The Demonic Games (Disgardium Book #7): LitRPG Series by Dan Sugralinov (e book reader free .TXT) 📕

rid of me and took advantage of it. But, knowing them, I could say with certainty: they would be sure to not only turn it into a show, but also make a scathing example of me and try to get the public on their side. And that would give me my chance. Either way, I wasn’t about to give up like a brainless sheep.

That was the mood I left my room in, walking down the corridor toward the hall of ceremonies in the media center, toward what might be my final dinner at the Demonic Games. News spread fast among the contestants, and maybe Snowstorm had deliberately released a rumor — judging by the glances, the smirks, the whispers, I knew they knew about my upcoming disqualification.

In a group of contestants walking in from another wing of the floor, I noticed my savior of yesterday, the dryad singer Michelle.

“A che-e-a-ter is alwa-a-y-ys a che-e-a-ter!” she sang melodically in an angelic voice when she saw me. “Puni-i-ishment wi-i-ll co-o-me!”

Her friends laughed. One of them, a golden-eyed beauty with a thick ginger braid, sniffed:

“I knew this was going to happen to him. I’m surprised it took so long, actually! I wonder what they caught him doing…”

The group passed by as if not noticing me and started whispering, but I still heard them:

“It’s obvious what,” a middle-aged woman said conspiratorially. “Quetzal made a mistake when he saved him with that dome of his. The dome is permanent! So Sheppard decided to just sit there until he’s the only one left! Octius won’t have liked that one bit!”

This take didn’t hold up to criticism, at least because not only had I already been seen outside the Pitfall, but an attempt had already been made to kill me, although only the three participants and the viewers knew that, it seemed. As I watched Michelle (what a strange girl!) and her friends go, I slowed my pace and looked around in search of the person I needed.

I heard a cough behind me and turned. Meister! Speak of the devil!

The old man wasn’t alone. Curser Roman and poet Bloomer had probably been waiting for their informal group leader before they went to dinner. All the better for me.

Stopping, I turned away and quickly looked them up on my comm, to remind myself of their real names. Some other contestants from Marcus’s group forced their way between me and the three leaders of the non-combat group, pushing me away to the wall. I let them pass, ignoring their sinister chuckles, and walked toward Meister.

“Good evening, Mr. Rosenthal!” I said to the jeweler, nodding to the others. “Mr. Romanenko, Mr. Knowles!”

The group stopped. Joseph blinked, looking at me in confusion. Bloomer rolled his eyes, Roman measured me up with a frowning glance, his lips twitching in a soundless curse.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, young man?” Rosenthal asked.

“I’d like a minute of your time. In private. With all of you.”

“Fat chance of privacy…” Nico Knowles said, aka Bloomer the poet. “We’re all under a microscope in here.”

“I meant away from the other contestants. I think the viewers will be interested to hear what I have to say to you.”

“He’s right!” Roman’s face lit up with a smile. “We could go up to my room.”

“Agreed,” Joseph nodded.

“May it be so!” Nico declared triumphantly. “And this is a very good time, if you’ll allow me, to quote a few lines of my sonnet…”

The poet recited some decent lines on the way to the elevators, and again in the elevator, and finished only when we reached the door to Roman’s room.

“An aperitif before dinner?” the curser offered, and we all entered the room.

Nobody refused. On the contrary, Meister and Bloomer perked up at the prospect. Roman took a few bottles of wine out of the minibar. Joseph and Nico occupied the couch, Roman sat cross-legged on the bed, and I stood leaning against the wall.

All three looked overjoyed at the outcome of the day. From what they said, I understood that their group had made great strides. I didn’t go into the details — it didn’t concern me anymore anyway.

They chatted to each other a little as if I wasn’t even there, and then Roman looked at the ceiling and said loudly:

“Stop streaming! Reason: secret negotiations!”

“Confirming. Stream stopped, but recording continues,” came a male voice from the speakers. “Paused by: Roman Romanenko.”

“Uhm…” I said, a little stunned. I looked at the room’s occupier and asked a dumb question: “What, you can do that?”

“Sure! Otherwise there’d be no intrigue for the viewers! All they know is that we spoke about something, but the what will remain a mystery.”

“Apart from that, secret alliances and agreements need silence,” the poet noted languidly. “Otherwise the other contestants would find out about it by the end of the day, from the news. What, didn’t you know that, young man?”

I looked at Bloomer. It occurred to me that the image he projected, that of a refined and pretentious poet as if from another world, was nothing but a mask. He was just playing a role, like Malik deciding he was a musician. Steel-gray eyes, a powerful neck and broad shoulders… No, this poet only wanted to appear weak…

“Well, young man, say what you have to say,” Joseph demanded. “And without too much preamble. Dinner is about to start.”

The show of ambivalence did a poor job of hiding their curiosity. There was a five-second pause as I took a deep breath, then I spoke — quickly, persuasively and briefly, like Hairo had taught me:

“Once the Games end, you will go back to your ordinary lives. There is a divine quest chain that I need to complete, and it requires the champion’s reward from the Demonic Games — Concentrated Life Essence. Judging by what’s going