Demonic Pornstar System novel Chapter 526

Chapter 526: Rules and Rewards

"How harsh...?"

"What’s the penalty going to be?"

"Twenty-five points?"

"No, too light, maybe fifty?"

"I think ten makes more sense!"

The speculation piled up quickly as people wrestled with the idea. Losing members wasn’t uncommon in dangerous zones; in fact, it was the norm, but enforcing punishment for deaths? That was unprecedented.

And then, answering the crowd’s frantic guessing, the screen flickered.

A new line faded into existence beneath the point tiers, written in stark red lettering that stood out on the display:

Death = -10,000

A cold chill slammed through the staging hall.

Dozens of people stiffened.

Hundreds inhaled sharply.

Several outright cursed.

"Ten thousand?!"

"He’s insane..."

"That’s... that’s brutal."

Magnus didn’t need to explain it further.

The message was clear.

Crystal clear.

This wasn’t a game.

This wasn’t entertainment.

This wasn’t for glory.

This was a national-strengthening initiative, and if you lost your people, you lost massively.

"The competition begins soon. Prepare accordingly."

And then came the part everyone had been waiting for. The unspoken question that had been forming since the moment Magnus said "competition."

What do the winners receive?

Magnus did not announce it yet.

He let the anticipation build.

He let the awakened lean forward.

He let the country hold its breath.

This, right here, was where the prize would define the stakes. Money alone wouldn’t cut it. Not for top guilds. Not for awakened risking their lives against Apex-class monsters above level one hundred.

Four fingers rose. The hall went still. "First," Magnus began, "every surviving member of the winning team will receive personally crafted gear from the Association’s top-tier smithing division."

A shockwave of gasps rippled outward. Someone cursed. Someone else almost dropped their weapon. The stunned murmurs that followed were not the excited kind, but the disbelieving, holy-shit-are-we-hearing-this-right kind.

The Association never crafted gear for outsiders. Their armors and weapons were practically myth. Sleek, brutally efficient, and impossibly durable, a cut above the things the open market could dream of. Everyone had assumptions about their rarity, but Magnus confirmed them with a casual bomb thrown into the silence.

"They guarantee a minimum rarity of Epic, with a chance for Legendary."

The reaction was instant.

Even the calmest awakened sat forward as if their souls were being yanked out of them. Epic gear wasn’t something you bought easily; often, it could only be attained by venturing into dungeons and looting there. The Epic-rarity gear on the markets tended to be niche in its use, but an armor handcrafted for them individually would be the exact opposite of niche.

Smelted, runewoven, custom-fitted, perfectly balanced. The kind of equipment people would murder for. The kind of equipment wars could be fought over.

Magnus lifted a second finger. "Second. Each surviving member of the winning team will receive one million Chronos. Individually." He made no effort to soften the next part. "Their guild leaders will not have access to these funds."

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