The fall lasted forever and no time at all.
Arya tumbled through a tunnel of liquid starlight, every nerve screaming. The book's pages had become her skin; ink bled into veins, words branded themselves across her retinas. SYSTEM BINDING: ARYA ALLISON → TAKER CLASS. A voice—not sound, but thought—slithered into her skull, genderless, amused.
Welcome to Elyssara, little librarian. Try not to die before orientation.
She hit the ground hard enough to rattle teeth that weren't hers anymore.
Air exploded from lungs that felt… different. Fuller. She rolled onto her back, gasping, and stared up at a sky the color of bruised amethyst. Three moons—two silver, one blood-red—hung low over a city of impossible spires. Crystalline towers spiraled into clouds that dripped golden rain; airborne galleons with sails of living flame drifted between them. A dragon the size of a city bus screeched overhead, scales flashing like molten opal, riderless.
Arya sat up. Her hoodie was gone. In its place: a sleeveless crimson tunic that clung like it had been painted on, slit high on both thighs. Her legs—her legs?—were longer, toned, gleaming like polished bronze. She scrambled for a reflective surface and found a puddle of quicksilver rain.
The face staring back was a stranger's wet dream.
Hair that had been dishwater brown now cascaded in glossy obsidian waves to her waist, streaked with threads of liquid starlight. Eyes—once hazel and tired—burned violet, pupils slit like a cat's. Cheeks sharp enough to cut glass, lips plush and parted on a gasp that fogged the puddle. Her breasts strained the tunic's lacings; the neckline dipped so low her heartbeat was visible between them.
"What the hell," she whispered, and even her voice had changed—husky, edged with something that made her own thighs clench.
Ding! A translucent blue panel bloomed in her vision, hovering like augmented reality.
[TAKER: ARYA ALLISON | LEVEL 1]
[PHYSICALITY: REFORGED | BEAUTY: 100/100]
[POWERS UNLOCKED: TELEPATHY (RANK F) | TELEKINESIS (RANK F)]
[MAIN QUEST: SURVIVE THE ACADEMY TRIALS. RETURN HOME: ???]
[SIDE QUEST: KISS A GIVER. REWARD: +1 LEVEL]
Before she could process, the ground shuddered. A seam split the cobblestones twenty feet away, belching violet fire. From it rose a beast the size of a subway car—serpentine, eyeless, its hide a writhing mass of obsidian tongues. Each tongue ended in a screaming human face. The air reeked of burnt sugar and terror.
People screamed. Civilians in silk robes fled past Arya, their footfalls soundless against the chaos. A squad of armored Givers—five, maybe six—leaped from a rooftop, landing in a crouch. Their leader, a woman with hair like molten gold, raised a spear of pure light.
"Tier-9 Tonguewraith!" she bellowed. "Takers to the rear! We'll hold it—"
The beast's tongues lashed out. One speared straight through the golden-haired Giver's chest, lifting her like a shish kebab. Blood sprayed in perfect arcs, glittering under the moons. Her spear clattered away.
Arya's bladder threatened to empty. She backpedaled, bare feet slipping on wet stone, and collided with something warm and solid.
Strong hands caught her waist. "Easy, fresh meat."
The voice was velvet over steel. She looked up—way up—into eyes the color of winter skies. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, black hair tied in a short tail. A scar curved through his left brow. His tunic was half-unbuttoned, revealing a chest inked with glowing runes that pulsed like heartbeats. A Giver. Had to be.
He smirked. "Name's Gilgamesh. You're bleeding levels just standing there. Run."
Another tongue whipped toward them. Gilgamesh moved—blurred—and suddenly Arya was airborne, cradled against his chest as the world smeared into speed-lines. Wind roared. The Tonguewraith's howl dopplered behind them.
They landed on a balcony overlooking the chaos. Below, the remaining Givers fought in desperate choreography: lightning spears, ice lances, one man literally punching the beast's tongues into paste. Gilgamesh set her down but didn't let go.
"First day?" he asked, thumb brushing a smear of someone else's blood from her cheek. His touch sparked static across her skin.
"I—library. Thunder. Book," she babbled.
He laughed, low and delighted. "Classic. System snagged you mid-read, huh?" His gaze flicked down her body, clinical and hungry at once. "They always start you at peak fertility aesthetics. Marketing."
