to fade, and the oppressive weight lifted.
And then, just as Martyn felt himself slipping away, he felt the shift. He felt himself being pulled away from the void, towards something new. His mind buzzed with the sensation of it, the last vestiges of the Watchers’ influence slipping away like sand through his fingers.
The void no longer pressed down on him. The world around him was shifting. Martyn felt his body being drawn through space and time, and then—nothing.
For a brief moment, he was lost in the void, the world suspended around him, until a sudden light blinded him. Martyn felt himself pulled into it, his body being transported to a new place, a new world.
And with it, he could feel the faintest echo of the Listeners' final words:
"You will not be lost forever, Martyn."
The new world awaited him.