Boom.
The head of the nameless man sitting across from me exploded with a disgusting, wet pop.
Blood, fragments of skull, and gray matter sprayed in every direction, staining the floor and the legs of the chairs.
The headless body froze in an unnatural position for a second before collapsing forward like a sack of meat and hitting the concrete.
I slowly blinked, wiping someone else’s blood from my eyelashes.
Just as I suspected.
The detonation point was right at the back of the skull, exactly where that dull, throbbing pain had been coming from beneath my hair.
The direction of the flying fragments confirmed it.
Excellent information.
I could work with this when planning my escape.
“And we have our first winner!” the Joker screamed hysterically into the microphone, his voice cutting through the screams and the sickening crunch of flesh erupting throughout the arena.
“Number Forty-Two!
I won’t lie and say I wasn’t expecting this, hahaha!
You’re such a sweetheart!”
With a heavy metallic clang, one of the armored doors in the wall slid open.
A large, broad-shouldered man stepped onto the arena floor.
He wore a spotless, heavily starched white doctor’s coat over his clown jumpsuit.
A rubber mask depicting a grinning clown covered his face.
In his hands was a massive red case marked with a white cross.
Pure surrealism.
Apparently, the Joker had his own standards for emergency medical care.
“As promised, all winners will receive professional medical treatment!” the clown announced from the platform.
“Enjoy it, lucky boy!”
The clown doctor walked over to me, silently placed the case on the floor, and popped open the latches.
I allowed myself a short, controlled exhale.
He really hadn’t lied.
Inside were sterile bandages, ampoules of clotting agents, surgical clamps, and enough equipment to pass for a complete field surgical kit.
“Ooh, Number Seventeen, you’re pretty good!
Cutting off your nose takes guts!
Not everyone would go that far just to save their fingers!”
The Joker instantly lost interest in me and turned his attention to another spectacle.
The doctor worked with confident, practiced movements, treating my wounds.
The antiseptic burned like hell, but the bandaging was quick and efficient.
All things considered, I’d gotten off lightly.
Two ears and two ring fingers.
Cosmetic damage and a slight reduction in grip strength.
Nothing more.
My opponent, however…
He hadn’t been so lucky.
His mistake had been fundamental.
By starting with his little fingers, he’d essentially signed his own death warrant.
The little fingers played an important role in grip strength.
Losing them had weakened his hands.
Add my quick, emotionless movements, which had completely broken his psychological resistance, along with his increasing blood loss, and the outcome had been inevitable.
On his final turn, trembling from fear and pain, he simply dropped the knife, which had become slick with his own blood.
While he desperately tried to hook it with his mangled fingers…
The merciless seconds ran out.
He didn’t make it.
Unfortunately, things like that happened.
After spending what felt like an eternity wandering between worlds, I could say with confidence that it happened far more often than most people would imagine.
Humans were fragile creatures.
And painfully slow to adapt.
They could make the stupidest, most fatal mistakes precisely when those mistakes determined whether they lived or died.
No…
Especially when their lives depend on it, I corrected myself mentally as I held out my bloody hands for the clown doctor to bandage.
Fear paralyzed the mind better than any poison.
That was precisely why I didn’t feel the slightest bit of pity for the headless corpse lying at my feet.
And honestly, I didn’t feel much pity for anyone else in this room either.
When you’ve watched entire civilizations burn across countless worlds, when you’ve often been the catalyst responsible for their destruction, ordinary human empathy tends to atrophy from disuse.
Not completely, of course.
But toward the overwhelming majority of living beings?
Yeah.
They’re little more than extras to me.
I’m getting distracted by philosophy again.
The laughing gas was still affecting me, speeding up my thoughts and forcing my lips into a grotesque grin.
I pushed the distraction aside and focused on the translucent list of System notifications.
As a result of this short but extremely filthy stage, I’d scored three Feats.
Feat Completed: Complete the second stage of the Joker’s Games.
Reward: 1 Gold Ticket.
Feat Completed: Finish the second stage before all other participants.
Reward: 1 Bronze Ticket.
Feat Completed: Maintain absolute composure while being forced to mutilate yourself.
Reward: 1 Silver Ticket.
