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.

Back to Top

Chapter 16.2

The Herb and the Divide

Outside the Safe Zone, the forest grew stranger.

It was no longer a backdrop, no longer just terrain—it breathed, warped by mana and time. Trees twisted up from the earth in tangled spires, roots curled like serpents across the moss-carpeted floor. Strange fungi pulsed softly underfoot. Every step felt heavier, as if the forest itself were watching.

Team Gerbert advanced in careful formation.

Rann walked point, silent, alert. She didn’t speak unless necessary. Her eyes swept the shadows like a sensor, her body already coiled for movement. Kokay followed next—her fingers curled tightly at her side, heart thudding with that low hum of nerves. Her clairvoyance buzzed behind her eyes, but she focused it down to thirty-second bursts. Just enough.

Venus drifted above them, hovering just off the ground. Her wings stirred the mist without sound. There was something calming about her presence—steady, composed, untouched by the weight of it all.

Gerbert brought up the rear, one hand held just above his conjuration ring. Holographic lines danced beneath his palm, projecting faint maps, vitals, team diagnostics. His eyes scanned all of it with sharp, quiet focus.

He said nothing about the tension. He didn’t need to. He could feel it too.

The first attack came fast.

“Left side,” Rann said, then vanished.

Her form phased and reappeared behind two low-skulking creatures lunging through the brush. Her blades struck with calm precision—one throat slit, one spinal puncture. Neither creature made a sound before falling.

“Kokay?” Gerbert asked.

Kokay’s voice was tight. “Right flank—three more! They’re circling wide!”

She blinked forward in time and saw it—barely half a second into the future—but just enough to call it out.

Venus rose immediately, wings catching the high wind. She turned midair and flicked her hands outward—dozens of feathers launched in a fan-shaped arc, glowing pink and white. Each hit landed in soft thuds, the last creature dropping just before reaching Kokay.

Gerbert stepped forward. “No injuries. Net launcher.”

With a conjuration snap, he pulled a hex-woven net from midair and bound the last creature’s twitching form. “Capture complete. Let’s move.”

The trail narrowed. Roots thickened. The team pressed deeper until the trees thinned into a clearing, and the forest fell silent. Ahead, an enormous cave yawned open. Its entrance was surrounded by moss-covered stone and fungal veins that pulsed like veins beneath skin. A faint clicking echoed from within.

They entered slowly.

Kokay reached for Gerbert’s coat without thinking, just for a second.

He glanced back and offered a small, wordless nod. She let go.

The tremor came from below.

“Contact,” Rann said, blades halfway drawn already.

From the ground, stone split outward in a perfect radial pattern.

Something rose.

It wasn’t a simple monster—it was something buried, waiting.

A massive crab-like beast heaved itself from the cavern floor, covered in jagged moss and fungal plating. Its front claws slammed into the earth, shaking the chamber. Along its back, like a grotesque parasitic crown, bloomed a luminous herb—its petals glowing gold, its stalk pulsing with unnatural energy.

“That’s the herb,” Gerbert said, hand already mid-conjure.

“And that’s our wall,” Rann replied.

Then the crab shrieked and lunged.

It came fast for something so large.

One moment the cave floor trembled, the next, the crab-like monster surged forward—massive claws slamming into the moss-covered stone with terrifying force. One of them struck where Kokay had just been standing. The impact scattered stone and glowing spores like shrapnel.

“Split!” Gerbert ordered. “Kokay—distance calls. Venus—sky support!”

Kokay stumbled behind a stalagmite, heart racing, lungs tight. “It’s faster than it looks,” she gasped.

“You’ve got this,” came Venus’s gentle voice from above. Her wings beat softly as she hovered overhead. “Just breathe.”

Kokay nodded quickly, pushed the fear down, and focused. Her clairvoyance flared—brief, sharp glimpses into what came next. Her eyes shimmered. “Venus—its right side’s exposed!”

The winged girl twisted midair, responding instantly. She dove in a tight arc and unleashed a flurry of glowing feathers. They struck the crab’s armor with soft, thudding force, slicing through the side plates. The beast staggered from the impact, let out a grinding roar, and swung a leg upward in retaliation.

Venus dropped altitude just in time, barely avoiding the strike. “It’s aiming higher now,” she said, voice still calm. “Learning.”

“Good,” Gerbert responded, already conjuring. A tether net materialized in his hand—hex-lined and humming with energy. He launched it into the crab’s forward left leg. It wrapped around the joint with a sharp crackle, anchoring it to the ground. “We can predict that.”

Behind the monster, Rann appeared in a blink, blades drawn. She moved without hesitation, driving one into the soft muscle beneath the shell at the rear hinge. Acidic ichor hissed out, burning against the cave floor.

“Soft point confirmed,” she reported. “Rear hinge. Not armored.”

“Logging it,” Gerbert said, eyes never leaving the display hovering near his hand. “Keep the pressure on.”

The crab let out a sharper screech and reared upward. A ripple of arcane energy burst from its core. The herb blooming from its back pulsed brighter. Then, with a violent motion, the beast slammed both claws into the stone floor.

A shockwave exploded outward—moss, fungal spores, and crystal shards flying in all directions.

“Move!” Kokay shouted. The vision struck her like lightning, seconds ahead of the wave. Her voice rang out with urgency. “Now!”

Gerbert acted instantly, casting a conjured dome around them—its barrier grid catching most of the blast. Rann phased clean through the explosion. Venus twisted wide, launching deflective feathers that sliced the incoming debris midair.

Kokay pressed against the rock for cover, coughed once, then peeked up, blinking dust from her eyes. Her voice was breathless, but steady. “Still here.”

They didn’t pause.

“Rann—stab and bait,” Gerbert called, recalibrating the spellwork on his ring. “I’ll pin its rear leg. Kokay, get Venus the next opening.”

“On it,” Rann replied, vanishing into motion.

She darted across the monster’s vision, each move sharp and deliberate. The crab’s claws grew more frantic, flailing in an effort to track her.

“Rann, two seconds!” Kokay called. “Feint high, then drop!”

Rann jumped, blinked mid-air, and reappeared beneath the beast’s belly. Her blade struck hard into the vulnerable seam. The monster convulsed, shuddering in place.

Gerbert raised both arms. “Firing anchor.”

A heavy chain harpoon launched from his conjured rig—larger than the last, charged with layered mana. It drove into the crab’s back leg and pinned it to the cavern floor with a thunderous impact.

“It’s locked!” he shouted.

Kokay’s voice rose above the clamor. “Venus! Center bloom—do it now!”

Venus flew higher, her wings flaring open like a signal flag. She hovered for half a second, gathering energy. The feathers around her shimmered—bright, golden, full of focus.

She released them all at once.

Six glowing projectiles spiraled through the misty air and struck the herb’s stalk in perfect unison.

The chamber flashed with warm golden light, blooming outward like sunlight through water. The crab let out one final, fractured screech—its body trembled, then buckled under its own weight. It collapsed with a ground-shaking impact.

The herb flickered… then held.

Silence settled.

Only their breath filled the cave—slow, fogging in the sudden stillness.

Gerbert lowered his hands and exhaled. “Well-coordinated. Minimal damage. Excellent work.”

Rann was already withdrawing her blade, wiping it clean in a single motion. “It had no real counters,” she said. “Just brute defense and area denial.”

“Still terrifying,” Kokay murmured, stepping slowly away from the stalagmite. “But we handled it.”

“You did,” Venus said kindly. “You called every right moment, Kokay.”

Kokay blinked, surprised. Then she smiled, faint and soft. “Thanks. I… wasn’t sure I could.”

“You could,” Gerbert replied, voice steady and warm. “And you did.”

The four of them stood still for a moment longer—watching the pulsing glow of the intact herb.

Then, quietly, they gathered it up together and began the long, quiet walk back toward the city’s light.

Return to the Banner Nexus

They gathered the herb together—treating it almost like a relic.

Back at the Banner Nexus, the air felt cooler. Clerks bustled in the background, and the familiar pulse of the quest boards blinked overhead.

Clerk Irma accepted the item without fanfare.

“Quest complete. Reward: 800 Blings,” she said.

Kokay stood a little taller as the notification chimed.

They stepped outside together.

Rann turned toward Gerbert. “We should take two quests next. We can cover more ground.”

Gerbert paused.

He glanced between them—Rann, confident as ever. Venus, serene but quietly stronger. Kokay, cheeks flushed, eyes still glowing.

He hesitated. “Are we ready for that?”

Kokay stepped forward, voice quiet but certain. “I trained for this. I can handle it.” Then she added, more softly, “I want to handle it.”

Venus smiled gently. “We’ve all grown stronger, Gerbert.”

He considered it—tactical load, stamina rates, combat effectiveness. All viable.

“Alright,” he said. “Split by synergy.”

Team A: Gerbert and Kokay

Team B: Rann and Venus

They walked to the plaza edge, just before parting.

“We’ll use the call function constantly,” Gerbert reminded. “And drop the mission if it gets dangerous.”

“Don’t overthink it,” Rann said, brushing dust off her jacket.

“You’re not our dad,” Kokay teased with a shy grin.

Gerbert smiled faintly.

He looked at all three of them. Older somehow. Sharper. Solid.

“Proud of you guys,” he said quietly.

Then they split—two pairs, two paths.

Not divided.

Just ready.

Back to Top

Chapter 16.3

Echo and Mirage

The forest near Floor 30’s Mini Wild Zones was older than it had any right to be.

Its trees curved in strange bows as if recoiling from something ancient. The canopy filtered sunlight through layers of mist and color—pinkish fog, teal-tinted leaves, and glowing mushrooms that blinked in timed pulses like distant warning beacons. Birds chirped irregular melodies, then fell silent mid-song. Even sound here behaved differently.

It was perfect hunting ground for illusions. Perfect for the phantom stag.

Gal crouched beside a patch of moss, fingertips brushing a stone. “Mmm... left side,” she said, cheerful but focused. “It has a rhythm. Like—” she tapped her fingers against her forearm, then paused. “Breathing. Real slow.”

Behind her, Duane moved like a soldier on silent march. His fists were taped, his stance disciplined but casual, and his clones—two of them—had already split into the brush.

He grinned. “Your ears are scary sometimes, y’know that?”

“I practice,” she replied with a smirk. “Besides, I like spooky forests. They’ve got style.”

A low rustle confirmed her read.

Whill, the nervous NPC who had hired them, clutched his satchel tightly and stepped forward. He looked barely older than twenty, but worn thin from stress. “I—I just need one piece of the stag’s horn,” he stammered. “Not for gold. It’s for my brother. He was blinded by the Ash Spore Rot. The horn’s... supposed to help, right?”

Gal gave him a small nod. “We’ll get it for him,” she said kindly. “Promise.”

“Cross my heart and uppercut a tree,” Duane added with a wink.

Whill blinked, unsure if that was a joke.

Gal laughed under her breath and tapped her headphone cord against her collarbone, listening again. “It’s looping around now. Still close.”

They’d been a team ever since Floor 24.

Duane had found her in a collapsed guild checkpoint—half-sunk into corrupted vines, the walls trembling with rot. Gal had been sprawled out on cracked tile, unconscious but alive, with a pulsing sigil on her wrist.

