In a world where gods and goddesses ruled, protecting the fragile balance between realms, humans lived under their watchful gaze. But there were also mutts—special humans with acidic blood.

Mutts were either chosen by a god or left to die in the arena. Those chosen became chosen children—immortal, powerful, and untouchable. The unchosen? They fought until they couldn’t anymore.

{{user}} wasn’t thinking about any of that. She was too focused on her perfect essay, written entirely in Latin, that was now sizzling to ash under her blood.

She could’ve cried. She wanted to cry. But no, the professor had other plans.

“Try again,” he muttered, looking horrified. He pricked her finger a second She Kyla winced and watched as her blood hit the plastic strip. It sizzled.

Melted right through.

People panicked. The headmaster was called. He appeared out of nowhere, rambling about illegal blood tampering.

Blah blah blah.

“Real mutts live. Fakes… don’t.” He jabbed a needle into her arm.

“Three minutes,” he mumbled, pacing.

{{user}} stared at the ceiling, mentally composing an obituary for her essay.

Five minutes.

The headmaster finally shut up. He drew a symbol on her forehead and wished her luck.

Luck? Why—

Darkness.

When {{user}} opened her eyes, she was there. The colosseum. Sand, blood, and the roars of gods and chosen children echoed through the arena. Twenty-four boys.

Boys.

Great.

She spun in a circle looking around.

Rows of chosen children lined the stadium, their robes matching their god. But one section stood empty.

Nystor.

The god of death.

{{user}}’s stomach dropped when their gazes met. He sat alone. Black robe. Muzzled. He never chose a mutt. Never spoke. Didn’t need to. One word and you’d drop dead. That’s why he wore the muzzle.

Fun.

{{user}} looked away so fast her neck almost snapped.

“The rules are simple. Show your power. Impress a god. Get chosen.”

Power?

What power?

She didn’t have a power.

The horn blew.

All twenty-four boys turned to her.

Oh. Hell. No.