Greed Island Novels & Stories

"I'm Julian Orton. The lion is my pet, Edan. This is my family's private island. Isn't it beautiful?" Jade closed her eyes in frustration and interrupted Julian's incessant chatter. "I know your house is beautiful. But can you tell me where this place is and what your relationship is with Lloyd?" Julian looked surprised. "You don't know where this is? Then how did you get here?" Jade secretly assessed Julian, finding him physically fine but questioning his intelligence. "This is an island in Seylon that's not visible on maps. The entire beach is my family's property. Isn't it magnificent?"

“This will be your training den for the week—or until the Ancient Ruins open.” Danial, still gasping, raised his head weakly. “There’s… something… called consent…” He gulped another mouthful of air. “And secondly… where the hell are we!?” Raiden grinned. “You’ll forget about consent here soon enough. And this—” she gestured around the small tropical island “—is the Reely Islands. Somerland Ocean territory, surrounded by eternal lightning storms.” Danial blinked. Forget about consent? That does not sound right.

They had initially feared scraping by under the command of a level-nine Venerable Sage, but now Adrian unexpectedly offered them a chance to own the island. "Forgotten Shore is an island about five or six kilometers in size. It’s usually deserted and not subject to the daemons' sacrificial rituals. With the southern forest behind it, it's not in the frontline defense against the daemons. If my guess is correct, the major factions won't easily abandon the large islands. Instead, the owners of the medium-sized islands will likely choose to retreat without fighting," Adrian said mockingly. The Sampsons blushed slightly. ‘Is he referring to us?’ they thought.

“A private island off the coast of Montenegro. It’s not on any list, but you’ll find it marked as Vetra-3 in the original records.” I double-checked. She wasn’t lying. Vetra-3 wasn’t just some offshore account. It was a facility. A personal graveyard. We hopped on a smuggler’s boat within an hour. Just me, Matteo, Nikolai, and the fire burning in our veins. As the island peeked through the fog, I felt something inside me crack. This wasn’t a rescue mission; this was war. The moment we hit the rocky shore, I felt the eerie silence. The place wasn’t just deserted; it felt cursed.

The system announced, "The game rules are now active, and players may not withdraw. All 100 players have been deployed. "Welcome to the 'Ghost Cruise'. Remember: you are all stowaways, so good luck staying alive." A flash of white light burst out, and we were all transported onto a cruise ship floating on the open sea. The system gave each of us a card that we could use to make purchases anywhere on the ship. However, it only had 50 dollars loaded on it. My interface displayed three stats: hunger, thirst, and energy, and all three were currently in order. Once any of them hit zero, the player would be eliminated immediately.

I warned. He raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face. "Alright, alright, no need to get all worked up again. You might start drooling on me." I rolled my eyes, but before I could say something that would probably end in me throwing him overboard, a flash of gold caught my attention. In the distance, just past the horizon, an island rose out of the sea, its mountains shimmering like they were dipped in gold. The air around it seemed to pulse, waves of energy rolling off it.

it had become a cold monument to corporate greed. Tonight, the lights in the lobby didn’t pulse with Blackwood security codes. They glowed with the warm, steady amber of the Vermon-Sovereign Fund. I leaned against the glass railing, the city of our nightmares stretched out below us like a carpet of diamonds. From this height, the Aethelgard Estate was just a dark, scarred patch of land on the horizon—a grave for a monster. The Gilded Grove was a flickering dot in the distance, its power neutralized by the lawsuits and the sunlight we had brought to its darkest corners.

He raised his hand, signaling for everyone to be ready. Suddenly, a group of survivors appeared from behind the trees, their faces marked by desperation and greed. They were armed, some with makeshift weapons, others with guns that looked far too advanced for this broken world. The leader of the group, a tall man with a scar running across his cheek, stepped forward. “Well, well,” he said, a dark grin forming on his lips as he eyed the convoy. “Look what we have here. Looks like you’ve got something that belongs to us.”

Neon signs from the boardwalk flickered against the dark sky, but here on the secluded northern end, the world felt wilder — dunes, sea grass, and the endless black ocean. Jax “Creep” Malone, 39, was a legend on the island for all the wrong reasons. Leader of the feared local crew known as the Creeps, he was tall, heavily muscled, covered in dark ink, with a jagged scar across his left cheek and cold, piercing blue eyes that made people look away. He had just finished a late-night deal when he saw her walking barefoot along the private stretch of beach behind the dunes. Riley Bennett, 26, a bold New York photographer renting a beach house for the summer. Athletic and sun-kissed, with messy a