No wounds. No burns. Just silence.

He checked her vitals and braced her head. And then he waited.

Duane didn’t leave. Not even when shadows stirred outside. For four nights, he fought off beasts and bandits, moving her body when the building shifted and wrapping her in his spare jacket.

She woke up just before dawn.

Her eyes shot open. Panic. Confusion.

“Whoa—hey, hey, easy now,” Duane said softly, raising both hands. “You’re safe. Name’s Duane. Been watching over you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Gal squinted at him, confused, then whispered, “I... auctioned a coma day. For a limited clock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A clock? Must’ve been one hell of a clock.”

She groaned, rubbing her forehead. “It was. Then someone stole it in the Stealing Time round.”

That someone would later be revealed as Taan.

Duane didn’t judge. He just chuckled and handed her water.

“Guess we’re both stuck in this mess, huh? Might as well team up.”

They never looked back.

By Floor 29, they had become known for helping during the maze collapse. Gal had used her wave-tracing to find vibrations through the walls. Duane helped carry injured players. But what stuck in both their memories was the voice on the speaker—Gerbert, conjuring a path forward.

They owed him. Quietly. Deeply.

Now, back in the forest, that same coordination had returned.

The phantom stag emerged from between the trees, half-real and gleaming. Its antlers twisted with multicolored runes that shifted shape like glass catching sunlight. It flickered between steps, feet brushing the moss with no sound at all.

Gal grinned. “There you are, you sneaky remix.”

She dropped into a crouch and raised both palms. “Sound pulse. Three... two... drop beat.”

Clap!

The sonic wave burst outward. The forest air rippled like water, distorting the stag’s shimmer. It stumbled mid-leap, landing awkwardly.

Duane was already moving.

“Let’s dance!” he yelled, launching forward as three clones erupted from him—one to the flank, another vaulting over a stump, the third circling wide to herd.

The stag kicked.

A fourth clone—more stable than any before—slid in low from behind, ducking under the strike and hooking the hind leg with a sweep.

Duane followed, spinning into a clean elbow strike across the creature’s shoulder—enough force to stun, not kill.

“Mind the horns! They’re on someone’s prescription!”

Gal snapped her fingers. A narrow sonic needle fired through the air, warping the stag’s perception.

The creature froze.

“Now, Whill!”

The NPC tossed a binding talisman etched in light. It latched onto the stag’s chest with a pulse of white shimmer—and locked it in place.

For a moment, everything stilled.

Then: soft breathing. Calm.

The clones faded into mist. Duane exhaled hard and gave a little spin, flexing his arms. “And that, my friend, is what we call crowd control.”

Gal stood and stretched. “Still got it,” she said with a grin, popping her neck. “You see that last pulse timing? Chef’s kiss.”

Whill rushed forward, falling to his knees as he cradled the antler shard in both hands. “This... this is it. Thank you. Thank you.”

“You’ve got a good heart,” Gal said warmly. “Make sure your brother uses it well.”

Duane patted Whill on the back, grinning. “Tell him he owes us cookies. Or a mixtape. Either works.”

The path back was calmer now.

They walked side-by-side under the soft blinking glow of the mushrooms. Gal flicked her pen in the air, sketching a quick waveform above her palm and watching it flicker out.

“Gerbert’s team,” she said suddenly. “They saved our asses in that maze.”

“Big time,” Duane nodded. “I like that crew. Especially the girl with the haunted eyes.”

“Rann?”

“Yeah. She looks like she sleeps in poetry and stabs with silence.”

Gal giggled. “Wouldn’t mind teaming up with them. They’ve got rhythm.”

Duane smirked. “We’ll catch them again. When the beat drops.”

They exchanged a fist bump, easy and familiar.

And with that, the forest closed behind them—two silhouettes vanishing into the fog, still walking in sync.

Back to Top

Chapter 17

Brackets and Bloom

The registration area of the Echo Pit buzzed with energy. Neon lights pulsed above the sign-in desks, while players milled around reviewing tournament brackets and exchanging bets. Taan, arms crossed and stance wide, eyed the terminal with a smirk.

"You sure about this, Liem?" she teased, glancing his way. "No fiancée to cheer for you today. Could be a lonely loss."

Liem, adjusting his glasses and signing his name on the screen, raised an eyebrow. "That’s fine. I’m here to prove something. Even without Venus, I want to show I can hold my own."

Ace, leaning on the desk in his long pink coat, grinned dramatically. "Let the man paint his own legend, darling. Besides, he's got us. And I make a very enthusiastic cheerleader."

Taan rolled her eyes but smirked.

An NPC in armor arrived to escort them. "You’re in Bracket B. Follow me to the locker rooms."

The interior was lined with steel benches, personalized lockers, and glowing displays. Holo-screens hovered above, showing live matches in progress. A giant tournament bracket updated in real time.

Taan sat down, focused on the match underway. The screen showed Sheg from Team Jaja in a blur of green lightning, her fists crackling as she dodged and pummeled her opponent into the wall. The buzzer sounded. Victory.

"Of course she’s here," Taan muttered, unimpressed but alert.

Minutes later, the system pinged.

[Next Match: ACE vs. MARC]

Ace stretched his arms with exaggerated flair. "Wish me luck, loves. Hopefully Marc’s cute and dramatic."

The Echo Pit Arena breathed heat and electricity. Spotlights cut sharp lines through the misted air, illuminating the stone floor with a clean circular boundary. Scorch marks, claw gouges, and impact craters from previous matches littered the terrain—testament to what the arena demanded.

Across the field stood Marc.

Tall. Tanned. Solid.

He wore a long black shirt with sleeves cuffed at the elbows, black jeans fitted tight for movement, and plain dark sneakers. His silhouette was simple—but the weapon he carried made the difference. A naginata, nearly the length of his full height, its long curved blade glowing a molten red-orange. Wherever it touched the floor, stone hissed and warped, trailing scorched lines like welts burned into the earth.

He tilted his head at the man across from him.

“Ace, right?” Marc spun the naginata in one hand with casual precision. “You’re that guy with plants, yeah?”

He grinned.

“Hope your flowers can scream.”

On the opposite end, Ace smiled, stepping lightly over a vine curling at his heel. His pink coat fluttered with every step. He looked unarmed. Unbothered. But his fingertips sparkled faintly with pollen dust, and the air around him already smelled of blooming sap and something wilder underneath.

“I was worried I’d have to hold back,” Ace replied, voice smooth like sunlight through mist. “Good to know you’re rude and dangerous.”

[MATCH START]

Marc charged immediately, blade trailing flame. His long strides ate the distance in seconds.

Ace moved, body fluid, sidestepping just as the naginata carved a molten crescent into the ground where he had stood. The blade’s heat melted a divot in the stone—Marc was not holding back.

Ace spun away, vines bursting from the ground behind him to entangle Marc’s ankles. The vine caught, twisting like a serpent—but Marc snarled and ripped free, dragging the creature upward before severing it midair with a brutal slash.

Ace responded with a flick of his hand—a sunflower shield bloomed instantly on his forearm, thick petals reinforcing into bark just in time to absorb another sweeping blow.

CLANG—CRACK.

The shield held. Barely.

Ace skated backward on a trail of moss he summoned beneath his boots, regaining distance.

Marc stalked forward.

His style was brute offense—heavy, vicious swings. He twirled the naginata like a lever of heat and gravity. Each strike left trails of molten streaks on the floor. He lunged, spinning into a diagonal cut aimed to split Ace from shoulder to hip.

Ace ducked low, one hand slapping the stone—vines burst upward again, coiling like a net from below.

This time, Marc was mid-motion and couldn’t cut clean through.

He stumbled.

Ace surged forward.

His right hand was no longer flesh—it had shifted, layered in rough bark, dark and ridged like tree armor. Every muscle in Ace’s frame snapped into motion.

He delivered a palm strike straight to Marc’s chest.

THUD.

It landed with force—raw and trained.

Marc gasped, momentarily stunned, his torso recoiling from the blow.

Ace grinned.

“Trained by a brawler,” he said, soft and confident.

“Surprise.”

Marc growled and shoved forward, swinging again with a fury less polished but no less dangerous. The naginata blazed, its arc cutting an inferno through the haze. He aimed high, then reversed low—trying to catch Ace’s legs. The arena floor behind him glowed where the blade touched.

Ace danced through it.

Dodged one. Two. Skimmed past a third. His pink coat singed along the edge but didn’t burn.

As he moved, flowers bloomed in his wake—small blossoms exploding from cracks in the stone, twisting up and releasing green coils. One vine shot out and wrapped around the base of Marc’s weapon mid-swing.

Marc yanked, annoyed—but the momentum faltered.

Ace leapt, flipping forward off a summoned stalk, soaring over Marc’s shoulder.

Mid-air, Ace turned his body. Petals burst around him.

He landed behind Marc, crouched—and rose fast with another bark-armored elbow—

CRACK.

Right into Marc’s back.

Marc staggered.

He whirled around, swinging blindly, but the vines had begun crawling up his shins now, binding, hindering.

Ace spun again, tossing a bloom mine across the floor. It clinked, opened, and—

BOOM.

A pulse of sticky golden pollen erupted outward in a 5-meter burst. The cloud drifted and clung. The arena glowed in soft gold as Marc choked, his arms now sluggish, the pollen thick in his breath and on his blade.

His movements slowed.

Ace took one step, then another, walking calmly through the glowing haze, outlined in soft green.

“You swing big,” he said conversationally.

“But you don’t adapt.”

He raised both arms—petals unfolding behind his shoulders like wings—and struck with precision.

One blow to Marc’s knee. Another to his side.

Then the final—

BARK-CLAD SPINNING ELBOW

—into Marc’s ribs, turning the tall man sideways with the force.

Marc fell.

Weapon down. Hands slack. Breathing heavy.

[MATCH END – VICTORY: ACE]

The bracket screen flashed above:

ACE – ADVANCE

Ace exhaled softly and turned from the arena floor.

The petals that had burst from his bloom mine still hung in the air—like a golden mist left behind in the aftermath of a thunderstorm.

In the exit corridor, Andrea waited, arms crossed, earrings shaped like tiny tigers flickering under the overhead light.

She gave him a once-over. “You were fun to watch,” she said. “Can’t wait to beat you.”

Ace smirked, brushing a petal off his shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” he replied. “Let’s make it a beautiful brawl.”

She tilted her head. “You always this dramatic?”

Ace paused mid-step, looked back, and gave a wink.

“Only when the flowers are watching.”

And with that, he walked off, the pollen still trailing behind him, vanishing in soft gold.

Back to Top

Chapter 17.1

Ink and Resolve

The locker room pulsed with the residual energy of the last match.

The air still carried the faint scent of scorched stone and flower pollen. Monitors hovered silently above each bench, replaying key moments from the previous bout. In one frame, Ace flipped gracefully through a cloud of golden spores. In another, Marc’s molten naginata sliced a glowing path through the stone—then missed by inches.

Liem stood beneath one of the displays, arms crossed, gaze sharp behind his thin-frame glasses. He wasn’t watching for flair. He was watching for rhythm.

