Deadlink
Season 2
Chapter 16
The Metropolis of Veiled Promises
Nine days.
That’s how long it had been since the deadly maze of Floor 29. Nine days since the Linkbreakers—Gerbert, Rann, Kokay, Taan, Ace, Venus, and Liem—escaped the silence. Nine days since traps ate sound, paths bent gravity, and players were left behind.
And now, the elevator doors opened again.
Floor 30.
It wasn’t a dungeon. It wasn’t a trial.
It was a city.
A metropolis of veiled promises, bathed in jazz and light.
Polished stone paths gleamed beneath flickering neon signs. Floating lanterns drifted lazily above quiet rooftop lounges. The wind carried the scent of roasted nuts, cherry tonic, and rain-on-pavement.
Players strolled the streets calmly—some trading, others relaxing in cafes or reading guild listings from holographic kiosks.
It looked like peace. It smelled like safety.
Kokay’s eyes widened. “Is this... even real?”
Rann said nothing. Taan didn’t lower her fists. But Ace whistled.
Gerbert stepped forward.
And then—
“Hey—!” “Wait, that’s him—Gerbert, right? The conjurer from Floor 24!” “He gave my team a way out on 27.” “I owe him my life.”
A rush of footsteps. Voices overlapping. Gratitude boiling over.
Players who had survived the earlier floors—some with bandaged arms, some with worn gear and cracked shields—swarmed Gerbert like he was gravity.
Before he could blink, they lifted him into the air.
“Wha—put me down!” Gerbert yelped, limbs flailing.
Too late.
“Hero of the Maze!” “Long live the turret tech!”
His teal jacket fluttered uselessly. His boots kicked midair.
Embarrassed, Gerbert turned bright red—an expression so rare that even Rann cracked a smile. Taan and Kokay couldn’t stop laughing. Ace wiped a tear, muttering, “I’ve never seen a tomato with glasses.”
“Gerbert the Red,” Kokay gasped, laughing. “Oh my gosh, we have to make that a sticker.”
Ace snapped his fingers. “Limited edition. Holographic foil. Three-star pull rate.”
Gerbert groaned. “I hate all of you.”
They found lodging at Emberloom Inn—a quiet, slightly crooked inn above a tea shop with only three available rooms and a slouchy common area.
Room 1: Kokay and Ace — lush, leafy, full of hanging vines and petal bursts by morning
Room 2: Venus and Liem — feather-soft, scribbled-on, peaceful
Room 3: Taan and Rann — bare, minimal, composed in its sharpness
Gerbert refused all rooms and claimed the sofa. Again.
“I like it here,” he said, conjuring a folded hex-mat on the old cushions.
“You are a stubborn nerd,” Kokay muttered, trying to hand him a bunny pillow.
One week passed.
They trained. They mapped. They rested.
Until Day Seven, when Kokay, Ace, and Taan stepped into Central Plaza to restock on grilled skewers and vending meals.
That’s when it happened.
“It’s HER!!” “Kokay!! I told you she’d come through this way!” “Little Lights pinged her exact position two minutes ago!” “No way, Bunny Vanguard has every floor-time timestamp since 17!”
The plaza exploded.
Dozens of players—some survivors from the maze, others recent arrivals—rushed toward Kokay. Some cried. Some shouted. Some froze up in shy awe.
A few players just stood still, whispering, “She’s okay. She’s really here…”
Hands waved photos, fan charms, custom stickers. Two players argued furiously over who had started following her first. Someone wore a full cosplay of her Floor 25 outfit.
Someone else wore a button that said:
“I see the future, and it’s Kokay.”
And at the heart of it—two major fan clubs:
Little Lights — a calm, supportive fandom that documented Kokay’s heroic moments, emotional quotes, and combat clips.
Bunny Vanguard — a rowdier, louder fandom who made chant sheets, tactical breakdowns, and even printed jackets with her silhouette mid-dodge.
“Can I just… shake your hand?” a soft-voiced teen asked, eyes wide.
“You saved my sister with that falling platform roll,” said another, choking up.
“I started healing after watching you on Floor 24. Just seeing you exist helps.”
Kokay froze in place, clutching her bunny-charmed bag.
“Um. Oh no. I mean—thank you?” she squeaked.
Someone burst into tears.
Another shouted, “SHE APOLOGIZED FOR EXISTING—” “She’s still so humble!” “KOKAY NATION FOREVER!!”
Kokay looked as if her soul had disconnected.
“I… don’t deserve this,” she whispered, bowing too quickly. “But thank you. Really. Thank you for surviving.”
And that?
That sealed it.
Screaming. Fainting. Chanting. Someone dropped to their knees and wrote a haiku on the plaza tiles.
Taan leaned against a lamp post. “Fan clubs. Of course.”
Ace grinned. “I warned you. She’s our secret weapon.”
“Not anymore,” Taan said.
They looked at each other. Smiled.
“Booth merch?” “Limited badges.” “Signed combat logs?”
They bumped fists.
That night, back at the inn, they gathered in the dim common room, surrounded by crumbs and empty noodle boxes. The walls glowed softly. A kettle steamed on a portable burner.
Gerbert stood, raising a hand.
A glowing blue projection unfurled onto the wall—Floor 30’s full layout.
“This floor gives us something rare,” he said. “Time. Tools. Stability. But we can’t let comfort dull us.”
He gestured across the glowing nodes:
Dustrest Inn. Emberloom Inn.
The Obsidian Swan – elite housing
The Banner Nexus – Guild Hall: Clerk Irma, Quester Mando, Scribe Talith
The Echo Pit – arena hosted by Voxie Vale
Iron Courses – dynamic training challenges
Market District – with Tendo, Granna Pex, and Jinks
Glasswell Infirmary – silent and sterile
Information Towers. Player Real Estate. Mini Forest Zones.
And finally—the Dungeon Block. Where death still lingered behind a barrier wall.
“We divide into two squads,” Gerbert said. “But we stay in sync. We train. We earn. We prepare.”
The plan was set:
Team A
Gerbert, Kokay, Rann, Venus – missions, quests, intel gathering
Team B
Ace, Taan, Liem – Echo Pit matches, stress trials, reputation climbing
Daily training for everyone at the Iron Courses. No exceptions.
The training halls were brutal. Adaptive. Alive.
Kokay ducked laser arcs in zero-grav chambers, synchronizing with her 40-second clairvoyant flashes.
Rann sprinted blindfolded through phasing walls, her steps becoming ghostlight precise.
Ace released blooming pollen bursts against flying targets, vines snapping to life mid-combat.
Taan broke momentum dummies into powder with fists alone—never missing a beat.
Venus folded her wings mid-flight, halting on dime-wide rings before diving again.
Liem conjured ink-weapons in motion, his sketches scattering like shadows before reforming.
Gerbert adjusted drone protocols, tracked every failure, then conjured new blueprints in response.
The team groaned, trained, laughed, collapsed, argued—and kept rising.
For the first time in many, many floors… They weren’t just surviving. They weren’t just scraping through.
They were evolving.
They were the Linkbreakers. And they were getting stronger.
Together.