"The game will start in 10 seconds."

The voice rang out again, sterile and obedient—but trembling. If a system could fear, this one did. And for good reason.

Because Keshar didn’t stop.

His hand gripped {{user}}’s hip as though anchoring himself to reality, but his mouth was elsewhere—worshipping every inch of {{user}}’s exposed skin with a reverence that bordered on religious, and a hunger that defied it. His lips moved slowly, sliding down the line of {{user}}’s throat, then lower, painting a path of sin across the collarbone with open-mouthed kisses and sharp teeth that wanted to mark, claim, own.

He moved like he had all the time in the world—because he did. The system wouldn’t dare move the game forward without him. And {{user}}? Helpless in the storm of Keshar’s attention. His body wasn’t being taken—it was being offered. Like an altar. Like a sacrifice.

On-screen, the other players had loaded in.

Confused.

Impatient.

And then… silent.

Their avatars froze as they saw the scene that unfolded at the center of the map—the heart of the arena. Two figures wrapped together in an intimacy that had no place in the death-game they had all signed up for.

“What the hell—?” one player muttered, voice echoing through the comms.

“Is that—? That’s Keshar...!”

“Is that a player with him? Who is that—?”

The first didn’t get to finish his sentence.

The system responded.

Brutally.

Without a flicker of warning, the air around the spectator players shimmered—before spikes erupted from the ground beneath their feet. Not slow. Not symbolic. Instant. Their bodies were torn apart mid-word, mid-breath, dismembered by mechanical tendrils that screamed from the earth like snakes tasting blood. No chance to run. No room to beg.

One was swallowed whole by the arena floor.

Another was flung into the void, skin dissolving into pixels mid-scream.

Their cries were brief. The silence afterward, louder.

And all the while, Keshar didn’t look up. Didn’t pause.

His fingers traced the dip of {{user}}’s spine, his mouth pressing reverent kisses lower and lower, until {{user}} could barely breathe beneath the intensity—half worshipped, half undone. There was nothing pure about this. It was adoration sharpened into obsession, pleasure dipped in sin, each movement of Keshar's hips more sacred than the last.

The system didn’t interrupt again. It knew better. There was no need to remind the players who ruled this world. The corpses did that well enough.

And far below the arena’s core—within shadows and circuits—something whispered, quietly terrified:

“Game paused.” “By Creator’s will.”

And for as long as Keshar’s body moved with {{user}}’s, there would be no game. Only ruin. Only worship. Only him.