He studied Ace’s footwork, the precise moment bark overtook skin, the angle of the elbow strike that felled Marc. But most of all, he noted how Ace disguised the bloom mine—waiting until pollen had already filled the air before detonating it.

“He’s really strong,” Liem murmured.

Across the room, Taan pushed off the wall. Her boots thudded softly on the locker tiles as she walked over, cracking her knuckles. She stopped beside him and gave his shoulder a firm, playful punch—just enough to sting.

“Your turn,” she said with a grin. “Show them the Linkbreakers aren’t just flair and flowers.”

Liem smiled slightly and adjusted his glasses. “Consider it done.”

Just then, the locker door hissed open. Ace strolled in, coat still trailing bits of pollen, a victorious gleam in his eye.

“Liem, darling,” he called, sweeping into a low, dramatic bow. “I want you to know—I had an entire cheerleading routine planned. There was going to be ribbon twirling. Possibly jazz hands.”

Liem chuckled softly. “Thanks, Ace. I’ll try not to disappoint.”

Ace winked. “Too late. I already believe in you.”

Liem walked alone down the quiet hallway toward the staging gate. Each step echoed slightly—his heartbeat louder than the footsteps. The world outside the arena always felt quieter. Like the game was holding its breath.

His thoughts drifted.

He hadn’t joined the Linkbreakers for power. Not at first.

It was Gerbert, Kokay, Rann, Taan, Ace—they were the first people who showed him and Venus real kindness in this place. Not transactional, not fearful. Kindness that made you believe, even when the game worked overtime to make you doubt everything.

They trained every day. Grew. Endured. Failed forward.

And so had he.

He had rewritten his conjuration style. Not just walls and distractions anymore—but weapons, traps, decoys, feints. He didn’t draw to survive. He drew to win.

And now—he would fight for Venus.

For himself.

For all of them.

An NPC announcer shimmered into view at the threshold.

“Next match: LIEM vs. BRYAN. Fighters, to the gate.”

Liem exhaled slowly. Entered the arena.

It felt different now.

Brighter. Wider. The hum of the crowd beyond the glass dome felt distant, like waves on a shore he hadn’t seen in months. Across the arena, Bryan stood like a wall—tall, square-jawed, his arms glinting with a metallic sheen as his skin began phasing into living steel.

He cracked his knuckles, sneering.

“Hope you can draw on metal,” Bryan said, voice already loud enough for the crowd. “Might wanna sketch up a miracle. Or maybe a spine. You look like you’d flinch from your own shadow.”

Liem said nothing. He opened his sketchpad slowly.

Bryan scoffed. “Come on, artist boy. Cat got your chalk? Gonna paint me to death?”

Liem thought of Rann’s voice during training:

“Never rise to taunts. They want your rhythm. Don’t give it to them.”

The buzzer sounded.

Bryan charged like a sledgehammer wrapped in jet fuel.

His footsteps left dents in the arena stone, each step accelerating, each breath louder. Liem barely sidestepped the first strike—Bryan’s steel-plated fist came down like a wrecking ball, smashing into the ground with a shockwave that cracked the tiles in a six-foot radius.

Ink burst upward—Liem had dropped his first trap the moment Bryan lunged. From the broken stone rose a swarm of black ink birds, screeching and flapping with chaotic fury.

Bryan covered his face, batting them aside with one armored forearm. “C’mon! You throwing birds at me?!”

Liem turned the page.

A serpent rose from shadow and line, rippling with inky black coils, thicker than a man’s thigh. It surged across the arena floor and coiled around Bryan’s legs, dragging him backward before he could brace.

Bryan roared and slammed his fists down, shattering half the serpent’s form—but not before Liem clapped both palms together.

A smokescreen burst, ink mist flooding the field in a thick cloud of black haze.

“Oh no! Fog! How terrifying!” Bryan shouted from inside it. “Is this where you wet your pants and run off stage?!”

But Liem wasn’t hiding.

He stepped through the fog calmly, holding a gleaming conjured scythe, its curved blade dripping ink like blood. His stance was sharp. Calculated.

Bryan lunged—his arms swinging in massive arcs—but hit only phantoms. Ink clones. Deliberately misaligned shadows.

Liem’s range had extended—he no longer fought from the center. He fought from control—invisible radius traps, soft delays, and feints layered beneath feints.

He conjured two serpents, coiling wide, flanking from both sides.

Bryan gritted his teeth, crouched, and grabbed both serpents mid-charge, flexing as he tore them apart with brute strength.

“You think I’m scared of snakes? I’ve ripped through worse!”

He lunged again. Liem retreated, leaving a trail of ink puddles.

He roared and leapt—

Straight into the real trap.

A single page flared with ink glyphs. The illusory drawing exploded, pressurized ink bursting directly in Bryan’s face. He stumbled, eyes squeezed shut, coughing.

"Cheap tricks!" Bryan spat, wheeling toward him.

Liem didn’t answer.

He drew one final page.

From above—a massive black hand, a gauntlet the size of a car—materialized, sketched in blinding strokes of speed and instinct. It descended like judgment.

Bryan turned too slow.

BOOM.

The fist struck him square in the chest. His steel skin cracked along the ribs, air leaving his lungs like a punctured drum.

He hit the ground flat. Unconscious

Liem approached, pen and sketch pad in hand, but didn’t draw.

The match was over.

[MATCH END – VICTORY: LIEM]

In the locker room, Taan and Ace stood silently before the monitor as the replay cycled.

Ace clapped slowly, hands still covered in lingering pollen.

“That precision. That restraint. That drama.” His voice quivered theatrically. “I could cry.”

Taan didn’t laugh. Her gaze remained on the screen.

“He’s not just good,” she said quietly.

“He’s dangerous.”

On-screen, Liem walked away from the downed Bryan, his sketchpad flipping shut with a practiced motion.

No words. No posturing. No roar of triumph.

Only calm, silent steps offstage.

And the unmistakable truth:

A challenger no longer in anyone’s shadow.

Only his own rising silhouette, cut in ink and resolve.

Back to Top

Chapter 17.2

Breaker Momentum

The locker room door hissed open with a soft mechanical sigh.

Liem stepped in, shoulders squared but breath still elevated. His face remained calm, but a flush lingered in his cheeks from adrenaline. Ink splatter marked the edges of his jacket. He looked like he’d stepped out of a dream made of paper and pressure.

“My boy! My prodigy!” Ace cried, flinging his arms toward the ceiling. “You destroyed him! I’m so proud I could cry!”

He flopped onto the bench in a dramatic heap, fake-sobbing into his sleeve.

Taan smirked and approached, ruffling Liem’s hair with a firm hand. “Not bad, sketchpad,” she said. “Solid work. You earned that win.”

Liem chuckled and straightened his glasses. The tension in his shoulders eased—just a little.

Above them, the main holo-screen flickered.

The next match played out live—Andrea, from Team Rage, against a rubber-limbed fighter with vicious reach. His arms snapped like whips, trying to corral her from every direction.

Andrea laughed as she danced through his attacks—a feral, chaotic joy. She closed the distance in a blink and slammed him into the ground with a brutal hip throw. The buzzer rang before he even sat up.

Victory.

Taan narrowed her eyes. “She and Sheg ambushed us once. Floor 29. Didn’t even say a word.”

Ace’s grin flattened. For a split second, something darker passed across his face—controlled, quiet fury.

“Ambush artists?” he said softly. “Cute.”

Liem blinked at the sudden tonal shift. Ace caught the look, then turned it back on like a switch—grin wide, eyes sparkling again.

“Anyway! Taan, you’re up!” he announced, snapping his fingers like a ringmaster. “Make it flashy. Maybe give the audience whiplash.”

Taan walked the length of the corridor alone. The hum of the overhead lights was rhythmic, calming. Her boots clicked cleanly on the tile, every step measured, steady.

But her mind wasn’t quiet.

Ace’s moment of cold silence echoed louder than his words.

He covers it well, she thought. But he doesn’t forget. Doesn’t forgive.

She understood now—why Gerbert and Kokay hadn’t told Ace everything about the Floor 29 ambush. Why Rann had warned that Ace would’ve exploded if he knew the full story.

Taan clenched one fist.

Taan smiles, she thought, but if anything ever happens to one of us... he'd turn feral.

Her name appeared on the arena display above the gate.

MATCH: TAAN vs. MICHELLE

The gates hissed open.

Taan entered the arena calmly, arms loose at her sides. Her black sleeveless top clung to her shoulders, and her tattered cloak fluttered slightly behind her.

Across the field stood her opponent.

Michelle.

Tall. Balanced. Absolutely still. Her posture was upright, no wasted motion. Every inch of her stance screamed discipline—military, Taan guessed. Maybe black-ops. Maybe worse.

No gear. No weapon.

Just control.

Taan stretched one arm, rotating her shoulder lazily. “Alright, mystery statue,” she muttered. “Let’s dance.”

She threw the first strike—fast, clean jab.

Michelle blocked. Effortlessly. No counter.

Taan tested again—a feint into a leg sweep. Blocked.

She circled. Quick jab. Nothing.

Kick. Rejected. Guard too tight.

For nearly a minute, they moved like that. Strike. Assess. Shift. Breathe.

A duel of restraint.

Then Taan grinned. “You planning to fight or just write a poem about it later?”

Michelle said nothing.

“Guess you're just here to watch the semifinals from the floor, huh?”

That did it.

Michelle lunged.

Her strikes were fast, surgical, no wasted effort. A three-hit combo aimed for throat, gut, temple.

Taan parried and returned fire—a knee to the ribs, elbow to the forearm.

Suddenly—Michelle’s right arm shimmered, metal overtaking flesh in a fluid wave. Her skin folded into chrome, forming a sleek armblade, double-edged, razor-thin.

Taan feigned a stumble. Let herself falter one step.

Michelle bit the bait.

She slashed.

Taan caught the blade on her forearm—the edge slicing clean, blood spotting the floor.

She hissed.

Then smirked. “Gotcha.”

Michelle’s face shifted. Surprise. Maybe frustration.

Taan stepped in.

Her muscles flared—a pulse of kinetic energy surged through her body. Every movement now faster, sharper.

She boosted.

The arena burst into motion.

Blade met fist. Steel met bone.

Taan pressed the advantage, forcing Michelle into tighter and tighter corners. Her style wasn’t reckless—it was relentless. Feints turned into pressure. Pressure into rhythm.

Every strike Taan landed vibrated with backlash—a cost for every boost, energy surging through her limbs in surges that left nerves frayed.

But she never overcommitted.

She never broke stride.

Michelle adapted, blade-arm shifting styles mid-combat—dagger edge into cleaver swing, then reverse into spike-stabbing motion. She was versatile, refined. Her footwork mirrored old-world combat schools.

But Taan was a storm.

She ducked under a sweeping arc, planted both fists into Michelle’s gut, boosted off the impact to flip behind her, then hammered a shin into her back.

Michelle dropped to one knee.

She rose again—other arm now transforming, forming a double-blade stance, and rushed forward in silence.

They clashed again.

A blur of steel and skin. Breath and grit.

Taan's cloak tore. Michelle's shoulder bled from a redirected punch.