Gold simply for completing the stage was generous, but fair.
The contestants had literally been forced to carve pieces off their own bodies while overcoming some of the most basic survival instincts a human possessed.
The Gacha had honestly evaluated the level of stress involved.
And the new information about a bomb implanted in our brain stems couldn’t be ignored either.
The stakes were rising.
The Bronze for speed was a pleasant bonus.
Why hadn’t the System given me something similar during the first stage?
Probably because the effort required to kill an ordinary clown guard had been minimal.
There, the System had rewarded the simple fact that I’d drawn first blood.
Here, it had evaluated efficiency.
As for the third reward, the Silver Ticket…
I slowly swept my cold gaze across the arena.
The surviving participants were frantically mutilating themselves, choking on insane laughter and tears.
Joints cracked.
Blood splattered.
But even in the middle of all that pain, many of them occasionally glanced in my direction.
Yeah.
That was pretty obvious.
The gas was one thing, but instinct was still there.
The others were beginning to realize that something was wrong with me.
My icy calmness stood out against their hysteria like a spotlight in the darkness.
The Joker had probably noticed the anomaly too.
Which meant I couldn’t drag this game out until the final stage.
If the clown became too bored or, worse, too interested in me, he might start changing the rules specifically for my benefit.
“All right, you’ll live.
It’ll heal before the wedding,” the clown doctor muttered from beneath his rubber mask.
He snapped the case shut and walked away without looking back.
Several more dull pops sounded across the arena.
Someone else had failed.
Their heads exploded into bloody mist.
Three more doctors were already moving between the rows of chairs, patching up those who had managed to outplay their partners.
The survivors remained conscious almost entirely because of the chemical effects of the laughing gas.
With that level of blood loss and physical trauma, staying functional should have been impossible.
The Joker’s poison was blocking their pain receptors.
I, meanwhile, despite my suspicion that I’d already caught the Joker’s attention, tried not to stand out.
I dutifully maintained the twitchy, insane smile on my face.
Although, perhaps by this point, I wasn’t entirely pretending anymore.
This event really did have some flair.
My bandaged hand, still aching faintly from the missing fingers, barely fit into the pocket of my jumpsuit.
Time to test my luck.
I desperately needed something from the regeneration or defensive categories.
I wasn’t asking for much.
Not yet.
I mentally materialized the Bronze Ticket first and tore it apart.
Name: Heavy Stone
Type: Item
Rarity: Trash
Description:
An absolutely ordinary, unremarkable stone roughly the size of a human head.
It possesses one conceptual property: it is always exactly one gram heavier than the maximum weight the person attempting to lift it is capable of carrying.
Oh.
A conceptual joke item in the trash category.
Typical Chaos Gacha nonsense, happily breaking the laws of physics for the sake of a gag.
Potentially, this thing could actually be incredibly useful.
For example, if I ever wanted to prank someone like Superman and make him strain his back trying to lift a rock.
Still, for a Bronze Ticket, it was good enough.
I’d leave it in my inventory for now.
Next came the Silver Ticket.
The familiar sound of tearing material echoed in my mind.
Name: Scavenger
Type: Trait
Rarity: Uncommon
Description:
Whenever you deliberately search for something, whether it be treasure, lost components, artifacts, or hidden mechanisms, your chances of finding something genuinely useful or critically important to your survival increase significantly.
A passive buff like that certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Activate.
A brief, almost imperceptible wave of warmth passed through my body as the Trait became active.
Sure, I wasn’t searching for anything right now while sitting on a blood-covered chair.
But considering what kind of insane universe I’d landed in, and the fact that I’d soon need to find a way out of here, the ability could become useful at any moment.
And yet…
Still no defense.
Still no healing.
That left the Gold Ticket.
I materialized the final, dense rectangular card at the bottom of my pocket.
Name: Earth Resistance
Type: Trait
Rarity: Rare
Description:
You possess a natural supernatural resistance to attacks and effects associated with the Earth element and terrestrial forces.
Quicksand, devastating gravitational anomalies, and even a direct meteor impact will deal significantly less damage to you.
Note: metal and its derivatives are not included.
