Chapter 38: Anchor Being

Midworld

Lights glittered inside the box, streaks of gold tearing through the dull black and white world. The glow danced and rippled. Greg stood in the center of it all, his form shifting, reshaping. The black shell of his hair began to peel away — falling slowly, gracefully — like a dark veil descending from the heavens.

Warp.

When the light dimmed, what stood there was no longer the Greg they knew.

He had transformed — a transcended being revealed at last. Golden hair flowed down his back, reaching his waist like threads of sunlight. His muscles gleamed under the fading radiance, his spear steady in hand, every inch of him exuding power and divinity.

“This,” he said, spreading his arms, his voice echoing with pride and authority, “is my real identity.”

The muscular man stumbled back, eyes wide. “It… it can’t be!” he gasped.

“I saw his picture earlier,” he blurted out, his voice trembling as the memory returned. “When I was reviewing participants for the Tenth Game… that face—” he froze, fear draining the color from his skin, “—he’s Greg Jin, Vice Captain of the Five Scorpions!”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Alexander’s blood ran cold. He had always known Greg was hiding something — but this? Not this.

It didn’t add up. If Greg truly came from Midworld, then how had he appeared among them in the hospital like room?

The Five Scorpions… the clan Eva wanted us to join, he thought.

That explained her obsession, her secrecy. They were conspiring all along.

Every fragment of doubt clicked into place — a puzzle snapping together with horrifying clarity.

“All this scheming… for what? For who?” Alexander muttered.

“To create an anchor being,” Greg replied calmly.

“A being that will stand as the pillar of a falling world — by the gods’ own design.”

His golden eyes locked on Alexander’s. “And that being… is you.”

Silence devoured the room. The sound of Alexander’s heartbeat roared in his ears like thunder. Even with his sharp mind, he couldn’t process what he had just heard. The words didn’t make sense — and yet, they rang with truth.

“I’ll explain everything later,” Greg said at last, his voice firm but hurried. “For now, we need to get out of here.”

He turned toward the three trembling enemies before him. Their eyes darted up at him — fear-struck, helpless — like prey staring at a divine predator. The golden-haired man looked down upon them, every inch of his posture radiating lethal grace; an angel carved from violence, his beauty almost cruel.

“Stop this,” Greg ordered, his tone sharp, unyielding.

The muscular man clenched his fists but didn’t respond. His mind was a battlefield — options spinning, collapsing, none of them leading to safety.

“I… I can’t,” he finally muttered, voice breaking. “The Captain… he’ll kill us if we fail.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “If you don’t,” he said coldly, “I will kill you.”

The man swallowed hard, his body trembling. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, his words shaking as if they were dragging memories behind them, “you’re strong — stronger than any of us — but compared to him…” he hesitated, “you don’t stand a chance.”

His voice carried the tremor of past terror — the kind that leaves scars too deep to fade.

—

A memory unfolded in his mind — that moment, that encounter.

A male elf — tall, fat, wooden-faced, his features blocky and sharp. His neck was buried beneath rolls of flesh, his skin marked by black runes that slithered like veins. Long pointed ears jutted from beneath a tangled crown of hair. He wore a thick black robe, tied loosely with a red sash that trailed across the ground.

Behind him, a glowing screen projected Alexander’s face.

The tattooed man and his companions sat before him, rigid and uneasy, in what resembled an office — desks, chairs, a single beam of light slicing through the darkness. They waited as the elf’s oily voice began the briefing.

“You are to capture him alive,” the elf said, “and bring him here.”

The sound was unmistakable — the same smug tone from the selection ceremony.

“What do we get?” one of them dared to ask.

“As agreed,” the elf replied, smirking, “a supply of two hundred Time-Elapser Pills.”

The group exchanged looks of stunned disbelief. The offer was generous — far too generous. Two hundred elapsers could buy them months of survival, power, or escape. All they had to do was capture a boy. Too good to be true… and yet, they took it.

Then —

Warp.

A chilling sound rippled through the room. Panic struck. One of their members screamed — her body lifted from the ground as though an invisible hand had seized her.

“Help me! HELP!” she cried, thrashing in midair, her bones creaking under unseen pressure.

Then — slam! — she was thrown against the ceiling, pinned like a nailed portrait.

The room froze. No one dared to move.

The elf didn’t flinch. His hands stayed tucked inside his robes, eyes half-lidded in feigned calm. There was no sign he had done it. But if not him — then who?

Then came the voice. Deep. Cold. Familiar.

“She stays with me.”

It came from above.

The group looked up — and there he was.

The Captain.

A figure cloaked in crimson robes, descending slowly from the ceiling as if the air itself obeyed him. His foot held their teammate suspended beneath it with effortless pressure.

Clap. Clap.

The elf smiled darkly. “There you have it. Complete your mission,” he said smoothly, “and you’ll have her back… along with your precious Time Capsules.”

—

BOOM!

The memory shattered.

Reality slammed back as the box jerked violently — like a truck colliding with a wall. The ground shook beneath them. Cracks spidered along the walls; dust and sparks fell from the ceiling.

Slowly, the panels began to descend, metal groaning as light poured in. One by one, the walls lowered, revealing the view outside — breathtaking and terrifying all at once.

They were atop a skyscraper. The afternoon sun painted the horizon gold. The building was made of black reflective glass, its surface transparent only from within. At each corner of the roof, wooden lions stood like sentinels, twenty meters apart, their carved eyes gleaming in the sunlight.

“We finally arrived,” the tattooed man exhaled, relief flooding his voice. His teammates mirrored his expression — tension breaking into hollow smiles.

“You’re toast,” he sneered, turning to Greg with false confidence.

But Greg’s face had gone pale. His eyes darted to the skyline — he recognized the place instantly. The Grid Lions’ headquarters.

Of all places, they had landed there.

Panic flickered in his gaze. “We need to go,” he hissed, moving toward the edge of the building. He peered down, searching for an escape route — a jump, a warp, anything.

Zarp!

Electricity surged through his body, forcing him back. The shock burned like lightning, the pain rekindling a memory — the moment he and the others had nearly watched the girls die.

“You can’t go anywhere!” the woman shouted, her voice regaining its strength. “He’s already here!”

A wave of dread swept through them.

Behind them, a puff of smoke rose from the ground — dark, thick, pulsing with malevolent energy. A suffocating bloodlust filled the air, heavy enough to crush breath itself.

From within the smoke, feet appeared — crimson-robed, stepping forward slowly. The figure emerged, towering and calm, his grin wide and poisonous.

With pride, and a voice that dripped arrogance, he spoke:

“Welcome to Grid Lions.”

His eyes fixed on the two before him.

“Alexander Smith,” he said — then, with a mocking smile — “and the Vice Captain of the Five Scorpions.”

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