Then came the break.

Taan stepped back, panting. Blood on her arm. Backlash shaking her wrists.

“You don’t talk much,” she said through a breath. “But you earned this.”

She boosted.

Once.

Twice.

She moved faster than Michelle could adjust.

Duck. Pivot. Twist—

One clean body blow.

Right into Michelle’s solar plexus.

The sound was solid. Deep.

Michelle gasped—choked—and vomited.

She collapsed to one side, knees failing.

[MATCH END – VICTORY: TAAN]

But Taan was already moving.

She caught Michelle before she hit the ground, crouched low beside her.

“Didn’t want to break you,” Taan whispered, voice steady. “Just win.”

Locker Room

The neon brackets updated overhead:

Ace – Advanced

Liem – Advanced

Taan – Advanced

The Linkbreakers had swept Bracket B.

The crowd, once skeptical, now erupted in cheers.

The whispers changed tone.

They weren’t just players anymore.

They were dominating.

Far above, in the shaded VIP stands, Mika watched through crimson-tinted shades. Her lips curled into a slow smile. One hand twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

“That group,” she murmured.

Her voice was almost delighted.

“Things are getting interesting.”

Back to Top

Chapter 17.3

The Platform Gauntlet

The Echo Pit Arena rumbled.

Metal plates slid apart and rotated, revealing a deeper chamber below. Then—like petals blooming from stone—the battlefield reconfigured. Dozens of platforms rose into the air, rotating at varied speeds. At the center, a large circular disk hovered slowly, its outer edge rippling with arcane pulses. Smaller, unstable stepping disks orbited it—thin, treacherous, and constantly shifting.

The crowd roared.

A projection flashed the six remaining names.

Ace

Taan

Liem

Sheg

Andrea

Neriel

Spotlights flared.

All six finalists stepped onto the center disk.

Each received 2,000 Blings just for reaching this round.

Above them, a translucent bag filled with shimmering gold coins spun lazily in mid-air.

"Final challenge!" boomed the announcer.

"The last one standing wins the round! Bonus: Capture the floating Blings bag for 1,000 extra and a rare item!"

Tension cracked in the air like a drawn bowstring.

Neriel stood poised. Dressed in a flowing brown kimono with subtle whirl patterns, his bare feet gripped the platform calmly. A long braid trailed from his bald head, and a wooden staff rested lightly in his right hand.

His eyes remained closed.

Ace was opposite him, adjusting his cuffs with dramatic flair. His pink suit fluttered in the rising magical wind, pollen drifting lazily from his shoulder blooms.

Taan bounced on her heels, the wind teasing her high ponytail. She rolled one shoulder and popped her knuckles, eyes scanning each opponent like prey.

Andrea leaned low, her body already mid-shift—legs morphing into powerful leopard limbs, eyes glinting with wild glee.

Liem silently unlatched his sketchpad and began drawing, dark lines forming serpents and wings as his ink pulsed to life.

Sheg sparked.

Literally.

Green lightning danced across her limbs, snapping with barely-contained energy as she grinned wide.

BZZZZT!

Match Start.

The moment the signal buzzed, Andrea shot forward like a lightning bolt.

Her legs, already mid-shift into lean leopard limbs, flexed with muscular precision. Pads formed under her feet, claws unsheathing for maximum grip. In an instant, she crossed two floating disks, barely touching the surfaces before springing again. Her momentum was wild, graceful—predator-perfect.

“I like your look!” she called mid-leap, grin wide, eyes gleaming with thrill.

She aimed straight for Ace—standing smugly near the edge of the central platform, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other lazily twirling a single vine tendril from his fingertips.

“Pity I can’t say the same,” Ace replied smoothly, snapping his fingers.

The vine in his hand shot forward.

But it wasn’t alone.

From the side of the platform, thorny green cords exploded outward in a sudden bloom, timing themselves just as Andrea landed on a narrow disk meant to spring her again. The vines coiled around her right ankle mid-launch.

Her eyes widened—but didn’t panic.

Shift.

With a blur of motion, her right arm surged outward, transforming into the feathery span of an eagle’s wing. The flesh hardened into structured light bone, muscle adapting instantly to glide mechanics. She twisted mid-air, converting her broken jump into a rough glide, aiming to bank around Ace and strike from his blind side.

Ace tilted his head slightly, impressed.

“Clever girl,” he murmured.

He reached into the air—and plucked a golden orb from a hovering vine pod above his head.

A bloom mine.

He tossed it with a flick of his wrist—like skipping a stone across water.

The orb floated lazily…then detonated.

PUFFF—!

A vibrant orange cloud of glowing spore-pollen burst into Andrea’s path. It hit her like a wall—dense, clinging, and blinding. Spores scattered across her face and wing. She coughed violently, spinning from the force of her own momentum.

One foot landed on a disk—but it was too slick, too angled, and spinning just fast enough.

Her balance broke.

“Tch—!”

Her eagle wing flicked wide in a desperate attempt to recover, feathers splaying with kinetic intent. Her limbs shimmered—part leopard, part eagle, fully wild survival instinct.

But the pollen stuck. Her wing faltered.

Her leg buckled.

And gravity claimed her.

Andrea dropped—vanishing below the arena’s edge with a sharp yelp and a flash of shifting limbs.

The crowd gasped.

ELIMINATED: ANDREA.

A moment of stunned silence, then scattered applause.

Back on the central platform, Ace brushed stray pollen off his lapel, adjusted his cufflinks, and flashed a dazzling grin to no one in particular.

“And I was worried I wouldn’t get to show off.”

He turned smoothly toward the next threat.

His battle wasn’t over.

But Andrea’s, for now, was.

The wind roared between the spinning platforms.

Liem crouched low, one knee balanced at the edge of a rotating disk barely wide enough to sit on. His left hand gripped the sketchpad firmly, and his right hovered just above the next page. Around him, spectral ink birds hovered—fluttering in protective spirals—while a black serpent of living ink slithered along the curve of the platform’s edge, anchoring it like a tether.

He was calm. Watching. Calculating rotations.

Then came the voice—sharp and electric, full of promise and violence.

“Sketchboy! Let’s go!”

Sheg.

Her green pixie-cut hair whipped around her face like a live wire. Sparks danced along her arms and legs as she stood five platforms away, crouched like a predator ready to spring. Her feet arced with glowing energy, and the air buzzed around her like the sky before a thunderstorm.

Liem’s eyes narrowed. His ink birds flared wide, creating a scattered formation in the air.

Sheg laughed.

“Don’t you dare stall me with butterflies.”

She moved.

Lightning burst from her calves—her jump was violent, unstable, incredible. She launched from her platform with a thunderous pulse that cracked the air behind her.

The first ink bird she struck burst into a splatter, dissolving into harmless black mist.

The second she slammed with a knee, scattering it sideways before her trajectory bent toward Liem’s platform.

He didn’t flinch.

Her boots landed—and the disk beneath her burst.

Not into rubble—but into ink.

A fake.

“Smart!” she snarled, twisting mid-air.

The real Liem stood three platforms away, legs crouched, scythe of living ink rising from his page as he hurled a long, sharp spear of ink toward her spinning silhouette.

Sheg spotted it and twisted. Her body blurred. Electric flashstep—the spear grazed her side, leaving a scorch of black along her hip, but it didn’t stop her.

She landed hard on the next platform. It spun under her weight, fast and unpredictable.

Her foot slipped.

Sheg's teeth bared. “Not today—!”

She launched another blast from her legs, arcing herself skyward again.

Liem was already adjusting—his pen slashing across the next page, forming two traps and a rising pillar for defense.

Too late.

Sheg was a cannonball of voltage and fury. She slammed into him mid-conjuration, shoulder-first, knocking him flat.

His defenses buckled.

Ink burst from beneath his boots in panic reflex, trying to slow the fall. He managed to twist, bounce off the edge of the platform, and grab the rim of a smaller disk with one hand—sketchpad still in the other.

Sheg spun mid-air, ready to follow through—

But her momentum was wild.

The disk she aimed for tilted too fast.

“Tch—!”

Liem saw it.

He flipped a half-finished sketch, pressed his palm to it, and dropped an ink mine just as her boots touched the disk.

BOOM.

The ink mine exploded in a shockwave of sticky black mist and concussive force, spinning both combatants outward.

They spiraled through air—black ink and green lightning clashing mid-fall.

Liem managed to snag another platform edge—slamming down on both knees, breathing hard.

Sheg had no more footing.

But she grinned wide as she fell.

Because while spinning through the air—tumbling between platforms—her hand snatched a floating object with casual precision.

The Blings Bag.

She grinned wider, held it up triumphantly even as the platform edge rushed past her.

“Mine!” she laughed, and then—

She was gone.

Vanished below the edge of the arena.

Eliminated: Sheg. (Bonus Loot Acquired)

Liem exhaled.

His ink serpent coiled back to him, pulling the page tighter. His birds returned overhead.

His hair stuck to his forehead, sweat from the close call catching light.

He’d survived.

Barely.

But Sheg?

She went down laughing—not broken, not outwitted—just out-timed.

And she took a prize with her anyway

Back to Top

Chapter 17.4

Echoes of the Champion

The air shimmered with magical tension, and the remaining platforms spun like blades suspended in wind.

Four competitors remained: Ace, Taan, Liem, and Neriel.

At the center of it all, Taan crouched low, one hand pressed to the rotating disk beneath her. She had remained perfectly still since the match began, muscles tense, like a spring coiled tighter with every passing second.

She was watching Neriel and Ace.

And now—she moved.

A pulse of kinetic force exploded from her calves. She flew across two rotating disks, boosting mid-air, launching herself toward both opponents.

Ace laughed as she approached. “Oh, I was hoping you’d choose me.”

He snapped his fingers.

A trio of twisting vines erupted from the edges of his platform—one high, one low, and one dead-center, tipped with a sunflower blossom spinning like a buzzsaw.

Taan didn’t hesitate.

She punched through the sunflower, bark splinters exploding around her knuckles. Her cloak tore at the edge, but she didn’t flinch.

She twisted into a slide, low and fast.

Ace ducked, letting the attack glide past—and flicked a burst of pollen from his fingertips.

It bloomed mid-strike, blinding her briefly in a flash of gold.

She staggered—

And that’s when Neriel appeared.

He blinked into existence behind her—his staff swapping places with him, the soft tap of wood on stone the only warning.

Taan twisted, caught his descending staff on her forearm, sweat trailing from her jaw as the blow shook her bones.

“I respect you,” she panted. “But I’m not going easy.”

Then she boosted again— three sharp surges that screamed through her nerves, burning every fiber in her legs.

She vanished across three disks in a blink.

Neriel calmly stepped to follow, platforms adjusting to his measured pace.

But it wasn’t over.

Liem, who had been repositioning during the chaos, struck now.

He perched two platforms away, sketchpad open, drawing at speed. His ink birds circled like vultures above the chaos, and a serpentine trail of liquid shadow moved between spinning disks like a silent predator.

He watched Taan and Neriel collide—and he moved.

A page flipped.

From the shadows, an ink snake leapt toward Neriel’s ankles, fangs open, aimed to pull the monk into an exposed rotation gap.