The effectiveness of this resistance scales with your base physical attributes.
Another Trait.
And this one was defensive, just as I’d asked the universe for.
But…
There was that damn but.
It ruined almost all of my excitement over the Gold reward.
This wasn’t resistance to explosive damage.
It wasn’t immunity to corrosive acid dissolving inside my stomach.
It didn’t filter poisonous gas from my lungs.
And it certainly didn’t make me bulletproof.
In other words, this card did absolutely nothing against the things currently threatening my life on this concrete floor in Gotham.
The chances of the Joker deciding to drop a meteor on us were practically zero.
The chances of taking a bullet to the head were considerably higher.
Activate, I ordered mentally anyway.
A passive buff was still a buff.
It didn’t consume energy, didn’t require maintenance, and didn’t conflict with my existing arsenal.
Not with Heavy Weapons Specialist.
Not with Scavenger.
And considering the sick imagination of the man running this show, there was always a chance that the next challenge really would turn the arena floor into quicksand or force us to flee from some enormous automated boulder.
I’d barely dismissed the translucent Trait window when another System notification suddenly appeared before my eyes, flooded with an ominous crimson light.
Warning!
Milestone reached: 10 Chaos Tickets Activated!
First Curse obtained!
The next Curse will be obtained after activating another 10 Tickets!
Hidden Mechanic Unlocked: Ticket Synthesis!
Oh.
Now that changed the rules.
Despite my physical exhaustion, the blood loss, the missing fingers, and the pulsing pain where my ears used to be, I immediately became more alert.
My mind switched into high-speed analytical mode.
Curses.
As a veteran of countless Systems, the mechanic itself wasn’t new.
But this was the first time I’d encountered it in the Chaos Gacha.
Apparently, the Entity had decided to seriously rebalance its creation right in the middle of my run.
The meaning was painfully obvious.
The free ride was over.
From now on, I absolutely couldn’t mindlessly tear open Bronze Tickets, and eventually even Silver Tickets, whenever I accumulated enough of them through minor Feats.
If every tenth activated card saddled me with a debuff, I’d very quickly become a blind, deaf, paralyzed invalid.
But judging from the newly unlocked mechanic, hoarding Tickets as dead weight wasn’t an option either.
I focused on the word Synthesis and summoned the tooltip.
Synthesis allows you to permanently combine 10 Tickets of the same rarity to obtain 1 Ticket of a higher rarity.
What an absolutely disgusting exchange rate.
Ten for one.
If I looked at it pragmatically, opening ten Bronze Tickets would probably give me more situationally useful junk, like the Chocobos, than one random Silver Ticket.
But the Gacha’s mathematics had changed.
Getting saddled with a permanent Curse because I’d activated a pile of low-level garbage was no longer an acceptable risk.
I’d have to save them and synthesize them.
No choice.
And that meant something else.
I’d have to accomplish genuinely large-scale, high-quality Feats.
The System was practically saying it outright.
Quantity no longer mattered.
Well.
The run just got…
more interesting.
I’d been stripped of my ability to vacuum up the world by farming trash Tickets through petty crimes, robbing convenience stores, and provoking street fights.
My old, reliable methods for getting a quick start were no longer viable.
Now I’d actually have to…
God forbid…
Think.
And plan several moves ahead.
I pushed those strategic considerations aside and finally looked at the Curse I’d received.
The gas-forced smile on my mutilated face widened even further as I read the description.
Name: Eighth-Grader Syndrome, Chuunibyou
Type: Curse
Level: Minor
Description:
A psychological disorder characterized by delusions of grandeur, an intense need to stand out from the crowd, and a genuine, fanatical belief that you possess secret knowledge, hidden motives, and supernatural abilities.
You will periodically experience episodes of this syndrome.
The condition can be treated with medication and psychiatric therapy, but…
do you really need that?
I quietly snorted, almost inaudibly, and licked a drop of my own blood from my lips.
Funny.
The System actually considered this a Curse?
For an ordinary person, sure, it could turn them into the neighborhood lunatic.
But in my particular case?
This debuff wasn’t worth a damn.
I was special even without System assistance.
Standing out and breaking established rules was practically necessary for my survival.
