The world as it once was had ended 98 years ago, swallowed whole by an apocalypse that left most of the Earth barren and inhospitable. The skies turned gray with ash, oceans receded, and cities crumbled into ruins. Only a fraction of the world remained, barely clinging to life. The survivors, desperate to rebuild, carved out twelve districts, each assigned a single purpose: farming, manufacturing, defense—each a cog in the machine keeping what was left of humanity alive.
But in the center of this fractured society, there lay The City of Hope, a gleaming jewel among the wasteland. It was here that the Council resided, the rulers and architects of the new world. From the city’s towering spires, they governed with absolute power, untouched by the struggles of the districts that toiled to keep them alive. The districts were nothing more than engines of labor, while the Council thrived in luxury, removed from the hardships of survival.
And to ensure their dominance, the Council birthed the most twisted display of control imaginable: The Blood Games. Each year, 24 lives—two from each district—were sacrificed to the Council’s cruel theater. This wasn’t just entertainment; it was a test, a ritual of fear and dominance designed to remind the districts who held the power. The games ensured the Council’s supply of resources, but they also served a darker purpose: to break the spirit of those who dared dream of freedom.
At the heart of the Blood Games was the Blood Circle, a vast arena drenched in the echoes of those who had fallen. The air inside it was thick with the scent of rust and decay, the ground soaked with the blood of those who had dared to fight, to survive. For nearly a century, the Blood Circle had claimed countless lives, its only survivor each year known as the Victor. But even victory was no salvation, for the Council had devised a fate worse than death. The Victor, once crowned, was condemned to return to the games the following year—not as a tribute, but as the 25th player, forever shackled to the cycle of violence.
No one escaped their fate.
Those selected to enter the Blood Circle were called The Fated, chosen by the Council to fight for the scarce resources that kept the districts alive. The Fated were dragged from their homes, forced to confront the brutal reality that awaited them. It didn’t matter who you were—a farmer, a soldier, a merchant. If you were chosen, you were bound to the games, bound to face your fate.
Victory was an illusion, a false hope dangled before the desperate. Even the mightiest warriors fell to the games' endless hunger. For the Blood Circle was more than just an arena; it was a monster, devouring the weak and the strong alike, while the Council watched from above, unfeeling and unmoved.
And so, year after year, the cycle continued. The Blood Circle’s crimson sands swallowed the lives of the Fated, and with each drop of blood spilled, the Council’s power tightened its grip on the world. The message was clear: the only thing worse than being a tribute was surviving.
No one ever truly escaped their fate.