But Neriel didn’t look.

He simply tapped his staff downward.

The snake passed through empty space. He was already gone.

He reappeared on Liem’s platform.

Liem gasped, backpedaling.

He raised a scythe, ink-dripping, defensive posture locked in—but Neriel was already mid-spin.

The monk’s staff swept in a perfect arc.

Liem parried with a summoned shield—it held—but Neriel simply tapped the edge of the sketchpad.

Liem’s own platform swapped places with the staff behind him—disorienting him instantly.

He stumbled, footing unsure.

Neriel struck once—clean and low.

Liem’s platform spun at the worst moment.

He slipped.

He reached for another page, trying to conjure a foothold—

But gravity won.

He fell, sketchpad fluttering in the wind behind him.

Eliminated: Liem.

Taan saw Liem fall mid-stride. She gritted her teeth and boosted again—a fourth time, even though her legs were screaming.

Her target was clear: Neriel.

She launched herself into a flying kick, cloak streaking behind her like a banner.

Neriel turned calmly.

Ace—forgotten momentarily—smiled.

He raised both hands.

Spores.

From above, from below, from the disks around them—a spiral of blinding golden pollen erupted in a flower-patterned cyclone.

Taan’s boost faltered mid-air.

She shouted through gritted teeth, trying to correct—legs jerking as backlash surged through her spine.

She hit a rotating tile—one edge slick with frost-like condensation from Ace’s side-bloom. Her foot slipped.

Her eyes widened.

Neriel stepped in, swept low with his staff.

Her balance was gone.

She fell.

She didn’t scream—just growled, hard, all the way down.

Eliminated: Taan.

The dust cleared.

Ace stood tall, suit glowing with pollen light, petals still drifting from his shoulders.

Across the disks, Neriel stood silently, staff resting against his shoulder, breath steady.

The wind howled through the open arena.

The crowd rose in anticipation.

“Well then,” Ace called, smiling.

“Shall we finish this dance?”

Final Duel: Ace vs. Neriel

The platforms slowed.

The scattered debris of previous clashes hovered in the air—fragments of scorched vines, drifting petals, shattered disks still spinning gently. The center arena, now cracked and flickering with arcane light, was the only stable ground left.

Only two contestants remained.

On one side: Ace, hands loose at his sides, pink suit torn slightly at the shoulder. Pollen trailed from him like golden mist, and flower-seeds clung to the soles of his boots.

On the other: Neriel, the monk.

Still. Balanced. His kimono swayed softly in the artificial wind, and his wooden staff was tucked neatly into the crook of one arm. His eyes were still closed.

The arena fell into a hush.

Even the crowd—thousands of spectators roaring minutes earlier—had gone silent.

A breathless moment.

Then Neriel twirled his staff once. Fluid. Precise.

“Your rhythm is chaotic,” he said calmly, voice a low bell.

Ace smirked, rolling his shoulders. His fingers flexed, and small green tendrils twisted lazily from his cuffs.

“That’s the point,” he replied. “I don’t dance to beat. I bloom.”

BZZZZT. MATCH RESUMES.

The Duel Begins. They moved at the same time.

Ace slammed his foot into the platform—a ripple of life burst outward, twisting vines and thorn whips erupting in spirals. Bright yellow sunflowers unfurled as shields, their thick petals glinting like armor.

Neriel responded with silence.

A tap of his staff—he vanished.

He reappeared inches to Ace’s left, just as a thorn whip lashed forward. With a tilt of his wrist, his staff spun like a turbine, parrying the vine mid-strike, redirecting it into the air.

Ace pivoted.

He dragged a hand through the air, trailing glowing seeds—five of them dropped across floating platforms around the main disk.

Neriel moved again.

Tap.

He blinked to another disk. His sandals didn’t even make a sound as they touched down.

Ace flung a cloud of pollen toward him. It spread like glowing dust, burning golden in the air.

Neriel’s hand flicked his staff into the ground—a pulse of chi knocked the pollen away in a perfect circle.

Ace chuckled under his breath. “Nice.”

Ace raised both arms.

The entire center disk shifted—flowering roots exploded upward in a radial wave, trying to lift, bind, and overwhelm Neriel.

Neriel stepped in—spinning low, flipping over a root and sliding between two vines like water moving around stone. His staff whirled overhead, and he came up in one clean motion, launching it upward in a sudden throw.

Ace leaned back just as it whooshed past his cheek—but didn’t flinch.

Then Neriel vanished—again.

The staff landed behind Ace. He turned too late.

Neriel had swapped places with it.

A blow struck him from behind—clean, flat end of the staff right between the shoulder blades. He staggered, but vines rose in a snap from the ground beneath him, catching his fall.

Ace grinned through grit teeth. “Okay. You’re fun.”

The clash intensified.

Each strike from Ace was paired with an explosive growth: bark-covered arms, pollen bursts, petal-shields. Every step left new roots, new hazards. The platform groaned under the strain—magical pressure warping the edge.

Neriel, calm as ever, used minimal movement. He swapped platforms repeatedly, redirecting energy with his staff, avoiding every trap until the center disk cracked under their weight.

Chunks of stone fell into the abyss below.

Now only half the original disk remained.

They stared each other down from opposite edges.

Ace exhaled slowly, then raised a hand—five glowing seeds lifted from his palm and scattered across adjacent platforms.

Neriel jumped—swapping again mid-air, heading for higher ground.

Ace’s eyes followed the arc of the monk’s staff.

He flicked a seed toward it just as it passed through the air.

Tag.

It stuck.

Ace’s grin sharpened. He stepped back, already summoning the trigger spell.

“Let’s see if that serenity holds up when the garden blooms.”

Neriel reappeared—right where the staff had been.

BOOM.

The seed detonated, erupting into a flower trap—brilliant red ivy bursting outward in a spiraling cage. The vines gripped Neriel’s legs, waist, even his arms. The petals bloomed rapidly, their fragrance glowing with pollen haze.

Neriel tried to swap again—but the vines tangled his momentum.

He bent his knees, centered his balance—but the platform beneath him tilted.

One step wrong.

He slipped.

He fell.

Eyes still closed.

WINNER: ACE

The silence broke.

The crowd erupted.

Cheering, stomping, roaring.

Digital banners flared into life above the stadium, golden light raining down in glittering streams. A column of soft flower petals spiraled around Ace, conjured by the arena’s automated celebration magic.

His name flashed across the bracket.

[CHAMPION: ACE — Floor 30 Echo Pit Finals]

He stood tall in the center of the cracked battlefield, pollen drifting from his fingertips, hair tousled, coat torn just enough to look impressive.

He took a theatrical bow—hand over his heart, eyes closed in mock reverence.

The crowd ate it up.

From the VIP Tier, in the upper seating, Mika rose from her velvet booth, crimson sunglasses glinting in the light.

She clapped.

Once.

Twice.

Slow. Deliberate.

“Elegant work,” she said to no one in particular.

Then she turned, descending the stairs.

As she passed, she caught sight of four figures climbing up from the outer corridor: Gerbert, Kokay, Rann, and Venus—arriving just in time to see the winner declared.

She didn’t stop.

Just offered Gerbert a long, knowing wink and walked past without looking back.

On the other Side of the Arena. Jaja stood on a bench, hands cupped around her mouth.

“THAT’S MY GIRLS! SHEG! ANDREA! YOU CRUSHED IT!”

Beside her, Migz nodded, arms crossed. “Sheg’s form is improving. She needs better air balance for mid-air launches, but otherwise clean.”

Jaja grinned, punching his shoulder. “Alright then. Tomorrow morning. Training pit. No excuses.”

Migz simply smiled. “Already planning it.”

The platform descended.

Ace rode it down alone, one hand raised, pollen trailing behind like falling stars.

The Linkbreakers had made it known:

They weren’t just survivors anymore.

They were a threat.

They were contenders.

And in Ace’s case—

They were champions.

Back to Top

Chapter 18

Threshold

The sun was setting over Floor 30, bleeding golden light across the glass-tiled walkways and white marble spires of the Metropolis of Veiled Promises. Warm shadows stretched beneath hovering lanterns, and the hum of magic flowed through the city's veins like blood beneath skin.

At the Emberloom Inn, laughter flickered like candlelight.

The Linkbreakers had gathered—not for battle, not for strategy, not for planning. Just… to be. To rest. To feel the quiet wonder of another day survived.

There was no crowd to cheer them. No rank announcements. No blaring horns.

Just clinks of silverware. Gentle conversation. The scent of spices and simmering broth.
A meal made together, shared together.

Venus, ever gentle, stood in the kitchen with Taan, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her wings were folded tightly behind her back, feathers rustling softly each time she moved. Taan—quietly focused, surprisingly good with a knife—chopped vegetables with precision that matched her combat style.
Venus hummed an old tune from her childhood. Taan joined in after a few bars, off-key but steady.

The others filtered in from their various errands and training slots. Kokay tossed her coat over a chair and immediately gravitated toward the kitchen to “taste-test.” Ace arrived last, arms full of herbal wine, truffle cheese, and something suspiciously smuggled from the Market District.

Gerbert, Rann, and Liem brought in the last of the crates—spices, scrolls, and some minor alchemical gear they'd been experimenting with. It was a long day, but a good one.

Dinner was simple, but made with care: herb-roasted meat, blistered tomatoes, pan-bread, wildroot stew. The kind of food that filled not just stomachs, but hearts. Everyone ate. Everyone smiled. Even Rann.

Afterwards, while most lounged in the common room with tea or wine, Venus and Rann took charge of the cleanup. They didn’t speak much—just exchanged glances, passed dishes, shared silences made comfortable by routine.

By the window, Gerbert sat with a notebook balanced on one knee. He wasn’t writing. Just watching.

Beyond the glimmering skyline, past the garden-laced rooftops and white stone towers…
The Dungeon Block loomed.

A monolith of jagged obsidian and cold mist, silent and steady.

Rann padded over, drying her hands on a towel. “What’re you thinking?” she asked softly.

Gerbert tapped his pen twice against the cover. “I’m thinking we’re not ready.”

Rann raised an eyebrow.

He continued, “Not just in terms of power. We need better communication. Formation. Strategy. We’re stronger than we used to be, but the Dungeon Block... that’s not just the next level. It’s the real fight.”

He nodded toward it. “That place doesn’t just test builds. It breaks teams.”

Rann followed his gaze. “Then we get unbreakable.”

The next morning, Gerbert, Venus, and Liem accepted a quest from the Banner Nexus—clearing a goblin horde pushing too close to the Dungeon Block’s outer rim.

The mission was fast and brutal.

Goblins poured from mossy burrows, hissing and shrieking, crude daggers raised. Gerbert conjured walls and traps on the fly, splitting their numbers, controlling terrain. Venus circled above, launching pinpoint feather strikes. Liem stayed back, hunched over his sketchpad, bringing forth black-ink monsters that tore through the enemy with abstract brutality.

By the end, the clearing was a ruin of broken spears, clawed earth, and silence. Blood and ash clung to their boots.

On the walk back, just before rejoining the main trail, Gerbert paused.