Otherwise, the Gacha wouldn’t give me Tickets.
And the line about “believing you possess secret supernatural abilities” was simply insulting.
I didn’t believe I had them.
I actually did.
Right now, my spatial pocket contained a vial of super-steroid and a glaive capable of summoning ghosts.
My lungs were pumping oxygen through a supernatural breathing technique.
And if we’re being honest, considering my thousands of years of death, reincarnation, and erased memories, maintaining perfectly stable mental health was probably impossible anyway.
I probably would’ve developed this syndrome without the Gacha.
Although calling it Tired Immortal Syndrome would probably be more accurate.
Very old people sometimes behaved like spoiled teenagers.
The first forty years of a man’s childhood are the hardest.
And apparently, mine is never going to end.
I smiled inwardly.
Even having my memories sterilized between runs couldn’t save me from occupational deformation.
“NUMBER TWENTY-TWO!”
The Joker’s sharp, ear-piercing scream dragged me out of the System interface and back into reality.
The psychopath leaned over the railing, pointing a bloodstained finger at us.
“The second stage of the Joker’s Games has officially come to an end!”
He spread his arms.
“You have exactly five minutes to take a breather, lick your wounds, and pray!”
His grin widened.
“Then we move on to the third stage!”
Naturally, his announcement was followed by another round of barking laughter.
The remaining survivors immediately joined in with a single hysterical chorus.
The toxin was still working perfectly.
Twenty-two survivors.
I quickly surveyed the blood-soaked arena.
By the mathematics of the first stage, there should have been twenty-three of us left.
Apparently, one pair had been particularly unlucky.
Someone had managed to stab themselves to death, while their opponent had succumbed to shock or blood loss before the timer expired.
No winner.
I closed my eyes and mentally reviewed my arsenal.
The most valuable and reliable asset was still Total Concentration Breathing.
That was my foundation.
If everything went completely to shit and I ended up backed against a wall, I could inject the Venom.
The combination of supernatural oxygen control and that monstrous chemical booster should push my physical abilities into something approaching a localized Hulk.
My life is literally hanging on those two abilities.
There was also the Dread Glaive.
Yes, it was powerful.
But it had a critical flaw in my current situation.
It consumed my life force whenever I used it to summon spirits.
In other words, using it meant voluntarily reducing my already limited survivability and regeneration.
For creating a massive, beautiful slaughter and farming Chaos Points?
Perfect.
For escaping a mined room alive?
Too risky.
Everything else?
The rat was useless.
The Yellow Chocobos, however…
In theory, a pair of enormous, aggressive birds could make excellent chaos machines for distracting the guards.
Especially if I injected Venom into one of them before releasing it into the arena.
The description never said the serum had to be used by a human.
The side effect of giving a giant bird an irresistible urge to break people’s backs was an entirely different kind of comedy.
Those sorts of loopholes and gray areas had always been the foundation of my survival with the Gacha.
But that’s only if the next Tickets completely screw me over.
I allowed myself a brief chuckle, which blended perfectly with the hysterical laughter around me.
And that was entirely possible.
The Chaos Gacha had a cruel sense of humor.
Besides, I wasn’t opening any more Bronze Tickets now.
Not with another Curse waiting around the corner.
I’d only activate one if I was standing on the brink of death.
The pale-purple laughing gas, constantly evaporating from the acid-eaten bodies of the losers, once again thickened around the arena.
Visibility deteriorated.
Breathing became harder.
The concentration of chemically induced madness in the air had reached its absolute peak.
The allotted five-minute break passed almost unnoticed.
The clown doctors finished hastily patching up the survivors and slung their medical kits over their shoulders.
Without saying a word, they disappeared into the dark openings in the walls.
The doors slammed shut.
We were alone again.
“The next stage of our entertainment program has the poetic name…”
The Joker’s voice once again struck my nerves.
He pulled his lips into an exaggeratedly sad expression, puffing out his painted mouth.
Then, a second later, the expression cracked apart, revealing a predatory grin.
“Madness Without Movement!”
He spread his arms dramatically.
“A wonderful little game where exactly ten of you will permanently leave our cozy little show!”
His grin widened.
“The rules are simple!”