"90 players remain."
A low mechanical hum vibrated through the chamber as the white floor subtly trembled beneath their feet.
Then—click.
A pristine white door materialized at the center of the room, smooth and gleaming like polished marble.
"Your meals have been provided. Please eat, regain your strength, and proceed to the next chamber when ready."
The players cautiously filed in.
What awaited them was… unsettling.
A perfectly symmetrical white room. A round white table. Spotless white plates. A silver spoon and fork. Everything was clean—too clean. Sterile. Lifeless.
"The hell is this? A prison or a fucking wedding hall?" muttered a man in his forties, clad in dented dark armor. He dragged a chair with a grunt and sat down.
"At least there's food," someone else said with a shrug.
Plates were already laid out. Steamed white rice, a single portion of roasted chicken, and one piece of fruit—either an apple, orange, or banana.
"This shit looks like hospital rations."
"Bland as hell."
"Could be worse—we've got meat."
The group murmured as they took their seats. Hunger trumped pride.
Art sat down without a word, scanning the room casually. A familiar presence lowered into the chair beside him.
Emery.
She leaned back with an unreadable smirk, eyes flicking between Art and the rest of the players.
Then Kret approached, silver armor lightly clinking with each step. The self-proclaimed Holy Knight. He pulled out a chair across from Art and settled in with a confident grin.
"You're the assassin, right?" he asked, sliding a knife through his meat as if it were butter.
Art glanced up.
"Yeah. Why?"
"The name's Kret. A Holy Knight, former general." He extended a hand across the table.
Art studied the offered handshake for a second. "Wasn't he boasting about being a high-ranking general earlier?" he thought. Still, he accepted it.
"Art," he replied coolly, gripping Kret's hand firmly.
Kret's grin widened. "This guy's smooth. Has the looks, the attitude—and that woman already clinging to him. Having him on my side would be very useful."
He sank his fork into his chicken with a satisfied hum.
Then—Ivana entered.
She hesitated briefly before making her way to the table. She gave a shy nod toward Kret.
"Oh, hello… Mr. Kret," she said quietly, taking a seat nearby.
Kret nodded back politely, hiding the spark of calculation in his eyes.
Across the table, Emery's gaze sharpened like a blade. Her eyes, catlike and fierce, locked onto Ivana.
Without a word, she slid her hand beneath the table.
And then—bam—Art stiffened.
"…?!"
His back straightened slightly, the cup in his hand trembling just a little as he quickly took a sip of water.
"You alright?" Kret asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Y-Yeah… just thirsty," Art replied quickly, clearing his throat.
Across from them, Emery wore a serene smile as if nothing had happened. But under the table, her hand remained in place, her grip tightening subtly.
Ivana blinked, oblivious.
Kret cut another slice of chicken, a wicked grin curling on his lips.
"So this is how it's gonna be, huh?" he thought. "This is more than just survival… This is a power game."
And in this white room, where every move was watched, every emotion weaponized, the real game had only just begun.
After the intense trial, players began to scatter back toward the white cells. The tension hadn't fully disappeared, but the meal break seemed to offer a sliver of normalcy—an illusion of peace in a place built on chaos.
Raphael—the same young man from Art's trial room—quietly walked over and sat beside Ivana in the dining space. His head rested against the table, propped up by one hand. His tired eyes drifted toward her.
"Hey, beautiful~" he said with a lazy smirk.
Ivana blinked, startled. "Uh… hello," she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"The name's Raphael," he added, extending a hand.
Ivana hesitated briefly, then reached out and shook it. "I-Ivana…"
They shared a brief glance. For the first time since arriving, there was a sense of something faintly human—connection.
They continued talking during their meal, exchanging simple stories about their worlds, awkward jokes, and a few nervous laughs. Around them, more of the players began to bond in small pockets—forced camaraderie born from shared dread.
Once the meals were finished, everyone was sent back to their individual white cells.
Art sat down in his own room, arms crossed as he leaned back. His gaze drifted toward the seamless ceiling above.
"I feel tired... but I don't even know what time it is," he muttered. "No windows, no clocks... Just this damn white box."
Then—static.
The speaker in the ceiling activated again, followed by the now-familiar soft, robotic female voice.
"Hello, participants. We hope you enjoyed your meal.
A new door has now been added to your individual cells. It leads to your designated restrooms. These facilities will remain available as long as you remain in this trial.
Please note: you are prohibited from harming or killing each other within these personal cells. Violence is only permitted during official challenges or system-issued Desire Quests. Any unauthorized attack will result in the punishment equivalent to what you attempted."
A wave of murmuring swept through the cells.
"Finally, a damn toilet!" someone shouted from their cell.
"Wait, does that mean we're free to chill here?" another asked.
"What's the point if we don't even know if it's night or day…" someone else groaned.
One of the men stepped through the newly opened door and found himself in a small restroom. Two labeled doors faced him: one marked Male, the other Female. Entering the male side, he found ten private stalls—each equipped with a toilet and a sink.
The women's section mirrored it exactly.
"You may now rest," the voice concluded, before vanishing with a final crackle.
Art exhaled and stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. He stepped toward his new room, ready to disappear into the only privacy he had in this place.
But just as he reached the door and began to slide it shut, a hand caught it.
Art glanced sideways.
Emery stood there, a sly grin tugging at her lips.
"Hey, darling~" she purred, her voice low and playful.
Art raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly against the doorframe.
"You look like you've got something on your mind," he said coolly.
"I do," she replied, stepping a little closer.
Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were sharp—watching him closely, as if trying to understand something more than what she let on.
Then it began with Emery stripping Art's clothes, pulling out his polo and unbuttoning each button. Then she slipped her hand under his pants, grabbing his big, thick, veiny cock. "I can't wait to taste this again," Emery said. Then she pushed Art to the white bed, removed his belt, unzipped his pants, and removed his boxers, revealing Art's shaved, big, thick, veiny cock. She started sucking on it, licking the head and the shaft. "Hmm~" Emery moaned as she sucked Art's cock and pinched his nipples, feeling his body filled with scars.
After a while of sucking, Emery removed her short pants and wet panties that had a stain of cum from earlier. "I'm ready to get fucked, dear!"