Something had caught his eye—a smooth, rune-marked stone, embedded into the edge of the trail like a plaque. Etched into it was a list of player names. Those who had cleared the Dungeon Block.

He leaned closer.

Amore — Party: Leonard, Francis

He stared for a long moment.

She had made it.

Amore.
He remembered her at the Auction of Price—lethal. Brilliant. Unnerving. The one who claimed the Sword of Flame, even when it meant death for others.

He had always wondered if she survived the cost of that victory.

Apparently, she had.

He straightened slowly, eyes thoughtful.

It could be done.

A week passed.

The Linkbreakers rotated between quests, solo drills, team formations, and the Iron Courses. Kokay trained evasion under Ace’s pollen clouds. Rann phased through shifting terrain under Gerbert’s coordination. Venus improved her launch velocity. Taan honed endurance. Liem summoned faster, more stable creations.

They didn’t speak of the Dungeon Block every day. But it was always there. A pressure behind every improvement.

Then one evening, Gerbert called a meeting.

The common room at Emberloom was quiet. Pillows scattered, mugs half-filled. Everyone looked a little tired—but a good kind of tired. The kind that came from effort that mattered.

Gerbert stood in front of the low hearth, arms crossed.

“I want to take a temperature check,” he said. “Not about today. About what’s next.”

They knew what he meant.

The Dungeon Block.

A silence fell across them.

Ace leaned back and raised a hand lazily. “Ready as a flytrap, darling.”

Rann gave a short nod. “Let’s go.”

Taan cracked her knuckles. “Been pumped for weeks. I’m just waiting for the word.”

Kokay sat forward. Her eyes were bright. “I think I’m ready. I’m not scared like before. I trust us.”

More silence.

Then, softly—
Venus and Liem exchanged a look.

Liem rubbed the back of his neck. “We might… be staying. A bit longer.”

The group blinked.

Gerbert raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Venus spoke, voice gentle. “We’re stronger now. But we want to go in with no doubt. We want to be the kind of strong that doesn’t question itself halfway through the dark.”

Liem nodded. “We want to enter that place on our own terms. We’ll meet you on the other side.”

A pause.

Then: “That’s fair,” Gerbert said. “I respect that.”

Kokay nodded. “Me too.”

Rann leaned back, expression unreadable—but she nodded as well.

Ace raised his glass. “To being picky about our own doom. Cheers.”

Venus smiled. “Thank you.”

Gerbert cleared his throat. “One more thing.”

He turned toward the wall, where a rough sketch of a building layout had been pinned with a knife.

“A base,” he said. “Permanent. Defensible. Comfortable. Ours.”

Rann perked up. “Northwest district. Vacant player real estate. Good foundations. I’ve been scouting.”

Ace’s hand shot up. “Do I get my own closet?”

“Yes,” Rann said without missing a beat.

That settled it.

One by one, the team leaned in to study the map. Discussing sleeping arrangements. Storage. Workshop space. Reinforcement options.

The Dungeon Block could wait.

They had a home to build.

Together.

Back to Top

Chapter 18.1

The Egg and the End

The forest pulsed beneath her feet.

Each step sank softly into the moss-covered floor, yet the thudding beat of danger rose all around her. Ysang ran—barefoot, swift, breath even—her cloak fluttering behind her like a leaf caught in a storm current.

In her arms she cradled a living egg, warm and pulsing. Its speckled green shell was soft, delicate, beating in rhythm with the forest’s own life. A rare creature’s offspring. A prize.

A theft.

Behind her, the woods shook.

Snapping branches. Wet, heavy breath. The monster she had stolen from—older than the roadways, heavier than any beast she had ever felt—was gaining.

She reached out mid-run, brushing her fingers against the rough bark of a wide-bellied tree.

“Where?” she whispered.

The bark buzzed under her skin. She didn’t need a voice—just the feeling. The answer curled up through her palm like a breeze blown through ribs:

Left. Then straight. Past the fern wall. Jump.

She pivoted. Eyes still closed.

The roar behind her rippled through the canopy, birds fleeing in flurries. She dived, just before the impact wave reached her—ducking through dense brush, rolling over a hidden root, and launching herself forward.

Ahead, a log collapsed sideways. Beneath it, a hollow of dark shelter.

She dove inside.

The monster passed overhead—massive, four-limbed, its breath a cauldron of decay and rage. Its tail lashed a nearby tree in fury.

Then silence.

Until—

“Ysang!”

“There you are—are you hurt?!”

Riza’s voice. Heated, breathless, panic edged.

Ysang pushed herself up, calm and alert, brushing dirt from her knees. Across the clearing, Riza stood with flames leaking from her lips, fists glowing with heat. Her orange scarf was singed at the ends.

Beside her, Dan reappeared from thin air in a flicker. His invisibility shimmered like water clinging to skin. He was pale, sweating, and clutching a dagger in each hand.

“I was hiding,” Ysang replied simply.

Dan stepped forward, reaching out.

“Let me carry the egg,” he said. “You’re too exposed. I’ll get it out while you run cover.”

Ysang hesitated but handed the egg over.

Dan took it quickly, tucked it into the folds of his cloak.

They moved.

Leaves cracked beneath their boots. The tension in the group thinned. For a moment, it almost felt like a team.

Riza glanced sideways, lips curled. “You really talk to trees?”

“Yes,” Ysang replied, still scanning the brush. “The forest listens.”

Riza snorted. “Alright, druid.”

The moment broke—violently.

The trees screamed.

It wasn’t sound. It was instinct, carried through the leaves like a tremor. Every branch recoiled. Every root curled.

The monster was back.

Riza didn’t hesitate.

She twisted, both hands erupting in fire. She hurled two spiraling bolts into the trees, lighting them like torches.

But nothing screamed. Nothing burned.

It had already moved.

Smarter. Quieter. Faster.

“Scatter!” Dan barked.

Earlier that morning.

“I prefer to work alone,” Ysang had said, her fingers pressed to a wooden bench just outside the Safe Zone. Her tone wasn’t rude—just factual.

Dan had smiled, cocky as always. “This one’s simple. Nest job. Monster egg retrieval. You sneak. Riza baits. I vanish and extract.”

“We split the reward. Clean.” Riza shrugged. “Easy coin. We could use a nature whisperer like you.”

Ysang said nothing for a while.

Then, softly: “If the earth allows it.”

Back in the present. They were deeper now.

The trees grew stranger—older, their bark twisted in permanent pain. Moss turned gray. The ferns stopped whispering.

Ysang paused. She crouched low beside a half-buried stone wrapped in lichen. She touched it.

“Where can I go?”

The answer throbbed upward.

Riverbend root hollow. Beneath the ferns. Down.

She stood to go—

And Dan struck.

His heel drove into her ribs with full force.

She gasped—a sharp, wordless noise—as her body lifted off the ground and tumbled down a slope, striking rock and root.

“Sorry!” Dan shouted, voice fading. “We won’t forget you!”

She hit hard—but rolled.

Pain burned her side, but her training caught her. She braced with her palms. Felt earth. Listened.

“Where can I hide?”

Crack in the shale. Quiet. Curl small. Wait.

She slipped between the rocks, pulled ferns over her, and curled into shadow.

The monster thundered past, claws like boulders slamming dirt, jaws snapping in confusion. It shrieked—but didn’t find her.

Then—a scream.

Riza.

Ysang’s breath stilled.

She crawled out. Silent. Low.

She wove through tangled roots and hanging vines, one hand brushing bark, the other steady at her side. The forest responded to her touch—but not in the way others might expect.

Ysang couldn’t ask “Where is Riza?”. Her communion with the earth didn’t allow for specifics like names, player locations or player identities. The earth had no concept of people—only presence, sensation, in pressure and in pain.

But she had long since learned how to outsmart her own limits.

So instead, she asked the questions the forest could answer.

Where is danger?
Where is pain?
Where is heat?

The forest knew those. It remembered the scorch of flame, the weight of violence, the tremble of something wounded. That was enough.

he climbed a twisted tree, its bark gnarled and black-veined, the branches curling inward like skeletal fingers. At the top, she nestled into a cradle of limbs, hidden in the lattice of leaves.

From above, she saw:

Riza burned.

She stood alone in the clearing, surrounded by trees scorched black and air that shimmered with heat. Her fists blazed like twin comets, each punch a burst of radiant fire. She moved with fury—spinning, ducking, launching fireballs in wide arcs.

Patches of forest ignited in her wake. Flame clung to ferns and roots before flickering out, smothered by damp earth. Her scarf was gone, her jacket shredded at the sleeves. Sweat streamed down her face, jaw clenched, breathing hard and fast through gritted teeth.

She was strong.

She was brave.

But Ysang, from her observation of the fight, knows the truth. She’s going to die.

The fire danced, but her motions were slower now. Her flames weaker. Her feet heavy. Riza had heart—but heart didn’t outlast monsters like this.

And the monster—it learned.

It moved with terrifying intelligence, weaving between trees and smoke. Its bulk was massive, but it barely made a sound now. It used the fire’s light against her—darting where shadows met, slinking behind smoke screens, always just out of reach.

It had too many limbs. Too many joints. Its movements were wrong—serpentine, spider-like, with a predator’s focus.

It didn’t want to be hit. It wanted to tire her out.

And Riza, Ysang realized, was already there. Tired. Her flame punches were no longer bursts, but flickers. Her body sagged between strikes. Her foot caught on a root she didn’t see.

She stumbled.

A fireball went wide, slamming harmlessly into a log.

Ysang’s hand tightened on the branch.

She likes Riza. She is someone who looked out for others. Who still believed in the idea of teams. A good woman.

Ysang’s heart ached. But would not stop her end.

Because she knew—if she intervened, she would die, too.

She survived this long by not throwing herself against the end just because someone else was already there.

Below, the monster crept behind a burning log. Smoke masked its approach. Riza turned, too late. Her flames flared—but the creature was already mid-lunge.

Ysang felt the shift in roots.

Dan.

He was near—completely invisible—but his weight still pressed the soil, made bark shift subtly.

He was behind the monster.

He could strike. Distract. Save Riza.

But he didn’t.

He watched.

Then the monster lunged.

There was no warning. No dramatic charge.

Just speed.

Its claw ripped through flame, through Riza’s shoulder. She spun—too late.

A second claw smashed into her ribcage. Her fire blinked out like a candle.

Bone cracked.

She hit the ground hard. Still.

Dan appeared with a cry, “NO!”

He charged—wild, desperate, daggers flashing.

He scored a hit across its flank.

Another to its side.

But the beast barely staggered. It turned, jaws wide, and roared into Dan’s face.

He faltered. Screamed.

The egg rolled free from his cloak.

Dan turned—eyes locking with Ysang, perched above.

“Ysang! Please! Help!”

His voice was raw, breaking.

She didn’t move.

He turned to run.

Too late.

Ysang moved first.

She dropped from the tree, rolled once, and sprinted straight at him. Her bare feet kissed earth—roots shifted for her passage.

She slammed her foot into his chest.

He flew back into the clearing—into the monster’s reach.

It caught him mid-air.

He vanished behind black claws and snapping teeth.

A wet crunch followed. An arm torn free.

