Alex or Alexander Sobreviviente was lying on a neatly trimmed patch of grass. It was far from his king-sized bed, which was costlier than a luxury car, but it was comfortable in a way his expensive mattress never was. When he opened his eyes, he was met by a bright, unrelenting blue sky with a few lazy clouds drifting by, occasionally offering a moment’s reprieve from the sun.

  He tried to move his hands and legs. It felt odd. His palms, once soft from a life of delegation, were now rough, callused—the skin thick and unfamiliar. He tried to sit up but gasped, falling back with a sharp, searing pain across his chest. As he gingerly touched the source of the agony with his right index finger, he felt something hard, almost like metal, etched into his skin—some kind of cold, raised crest.

  “Is this afterlife?” His voice was a dry, unused rasp. “Heaven?” He paused, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping his throat. “Maybe not. There is no way in the world that I am allowed to enter the Pearly Gates.”

  He knew well that he was not a man of good virtues.

  “This must be some kind of illusion my brain is creating to calm me as it’s dying,” he sighed. “Well, when does this all go blank?” He spoke out loud, not worried about being perceived as a madman.

  He was going to die in a few moments, after all. Why care about others when you are waiting for your heart to stop after you shoot it with a bullet?

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  He waited. The sun, which had been low and arising when he woke, slowly climbed the vast expanse.

  Hours passed.

  The expected blankness never came. The only thing he could consistently sense was the earthy, warm scent of the surrounding grass. After what he judged to be three agonizing hours, the pain had dulled to a persistent throb. He tried to get up again. This time, he was successful, pushing himself up onto stiff elbows. He sat on the patch of grass, taking in his surroundings.

  Around him was a neatly trimmed patch of grass, perfectly sculpted into a circle with a diameter of ten meters. Beyond this circle were trees—ancient, large, and twisted with bark that looked like petrified stone. He could not identify them, but he was certain these were not the fruit-producing kind; they seemed to thrive purely on shadow and silence.

  Except for the immaculate patch of green beneath him, everything he could see was the dense, shadowy forest that surrounded him on all sides.

  He finally stood, testing his suddenly rugged body. He looked down at the grass. It wasn't merely trimmed; the pattern itself was a crest. The five-meter radius circle contained a seven-pointed star, each point ending precisely at the circumference. At the absolute center, resting innocently on the grass, was a small, spherical object—an orb that was a chaotic swirl of deep black, brilliant gold, and shimmering silver.

  “What kind of cult did I get myself involved in?” he muttered, the question more a reflex than a genuine query. “Illuminati, maybe?”

  He approached the orb cautiously. “What is this?”

  He reached out and lifted it. The moment his calloused fingers closed around the cool surface, a clear, resonant voice echoed, not in the air, but inside his skull:

  “ITEM – GIFT OF THE WORLD.”

  “USES LEFT – 1/1.”

  “RARITY – RELIC.”

  “ACCEPT OR REJECT.”