A new panel pinged.
[URGENT SIDE QUEST: KISS GILGAMESH TO SURVIVE THE NIGHT]
[REWARD: +1 LEVEL | ESCAPE ROUTE UNLOCKED]
[TIMER: 00:04:59]
Four minutes. The balcony shook; a tongue smashed through the railing, sending marble shards spinning. Gilgamesh's grip tightened. "Clock's ticking, Taker. I'm not dying for a rookie's virtue."
Arya's heart slammed against her ribs. She could hear his thoughts—telepathy kicking in, a chaotic spill of she's gorgeous / smells like parchment and fear / wonder if she bites—and beneath it, genuine worry for the city.
Three minutes.
Below, the golden-haired Giver's body hit the street, lifeless. The Tonguewraith turned its blind head toward the balcony, tasting the air.
Arya grabbed Gilgamesh's collar, yanked him down, and crashed her mouth against his.
The kiss was not gentle. Teeth clacked, tongues warred, her inexperience against his obvious expertise. He tasted like ozone and cinnamon. His hands slid to her ass, lifting her; her legs wrapped his waist instinctively. The system sang.
[LEVEL UP! ARYA → LEVEL 2]
[TELEPATHY: F → E | TELEKINESIS: F → E]
[BEAUTY: 100 → 110 (WARDROBE MALFUNCTION IMMINENT)]
Her tunic's lacings snapped. Fabric parted with a soft rip, baring the upper swell of her breasts. Gilgamesh groaned into her mouth. The balcony dissolved beneath them—teleportation?—and they were suddenly in a candlelit corridor of black marble, bodies still fused.
He broke the kiss, panting. "Welcome to Obsidian Wing, Taker dorms. You just bought yourself a night. Tomorrow, the Academy eats you alive."
Behind them, the Tonguewraith's roar faded, blocked by wards that shimmered like heat haze. Arya's lips tingled. Her reflection in a nearby mirror showed pupils blown wide, hair floating as if underwater, nipples visible through the ruined tunic.
Gilgamesh stepped back, adjusting himself with zero shame. "Seven other Takers in your cohort. They'll smell fresh meat on you. Word of advice? Pick your first real lay carefully. Levels stick better when you want it."
He winked, turned a corner, and was gone.
Arya sagged against the wall, pulse thundering. The system panel expanded, scrolling text like a slot machine.
[NEW QUEST: REPORT TO ORIENTATION AT DAWN]
[WARNING: JONATHAN ANDREW HAS MARKED YOU AS POTENTIAL RECRUIT]
[WARDROBE UPDATED: TAKER UNIFORM V2 – SELF-REPAIRING, SCANDALOUS]
She looked down. The torn tunic knit itself into a new outfit: a crimson crop top that barely contained her, a pleated skirt shorter than sin, thigh-high stockings with garter runes that pulsed with her heartbeat. A choker appeared around her throat, engraved: PROPERTY OF OBSIDIAN WING – DO NOT TOUCH WITHOUT CONSENT (VIOLATORS FED TO DRAGONS).
Footsteps echoed. Seven silhouettes rounded the corner—her new sisters. The closest, a platinum blonde with eyes like glacier melt, smiled with too many teeth.
"Liora Veyne," she purred, circling Arya like a shark. "Senior Taker. Level 42. And you must be the bookworm who kissed Gilgamesh in front of half the city." Her gaze lingered on Arya's exposed midriff. "Cute. You'll break by week's end."
Another girl—raven-haired, doll-faced, shadows coiling around her ankles—sniffed. "Sable. I already hate you."
A redhead cracked her knuckles, flames dancing between her fingers. "Cassia. Touch Alexander and I'll roast your tits."
The twins—cat-eared, one black-furred, one white—spoke in unison: "Eris." "Nyx." "We share everything."
The remaining two hung back: a tattooed rogue twirling a dagger (Velira), and a silver-haired girl clutching a ledger like a teddy bear (Mireille).
Arya straightened, chin high despite the tremor in her knees. "Arya Allison. Level 2. I'm not here to break."
Liora's laugh was winter wind. "We'll see."
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled five times—dawn ined in blood and gold. Orientation awaited. And somewhere beyond these walls, Alexander Nicholas—the Giver she'd already decided to claim—was waiting to be seduced.
Let the games begin.