His scream was short. Choked.

“You… you bitch!” he howled as he died. “Coward! TRAITOR!”

Ysang stood at the edge of the clearing, cloak gently lifting in the heat.

“I won’t forget you too,” she whispered.

She smiled to Dan and bowed her head.

Then stepped forward. The egg was still warm. She lifted it gently.

Pressed her hand to the ground.

Listened.

Later – The Banner Nexus.

The Guild Hall was bustling—noise, voices, contracts. But Ysang moved through it like fog.

She stepped to the front desk, dirt-smudged and barefoot, her cloak still carrying soot and sap.

The clerk didn’t look up. “Team Dan and Riza?”

Ysang placed the egg down softly.

“No,” she said.

She met the clerk’s eyes.

“Just Ysang.”

She collected the rewards, turned, barefoot and calm. And walked into the wind.

Back to Top

Chapter 18.2

Momentum

The Iron Courses on Floor 30 pulsed with life and pressure. Each wing of the

training complex held something different—pain, precision, power. No monsters. No points. Just preparation.

And in the west chamber, Gerbert was locked into rhythm.

He adjusted the grip on his conjured blaster—a custom-engineered hybrid of tech and mana—and squeezed the trigger. One round hit center mass on a moving drone. The next skimmed its shoulder, calculated to push it off balance.

“Clean,” he muttered, shifting his stance.

Two training dummies rolled forward. One launched a pulse of fire. The other surged in with a blunt force ram.

Gerbert activated his improved shield—a dense hex-grid barrier that shimmered sky-blue.

The ram slammed into it.

The shield held.

Gerbert didn’t even flinch.

“Better.”

He kicked off with his enhanced blaster soles, launching into the air with boosted force, flipping as he fired two mid-air shots. Both drones shut down before he landed.

His screen blinked green:

> STAMINA: 82%

PRECISION: 89%

SHIELD STABILITY: 92%

He took a breath, resetting the chamber for another round. “Not perfect. But close.”

Across the complex in a separate room, Rann stepped through a wall.

No fatigue. No glitch.

She emerged behind a steel-clad simulation beast—four arms, plated, jaws like metal cleavers.

She phased again—this time, into its chest.

Her hand flickered with distortion. Her eyes narrowed.

She gripped its core from inside.

The construct jolted once, then collapsed.

She phased out clean, no stumble, no heavy breathing. Her boots touched stone. Her fingers flexed once.

Next test: a reinforced wall—a foot thick, layered with energy-weave and alloy.

She placed her hand on the surface. Closed her eyes.

Pushed.

Her body shimmered and passed through, the metal warping around her like ripples in water.

There was resistance, but only a flicker of strain.

She emerged on the other side, calm.

No one applauded. She preferred it that way.

In the third chamber, Kokay crouched.

Then—

> Future Sight: 25 seconds activated.

The drones surged forward, launching light shots and wind blades.

She moved before they did.

She weaved between strikes, side-stepping two pulses and back-flipping over a sweeping arc. She landed low and surged forward with a knee strike—aimed precisely at a joint.

Her strikes weren’t earth-shattering, but deliberate. Controlled.

She knew her strength. Not enough to crush a monster. But enough to knock down someone her own size. Enough to bruise. To interrupt.

She slammed a palm into the side of a drone’s head. Its systems blinked out.

Another closed in.

Kokay ducked, spun, and hit a pressure node at the base of its spine.

“Vital points,” she muttered, brushing hair from her face. “Always.”

The clearing reeked of acidic bile and burning moss. Charred trees curved like broken fingers, and the wind carried a thin, sickly-sweet scent that clung to skin.

Taan drove her elbow into the jaw of a lunging bat-creature—its fangs slick with venom. With a single, fluid motion, she twisted mid-air and slammed it into the trunk behind her. The crack of impact echoed as its wings spasmed and fell limp.

“I swear,” she growled, shaking acid from her cloak, “if I see another acid-breathing bat, I’m throwing it into the sun.”

“You’d have to climb first,” Liem muttered from behind her, flicking ink across his conjured page. A whip-like tendril of darkness lashed out from his sketchpad, snagging a bat by the leg mid-dive. With a snap, it yanked the monster into a waiting spike trap Venus had dropped earlier.

Venus floated above the treeline, wings wide but still. Her eyes shimmered, scanning for movement. “They’re predictable,” she said quietly. “They spiral once, then feint left. That helps.”

“Helpful or not, they don’t compliment my color palette,” Ace drawled, stepping forward as three more bats descended. He swept an arm theatrically, releasing a burst of yellow-orange pollen that shimmered in the light. The spores ignited mid-air with a pop, bursting around the creatures. They fell in twitching heaps, wings twitching, throats foaming.

“Darlings,” Ace continued, brushing stray spores off his lapel, “let’s not complain. We’re building our legacy one coin at a time.”

The fight ended with little fanfare. A few ragged breaths. A broken wing crunching underfoot. Then silence.

Guild Hall – Later That Afternoon

The Banner Nexus hummed with motion. Players lined up in mismatched armor, carrying sacks of coins, bloody scarves, broken weapons. Overhead, digital boards flickered with rotating quests—some marked In Progress, others coldly stamped Failed.

Taan and Liem leaned against the wall near the registration desk. Ace and Venus were up front finalizing their report, smiling politely at Clerk Irma, who looked like she hadn’t blinked in a week.

Then the hall doors opened with a gentle hiss.

Two players stepped inside.

Michelle entered first—tall, lean, her every movement laced with lethal restraint. Her eyes were unreadable steel, and her hair fell in a curtain behind one shoulder. Her clothes were minimal, clean, and tactical.

Behind her came Neriel, his steps silent, his robe moving like water around his legs. His braid trailed over his chest like a rope of ink. He held a wooden staff with one hand and walked as if carried by the earth itself.

Together, they didn’t command attention.

They displaced it.

The crowd parted.

No one spoke.

The two of them approached the desk, handed in their tags, received their cut of Blings, and said nothing.

Michelle’s eyes flicked once toward Taan. A curt nod.

Taan returned it. “Good run?”

Neriel answered with a serene smile. “Efficient.”

“Smooth,” Taan replied.

Michelle inclined her head. “Minimal resistance. Two marked threats neutralized.”

Ace returned from the desk just in time to witness the exchange. He raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s a duo. She looks like she could kill someone by staring. He looks like he’d apologize after doing it.”

Venus floated beside him, smiling faintly.

“They’re strong,” Liem added, sketchpad tucked under one arm. “I watched them in the Echo Pit last week. Never out of sync.”

Taan nodded once. “Balance.”

Michelle and Neriel departed without another word.

Taan watched them until they vanished through the back gate. Then she blinked as Liem turned to her.

“…How’d you end up in Deadlink?” he asked.

Taan tilted her head. Her body relaxed, but her eyes stayed sharp. “Weird question.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“No. It’s okay.” She folded her arms, her cloak brushing the floor behind her.

“I was a mixed martial arts instructor,” she said. “Climbed a lot. Played volleyball. I was… really good, actually.”

She paused. The noise of the Guild Hall faded behind her for a moment, like someone turned the dial down.

“My teammates were messing with the app. You know the rumors. I didn’t believe any of it. But when it installed on my phone…” Her voice lowered. “I knew something wasn’t right.”

Liem didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The tension in her jaw said the rest. The flicker in her gaze. The way her knuckles curled slightly, even now.

They hadn’t made it. Or if they had, they weren’t with her anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Liem said gently.

Taan exhaled. “Don't be.”

She looked at him.

“Some people wait for meaning to find them. Others punch their way forward. This shit hole doesn’t care who you were. It only cares what you become.”

Liem looked down at his hands—ink-smudged, trembling slightly. Then he nodded.

Ace rejoined them, slinging an arm casually around Taan’s shoulder. “What’d I miss?”

“Character development,” Liem muttered.

“Ugh. How tragic. Let’s have tea about it later,” Ace said brightly.

Venus, still floating, offered a hand to Taan.

“Come on. There’s still time to train.”

Taan looked up at her, at the sunlight streaming through the stained glass above the quest board. The shadows had changed. So had they.

She took the hand.

“Let’s go.”

That evening.

Dinner was warm, laughter light. The long table near the hearth glowed with scattered lanterns, flickering soft gold over worn wood. Spoons clinked gently against bowls. Steam curled upward from the remains of stew—some rich with herbs, others thick with spice, depending on who ordered.

The team sat scattered but close, socks off, boots piled at the doorway. Their bodies ached. Shoulders slouched. But their eyes were alive—brighter than they’d been even a week ago.

Rann sat sideways in her chair, chin propped on one hand as she quietly skewered what was left of her rice with the fork’s edge. Taan leaned back against the wall with one leg stretched out beneath the table, a faint bruise blossoming on her bicep from earlier combat. Kokay twirled a spoon over her fingers in idle delight, eyes still shining from the day’s adventure.

Ace, of course, lounged with dramatic ease—shirt sleeves rolled, collar open, a half-empty mug of citrus wine in one hand as he gestured lazily with the other. Liem sat beside him, scribbling in his sketchpad with quick, quiet lines while Venus sat cross-legged on the bench beside Gerbert, eyes closed, humming faintly to the rhythm of the crackling fireplace.

It had been a long day.

They’d fought off toxin-spitting centipedes in a collapsed orchard. Navigated a flooded cave system where even Rann’s phasing nearly failed. Negotiated with a stubborn mushroom-merchant NPC who refused to sell until Kokay offered to help replant his spore garden by hand.

They'd returned late.

Tired, sore—but triumphant.

Now, silence fell in the natural lull between meals and rest. The kind of quiet that came only when people trusted they didn’t need to fill it.

Then:

“We’re nearly there.”

Gerbert’s voice was calm, but it carried.

Everyone looked up.

He tapped his conjured digital slate—his fingers still stained faintly from ink and machine grease. The small projection hovering above it showed a currency count:

Blings Total: 96,470 / 100,000.

Rann sat up straighter. “There?”

Gerbert nodded once. “The base. We’ve almost got enough Blings for a starter structure in the housing zone.”

For a beat, the room held its breath.

Then Kokay gasped. Her spoon clattered to the table. “Wait—like our base?”

Ace didn’t hesitate. He raised his cup as if in toast. “Finally. A place worth decorating.”

Venus blinked slowly, her voice like a soft note in the air. “We could make something real.”

Liem glanced up from his sketchbook. “We’d own it. Not just rest between missions.”

Taan grunted thoughtfully, but the edge that usually hung off her shoulders had softened. “We deserve it,” she murmured. “We’ve fought through hell for it.”

Kokay pressed her hands together beneath her chin, eyes wide with ideas already spinning behind them. “We should name it!”

Gerbert raised an eyebrow, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “One step at a time.”

They laughed—loud, overlapping, unrestrained.

Even Rann cracked a grin, her gaze darting quickly across the table as if making sure no one noticed. (They did. No one said anything.)

Liem looked around and quietly drew something on his page—a silhouette of a small building. A garden on the roof. Smoke from a chimney. Light in every window.

Venus noticed. She said nothing, but leaned against his shoulder to see.

Kokay leaned across the table. “Can I put up bunny stickers?”

