Noah stood in the middle of the dimly lit special training room, his grip tight around the ice spear in his hand.
The sharp cold of the weapon radiated through his fingers, but he barely noticed it anymore.
His movements were fluid and precise as he swung the spear in wide arcs, the weapon cutting through the air with a satisfying hiss.
Each strike, each motion was deliberate, part of a rhythm he'd been honing for hours.
Yet, despite his focus on training, his mind was racing with thoughts that he couldn't shake off.
"Am I really stuck here?" he whispered to himself, the words carried away by the emptiness of the room.
Noah had long come to terms with the fact that he had been dragged into the world of a game, a world he hadn't created but now had to survive in.
However, it wasn't just survival that was on his mind anymore. He was realizing, day by day, that being a bystander in this world wasn't enough.
Not if he wanted to live.
Not if he wanted to avoid the inevitable fate of being cast aside by the game's mechanics, doomed to perish without so much as a second thought from the narrative.
"Kill the main characters... or die trying, huh?" he muttered, tightening his grip on the spear as he resumed his training.
The spear followed a set path, each strike identical to the last, his focus unwavering. But his thoughts were far from clear.
He could feel it—the pressure of the story forcing him into a corner. He wasn't like Xander, Amy, or the other major players.
They were destined for greatness, locked in the path to become heroes, villains, or whatever role the game demanded of them.
But Noah? He was insignificant, an anomaly that shouldn't have been part of this world to begin with.
"After the second act...the game will take the [Hell Mode] route...
And that's where Draven begins to play his part..."
In Hell Mode, the world itself wouldn't hesitate to throw him away like a piece of discarded trash.
"Surviving in Hell Mode..."
Noah repeated bitterly as he struck again with the spear, each swing carrying more force than the last.
"It's not even about living anymore. The game won't care. Hell Mode doesn't care."
Noah knew that in this mode, death wasn't just an option—it was an inevitability.
Every time he felt like he had gained some ground, something would happen to remind him of just how dangerous this world was.
The corrupt forces, the looming apocalypse, the factions battling for control—all of it made the game's mechanics seem irrelevant.
And Noah? He was caught in the middle of it all, balancing on a razor's edge.
"But if I don't act," he muttered, his breath coming in short gasps from the exertion of his training, "if I don't kill them, the world is done for."
This was the crux of his dilemma.
On the one hand, he knew that the main characters held the power to either save or destroy the world.
And with the way the narrative was progressing, it was becoming more and more likely that they would end up destroying everything.
It was the classic descent into darkness, where even the brightest heroes fell, consumed by their own ambitions or tragic flaws.
Suddenly, the sound of the heavy door creaking open echoed through the chamber.
Noah's senses immediately sharpened, and he turned his head slightly, peering through the dim light to see who had entered.
Xander.
The so-called main character of the game, with his striking white hair and piercing blue eyes, casually stepped into the room.
He moved with a grace that belied his power, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the training floor.
Noah tensed immediately. Of all people, Xander was the last person he wanted to see right now.
Xander barely glanced around the room before his gaze fell on Noah, as if sensing his presence immediately.
There was no acknowledgment, no greeting, just the quiet, palpable tension between them as Xander crossed the space with an air of confidence.
Noah could feel the weight of his presence like a storm gathering on the horizon.
Without a word, Xander made his way over to the collection of weapons displayed on the wall.
His hand hovered over the blades, fingers lightly grazing the handles, before he finally settled on a long, silver-edged sword.
He unsheathed it with a fluid motion, the sharp ring of the blade filling the room as he held it up to inspect it.
In the distance, Noah watched, his grip tightening around the ice spear.
His breathing was labored, his muscles aching from the intense practice, but he didn't take his eyes off Xander.
There was something unsettling about him—something that made Noah's instincts scream to be on guard.
Xander took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling steadily as he adjusted his grip on the sword.
He exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable as he prepared himself.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he turned his head slightly and locked eyes with Noah.
For a moment, the room seemed to freeze. The tension between them became tangible, almost suffocating.
Noah's glare was sharp, his eyes filled with a mixture of wariness and hostility. He didn't know what Xander wanted, but every fiber of his being told him to be ready for anything.
Xander, however, remained calm.
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His blue eyes were focused, cool, and calculating. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing the lean, muscular arms beneath, the small movement deliberate and measured.
He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, as if preparing himself for something more serious.
And then, without a word, Xander raised the sword. He straightened his arm, pointing the blade directly at Noah.
Noah clenched his ice spear harder, his knuckles whitening as his breath came out in sharp, cold puffs.
His body was exhausted, but the adrenaline surging through him now kept him on edge, ready to react.
His breaths were a strange mix of hot and cold, the result of the icy magic he had been channeling throughout his training.
The two of them stood there, neither saying a word, the atmosphere between them thick with unspoken challenge.
Xander's sword remained steady, pointed directly at Noah.