In a world far more advanced than our own, technology had reached a point where games were nearly indistinguishable from reality. One particular game stood out. It was so lifelike that even the non-playable characters could think, feel, and hold conversations as naturally as real people. It wasn't just a game; it was an alternate world. Drawn by the promise of an enormous reward, many people around the world decided to enter this digital realm. The challenge was simple in theory but brutal in execution: be the first to clear the game, and win one billion dollars.
This game wasn't open to just anyone. It was something special, exclusive. To even step into its world, you had to pass a test. Nobody knew exactly what the test measured, only that it was strict and unforgiving. The reward was so massive that people lined up in droves, desperate for a chance. But most were turned away. If the system decided you weren't fit to enter, that was it. No appeals. No second tries. The gate simply closed on you. What made this game truly different was its premise. When you entered, you didn't get to choose your character; the game did. You might wake up as a child, an old man, or even an elderly woman. It was random and often unfair. But that was part of the challenge.
To win, you had to earn one billion points. The main way to do that wasn't by fighting monsters or completing quests; it was by manipulating people. You had to raid bait, stir up conflict, or push others to act according to your will. It was a game of influence, not strength. The game wasn't just immersive; it was dangerously real. Before entering, every player was given a clear warning: die in the game, and it's over for you. Not just that run, forever. There were no respawns, no retries. If your character died, your chance at the billion dollar prize was gone for good. You'd never be allowed back in. That rule alone made every decision feel heavy. Every step, every word, every move mattered.
The game wasn't just about freedom; it gave guidance too. Early on, it let you know there were easy targets for quick points: hot headed people, kids, and the elderly. But once you interacted with someone, the game would quietly notify you. It might say, "Enraging this person will earn you 100 points," or "Instigating this one is worth 1000." But that came with a catch. The higher the reward, the harder the challenge. A person worth a thousand points wouldn't fall for cheap tricks. They'd be sharp, unpredictable, or emotionally guarded. The real game was about reading people and surviving their reactions.
The game didn't place any restrictions on violence between players. Killing wasn't punished; it was just another tactic. Because of that, secrecy became a matter of survival. Everyone kept their identity hidden, both inside and outside the game. When players returned to the real world, they acted like nothing happened. No bragging, no slipping up. Because if someone figured out who you were and saw you as a threat or a stepping stone to more points, they could come for you. And once you were dead, your shot at the prize was gone forever.
The game also came with its own twisted sense of reward. At one hundred million points, the system granted you something extraordinary: a supernatural ability, tailored to you, and completely unique. It wasn't something you could buy or steal. It was earned. And every time you reached another hundred million, you'd unlock a new one. These powers weren't for show. They could shift the balance of the game, make manipulation easier, or even turn you into a legend among players. But getting there was brutal, and the ones who did were feared. In the game, players take on the identity of whatever body the game assigns them, including the name. That way, they blend in and don't stand out as players.