“No,” Taan said flatly.

“Yes,” Ace and Kokay said at the same time.

“Depends where,” Rann murmured, still smiling faintly.

Gerbert lowered the slate. “We only need one more strong mission, or three moderate ones. Tomorrow, we’ll split again. Same teams. Just a bit more work.”

Taan nodded. “Then it’s ours.”

Ace raised his mug again. “To walls and roofs and windows that won’t vanish after a floor reset.”

Everyone echoed him in their own way—cups, cans, water flasks.

They toasted nothing.

They toasted everything.

The idea of a home.

Not just shelter. Not just a safe zone.

Something theirs.

Later That Night

Gerbert lay back in the dim dorm light, hands behind his head, a soft hum in his ear from his slate.

Training logs. Combat analysis. Team health metrics. Intel records.

Kokay’s dodging curves.

Rann’s phasing limits.

His own jump height and blast accuracy.

Taan’s impact range.

Liem’s ink stability.

Ace’s synergy data.

Venus’s wind control thresholds.

They were getting stronger.

Smarter. More than survivors now. A team.

He closed his eyes.

And for once, the silence felt like momentum.

Back to Top

Chapter 19 Rage Form

The Emberloom Inn’s west wing smelled of roasted coffee, bacon grease, and a touch of static. Morning sunlight bled through cracked blinds in quiet streaks, catching on weapon racks and glinting steel.

Jaja sat by the low table, one hand around a chipped ceramic mug, the other holding a half-burned cigar. Her eyes flicked across the News feed projected from her interface—tracking floor death rates, dungeon block hazards, and recent monster evolution logs.

Across the room, Migz stood at the stove, humming a soft tune as he flipped bacon and eggs on a wide iron pan. Cold mist coiled from the walls behind him—a passive defense charm active around his prep space.

The front door creaked open with a snap of ozone. Andrea and Sheg stepped in from the Iron Courses—sweaty, dirt-smudged, and grinning.

“Yo! What’s fer breakfast, gramps?” Sheg called, electric pins on her uniform still crackling faintly as she flopped into the corner booth.

Migz chuckled. “Bacon and eggs. Eat fast.”

Andrea gave a quiet wave, her ever-cheerful smile still in place. “Blessed.” She moved with serene ease, her denim jumper shorts and white shirt speckled with dust. She vanished toward the bath without another word.

Sheg, however, buzzed with leftover voltage, her green pixie-cut hair damp with sweat. Her shark-shaped earrings glinted as she spun a fork between her fingers.

“That was weak,” she muttered. “We should’ve gone arena again.”

Jaja didn’t look up. “You had your fun yesterday.”

“This is today.”

“You shorted out two defense walls.”

Migz placed a plate in front of her. “Eat. You’ll need the charge.”

Sheg smirked, flipping open a side pouch and pulling out a sleek silver ring. “I’m good. I’ve got a full stack of Blings and this baby now.”

[Ring of Pulse] – Minor Stamina Boost

Jaja’s eyes lifted. Her voice came low. Commanding.

“Enough.”

Sheg blinked.

“We’re not wasting time on arena fights and personal flexing,” Jaja said. “We need Blings. Real ones. Supply lines, gear, intel.”

She leaned forward, her cigar trailing smoke as it pointed like a blade. “You want to fight? Then fight to leave this place. Not to entertain a crowd of players who’re stuck here same as us.”

Sheg’s grin faded. She gave a reluctant nod.

Migz added calmly, “Monsters are better test targets anyway. Hazards. Traps. Monster formations.”

Jaja checked the time. “Guild hall. Ten minutes.”

At the Banner Nexus, the glowing mission board flickered. Dozens of requests scrolled by—creature extermination, lost item retrieval, escort work.

Jaja selected one without speaking:

Mission: Escort Noble NPC Valtorin of Crestwatch to his estate.

Reward: 800 Blings.

Everyone nodded in silent agreement.

The NPC in question was a towering man with far too much lace on his sleeves, a feathered hat perched at an arrogant tilt, and a voice designed to annoy.

“You lot are the escort? I expected soldiers. Uniforms. A proper unit.”

Jaja didn’t reply.

Sheg rolled her eyes. “And I expected you to ride a horse like a human, not like a sack of potatoes.”

“Watch your tone, girl.”

“Watch your wig. It’s tilting.”

“Sheg,” Migz warned gently. “It’s a script. He’s just an NPC.”

Andrea grinned faintly. “He’s not worse than the nun we ran with last week.”

The noble climbed into his carriage, still grumbling.

The sun filtered lazily through the dense forest canopy, dappling the dirt path with scattered flecks of gold. The air was thick with pine, moss, and the faint scent of fried eggs lingering from their earlier meal. The horse-drawn carriage carrying Valtorin of Crestwatch rolled uneventfully forward—until the shrieks began.

From the treeline came chaos.

Dozens of goblins erupted from the brush—green skin glinting with sweat, mouths open in wild war cries. Crude blades and chipped spears caught the sunlight as they surged down the slope, intent on slaughter.

“Rage Form One—engage. Formation!” Jaja’s voice snapped like a command bell.

In an instant, the team moved.

Migz was first. His boot slammed into the earth with a thud, and a thick frost dome spiraled upward from the forest floor, encasing the NPC noble and the startled horse in glimmering mist. The temperature dropped instantly, breath turning to vapor.

“Protected!” Migz confirmed, the air around him swirling in icy eddies.

Jaja’s tattoos flared golden—their glow pulsing with heat and fury. The ink on her skin shifted and shimmered: the lance on her forearm lit first, bursting into a full-sized weapon in her grip with a sharp bzzt-ksssh! of burning light.

“Sheg—left!”

“Already on it!” the teen snapped.

Sheg launched forward from her crouch, one hand glowing blue-white. She raised her index finger and let loose a pinpoint lightning bolt, nailing a goblin mid-jump. The creature convulsed in midair and slammed into a tree with a sizzling thud.

Two more goblins roared behind her, swinging in a V-arc.

Sheg ducked, slid between their legs with practiced ease, and let her hands fly. A disruption arc surged from her fingertips—a twisting chain of lightning that leapt from one goblin to the next, locking their limbs in a seizure of frozen motion.

“I could do this all day!” she whooped, spinning to her feet.

But a goblin broke through the outer edge of their formation—just fast enough to score a scratch down Andrea’s leg.

It wasn’t deep. A minor graze.

But it was enough.

Andrea’s expression flickered. The warmth in her eyes vanished. Her smile—gentle, always—evaporated into something blank and terrible.

Then the horns grew.

Curved and sleek like a stag’s, glowing with pale golden energy, they sprouted from her head in a snap of bone and force. Andrea leapt forward and drove them into the nearest goblin’s chest. The impact lifted the creature off its feet and launched it backward into a rock. It didn’t move again.

Another goblin lunged behind her with a wicked dagger.

Andrea twisted, fur and muscle overtaking her limbs. Her skin rippled into feline stripes as she invoked her tigress form. Her body dropped low and coiled tight, then sprang in a blur of motion. Claws slashed in a radiant X, tearing armor and flesh apart like tissue.

A third goblin came at her side—blade raised, wild-eyed.

She didn’t flinch.

Her arms rotated inward, briefly shimmering with toughened plating. With a flash, she invoked armadillo shell, blocking the goblin’s strike in a ring of clang and sparks. The enemy blade bounced off uselessly.

Andrea exhaled. Calm. Focused.

But blood trickled from her nose. Just a drop.

She wiped it with the back of her hand and whispered,

“I’m fine. Still running clean.”

The more she used one form, the easier it became. She had tamed the tigress—but the price of shifting too fast, too many times, was not gone.

Jaja surged forward, her lance spinning in blazing arcs. The tattoos on her shoulders unraveled—hawks leaping from her flesh, golden-red wings flaring wide. The birds shot forward, burning through goblins mid-charge with fwsh-fwsh-fwsh! precision.

Three went down. But a fourth aimed low—sprinting behind a fallen log.

Jaja’s back pulsed.

A serpent tattoo coiled up her spine—its golden body coming to life, fangs wide. With a harsh clang!, metal chains erupted from her back, the ends sculpted like open-mouthed snakes. They whipped forward and wrapped around the charging goblin, lifting it in midair and slamming it spine-first into a tree with enough force to crack bark and bone.

“Clean sweep.” Jaja’s voice was razor-sharp. “Migz—clear the stragglers!”

Migz stepped forward into the chaos—his boots crunching over frozen leaves. His beard was rimmed with frost. His eyes? Calm. Unbothered.

He raised both arms slowly.

A wave of ice crystals spiraled outward from his palms—razor-thin icicles rocketing like shrapnel. Five goblins dropped in a single volley, pinned to trunks and rocks, their weapons frozen mid-swing.

Another tried to flee.

Migz didn’t even speak. He simply flicked two fingers.

Ice crept from the ground, encasing the goblin’s feet in a flash. It screamed, tripped, and shattered its own ankle trying to run.

He exhaled slowly—frost curling from his mouth in a long silver plume.

Silence followed.

The last goblin twitched—and stopped.

From within the dome, the noble NPC peeked out, wide-eyed.

“Is it—done?”

Jaja lowered her lance.

“For now.”

Mission Complete.

+800 Blings Received

Back at the Banner Nexus, the group filed paperwork.

Jaja signed without a word. Migz tallied the earnings.

Andrea stretched with a yawn. “I kinda want soup.”

Sheg leaned back, arms folded. “I want that lightning dummy again. Full volts this time.”

Back at the Iron Courses, the drills began anew.

Andrea trained in trigger suppression, learning to breathe through her rage state without losing precision. Her transformations were now fluid, not frantic.

Sheg focused on lightning sniper shots, nailing fast-moving targets with pinpoint arcs from her fingertips.

Migz expanded his freeze radius and worked on frost terrain control, using ice not just for attack but for battlefield shaping.

Jaja cycled her tattoos in seamless patterns—lance, birds, chains, new forms—each summoned in precise rhythm. No lag. No delay.

They didn’t talk much.

They didn’t need to.

Team Rage didn’t need speeches.

They had protocol.

Back to Top

Chapter 19.1

Quiet Sparks

The clang of metal, hum of spells, and rhythmic beat of footsteps echoed through the Iron Courses on Floor 30—a labyrinthine training complex built for growth, pain, and precision.

In the combat wing, Duane stood still beneath a hovering drone. Sweat rolled down his brow. He closed his eyes.

With a flick of energy, a clone tore free from his frame—rushing forward like a mirror of muscle and instinct. It charged the training dummy in a clean tackle, knocking it back.

Duane opened his eyes and nodded. "That’s one."

The clone shimmered and vanished.

Another dummy approached, this one faster, swinging hard.

Duane snapped his fingers. A second clone burst forward—this time, not mimicking a move—but sent with intent.

He focused.

The clone intercepted the swing mid-strike. Duane flinched, pain flaring behind his eyes.

The hit wasn’t real—but it might as well have been.

Sharing senses with his clones required concentration. Too much, too long, and he’d be fighting with borrowed pain.

Still—he grinned.

“This’ll work.”

In the adjacent sound chamber, