Chapter 2: Deadly Alliances

During a spring field trip, the bus lost control and plunged off a cliff.

All the classmates died.

When we opened our eyes again, we’d been thrown back in time and become strategy players.

The system’s voice rang out:

[Your raid target is the young heir. Successfully completing the raid will earn you a bonus and a return to the real world.]

[There are currently 30 surviving strategy players. The bonus pool is $10 million.]

[Each person starts with 10 points. One point will be deducted for each day you survive.]

[Please do your best to survive.]

After the system finished its introduction, there was a moment of dead silence.

I remember the way the wind sliced through the cracked stained-glass windows of the church where we woke up. Even though it was spring, the air stung with late winter’s bite. All of us sat there, frozen, hearts thudding as we tried to wrap our minds around what just happened.

"Ugh... How are we supposed to raid... I don’t want to die."

Someone broke down, their voice sharp and panicked, bouncing off the peeling plaster and splintered pews. Others started to sniffle. There was no comfort here—just a wall of dread closing in.

I forced myself to breathe, fingers brushing over the system tattoo on my wrist as I opened the strategy shop.

There was food, clothes, toiletries—even gold jewelry. You could even change your appearance, but everything cost points.

A class officer spoke up, trying to sound in charge:

"Everyone only has enough points to survive for 10 days. We have to work together and help each other if we want a shot at this."

He had that practiced, hall monitor authority, but his voice wavered. You could tell he was just as freaked out as the rest of us.

But the class queen cut in, rolling her eyes:

"Seriously? This is just like the stuff I read. Give me a hot rich guy and a mission? Please—I’ve got this."

The class queen was gorgeous: big hazel eyes, sharp brows, and the grace of a ballet dancer. She had that old-school, untouchable vibe.

It wasn’t all talk, either.

As if to back her up, the system chimed in:

[The heir’s first love always had a tiny beauty mark just below her hairline.]

The class queen’s smile turned smug.

She pulled up the strategy shop menu.

"Fifteen points for a beauty mark? Easy. I’ll have the heir eating out of my hand."

Then she looked right at me, eyes glinting.

"Hey, Jamie, spot me 5 points."

Heads turned my way.

Someone whispered,

"Lend? Can you even do that?"

The system replied:

"Whether or not to lend points is up to the strategy players. The system will not interfere."

So it was allowed.

I gripped the edge of my hoodie, forcing myself to speak up:

"...I won’t lend."

My face burned before she even responded. The silence was thick—like that eerie calm before a tornado siren in the Midwest, when you know something bad is coming.

The class queen just laughed.

*Smack—*

Her hand shot out and slapped me hard across the face.

My vision blurred. For a second, all I could see was red—anger, humiliation, the memory of every time she made me feel less than nothing. My ears rang. I tasted blood at the corner of my mouth, and felt as exposed and small as I did that first day in high school, back when she picked me as her favorite target.