“Well?” Bianca asked as Hiro paced outside the bodega, glancing toward Central Park. The purple beacon loomed in the distance. Its glow wavered against the skeletal branches of Central Park, the trees stripped bare in the late autumn chill. “Is your little money thing a hack or what?”
“I can’t be the only one who figured this exploit out,” Hiro said, his eyes narrowing. “The Doom System is smarter than this.”
“That’s giving it way too much credit. The Doom System is a certified dumbass, and you don’t need a sixteen-year-old girly-girl-shield to tell you that. It’s childish. It thinks it’s clever. It’s crude. And it’s a total a-hole.” She gestured dramatically with a tentacle. “A shit-headed ass-douche.”
Hiro stared at the shield for a long moment, half-expecting divine retribution in the form of a lightning bolt. When none came, he pulled out his phone. “I have to ask…” He looked down at the blackened screen.
“Wait—”
“Ben,” he said before Bianca could stop him.
The speaker crackled in response. “Hiro?”
“I’m here. About to tackle the Revenant I need to deal with in Central Park then head toward your direction.”
“Cool. I’ll meet you on the other side, then. Near the Guggenheim work for ya?”
“Yeah, works. Question for you first.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you spent more Soul Cash?”
“Yup, sure did,” Ben said. “Hit up a merchant living in a trashcan over here like Oscar the Grouch. Thought the dang thing was a mimic at first, not gonna lie.”
Hiro grimaced. “Did you spend everything?”
“No, just about a thousand, give or take.”
“Did you get a multiplier?”
“Yeah.”
“So you still had some left over?”
“I did,” Ben confirmed. “But the Doom System did some weird math. My original balance dropped by, like, fifty to sixty percent. It’s worse than taking out one of them predatory car loans if you ask me.”
“So it didn’t let you keep your multiplier balance?”
“Hell nah. Why?”
Hiro frowned. Then it has to be something else. He pulled up his stats again, scanning his recent upgrades, his Soul Cash balance… and then—
“My title,” he whispered.
“What now?” Ben asked.
“What title did the Doom System give you this Interim?”
“A dumb one, I’ll tell you that. It’s listed as Seer of the Pier. And that’s not pee-er, as in someone who pees, by the way. No idea which pier the Damn System is referring to, though. I guess I could make that a side quest if I feel like getting nerdy. What about yours?”
Hiro exhaled slowly. “Profit Prophet.”
Ben snorted. “That’s a weird one.”
Hiro whispered the words again, his breath catching. My title is the reason the multiplied amount is staying in my account. It has to be!
He couldn’t prove it—yet. He’d need to ask more Survivors. But the logic made sense. And if that was true… What’s the real point of the titles, anyway? Hiro had assumed titles were just pointless flair, meaningless labels slapped on by the Doom System for its own amusement. In the First Interim, he had been Wolf Ronin of Wall Street—cool-sounding, but ultimately useless.
But maybe the Doom System had adjusted them, giving the titles actual mechanics. Ben’s matched his in its own way, his eyes able to Maybe there is more to them…
“You still there?” Ben asked.
“Yeah,” Hiro said, his thoughts churning. He watched as Hachi trotted across the cracked street, sniffed a lamppost, pissed on it, then continued toward Central Park like nothing mattered.
Hiro shook his head and refocused. “I’ll deal with the Revenant. Meet you at the Guggenheim after.”
“Got it. And Hiro?”
“Yeah.”
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“Try not to die.”
“Same.” He tucked his phone away. The distant purple glow pulsed like a heartbeat, a warning of the challenges ahead. Hiro braced himself.
###
Hiro wound his way deeper into Central Park, cautious as ever despite Bianca’s chatter. The trees stretched over him, their bare branches clawing at the sky. The remnants of autumn leaves, scattered across the cracked pathways like forgotten relics, crunched beneath his shoes
The park, once a lively refuge from the chaos of the city, now felt hollow. Benches lay overturned, their wooden slats rotting from exposure. An abandoned horse-drawn carriage sat at an awkward tilt near the shattered remains of a pathway, its wheels sunken into the dirt, long since looted for anything of value.
He passed what remained of Bethesda Terrace, the grand staircase leading to the fountain now littered with debris, a broken bicycle frame wedged between the stone railings. The angel atop the fountain was missing her wings, her face weathered down by time and exposure, nose missing.
“At least it’s not a Sentry,” Hiro said as he shifted his focus away from Hachi, who rummaged through a trash can, and back to the beacon.
“Don’t worry, Big Bro.” Bianca squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Consider that my version of a hug. Also, I know I’m not as shield-y as I should be, but I’ll try harder. It’s just more fun to get in there and beat some ass—especially since I’m, like, immortal now. I think. Ugh. I probably shouldn’t test that.”
“No, you should not.”
Hiro felt an unseen pressure, a quiet tension that clung to him like an unspoken warning. It was the kind of silence that signaled danger, a presence lurking just out of sight.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack and pressed on, reaching a clearing near Cherry Hill, where the purple beacon burned bright.
His opponent was already waiting.
The Revenant’s samurai armor gleamed under the eerie glow, its black lacquer polished to a mirror sheen. The massive crescent moon crest on his kabuto sliced through the night sky, a symbol as bold as the man himself. Dragon motifs coiled along his sleeves, seamlessly woven with the LV logo, a fusion of tradition and excess. Across his chest, a breastplate bore the same golden crescent, both a mark of power and a challenge to all who dared stand before him.
A dollar sign appeared over Date Masamune’s head, indicating he was worth 5,000 Soul Cash.
Description: The sweet Dutch sandwich that tastes like shit and makes no sense?
Let’s get into it.
Introducing hagelslag—crispy, chocolate-flavored sugar strands that the Dutch dump on buttered bread and pretend is a well-balanced breakfast. Call it a national treasure. Call it a childhood staple. Call it a sprinkle-based societal addiction that leads the Netherlands to consume fourteen million kilograms of the stuff annually—this stuff is hot, hot, hot!
Now, imagine the marketing potential if it had reached the United States.
We could have made billions, Survivor. You, me, Mr. Wonderful, and Mark Cuban could have been rolling in dough.
Slap some cartoon mascots on the box, give it a name like Sprinkle Dutch Crunch, and convince every elementary schooler that dumping sugar onto bread was part of a complete and balanced breakfast.
Boom. Instant profit.
All we would have needed to do was grease a few congressional pockets, partner with Big Milk, get some big titted influencers to hawk tuah our sugary offering on their socials, and just like that, we’d on our way to the top of the goddamn food pyramid.
But no, we had to be cockblocked by the man who stands before you.
Welcome to your first, and probably last, meet-cute, Survivor!
Date Masamune, the reason America never got hagelslag, was named after a sword wielded by a frog from Square Enix’s beloved JRPG classic, Chrono Trigger.
Born at Japan’s 1567 Bonnaroo Festival during an all-night concert in which the French band Air covered Sébastien Tellier’s album Sexuality, young Masamune grew up with an unrelenting hatred of French music and a blood vendetta against all things sugar.
At fourteen, Masamune declared war on the entire sweetener industry, just around the time the FDA had decided to pump high-fructose corn syrup directly into municipal tap water in Michigan.
It all came to a head when Masamune lost his eye in a skirmish against the heavily armed Mexican Haliburton-Haribo Sugar Cartel, an enemy militia wielding fentanyl-laced Pop Rocks-loaded into pink Hello Kitty AK-47s.
But did he give up? Hell no.
Like all guys who lose an eye, Masamune quickly became a badass in the eyes of the people, who gave him the most epic-est of nicknames, the One-Eyed Dragon.
What followed were some of the most famous battles in American history as Masamune burned down the nation’s most saccharine strongholds, including but not limited to: Hershey, Pennsylvania; Bonbon, Montana; Honeyville, Utah; Sugar Land, Texas; Tootsie Creek, Kentucky; and the Jelly Belly headquarters in Fairfield, California.
So, did he succeed? Did Masamune liberate the Western world from its unholy addiction to questionably sugary liquids, deep-fried Snickers, Voodoo Donuts, and calorie-dense Ben & Jerry ice cream monstrosities? Did he save America from its inevitable descent into snack-based oblivion?
No.
But he did single-handedly stop hagelslag from ever making it across the Pacific. And for that, Date Masamune has earned his place in history.
Hiro’s mind fired on all cylinders as he skimmed the description, which drew an instant groan from Bianca.
“Dummmb,” she said, tendrils curling around her.
I don’t have anything sugary, do I? he thought. The only thing close to sugary were his energy drinks, Hiro currently with a Pink Bull, Smoke Zero, Smellcius, and Rizz. I could use Rizz, but that might be like my {Edging} skill in the last Interim. Best not to push Masamune to his limits…
Figuring he could use it, and noticing Masamune had yet to do anything, Hiro pulled out a can of Pink Bull and cracked it open. The fizziness hit his tongue first, followed by the rush—a jolt of energy that slammed into his body like a live wire, every muscle tightening, his senses sharpening. His heart drummed against his ribs, his focus narrowing on the opponent before him.
Hiro was ready, but unlike the other samurai Hiro had fought, Masamune didn’t rush him.
Not yet, anyway.
There was no mindless aggression like Masakado back in the First Interim, no instant charge like Takeda Shingen on the Williamsburg Bridge.
Instead, Masamune moved with a measured grace. He reached for his katana, unsheathing it in one slow, deliberate motion. And then, katana at his side and facing toward the pavement, Date Masamune bowed.
Hiro hesitated.
He wasn’t used to this level of formality, but as someone who had spent much of his youth in Japan, he recognized the gesture. Instinct took over as he adjusted his stance and returned the bow, muscle memory guiding his motion. “I don’t know if you are anywhere close to the the real Date Masamune,” Hiro said in a Japanese, “but I offer my sincerest apologies that we must—”
A sharp bark broke the moment.
Hachi surged forward, fangs bared, his hellfire eyes locked onto the Revenant. The blood-red Zone of Influence flared into existence, sealing them inside.
Hiro barely had time to draw his katana before Masamune lunged for him.
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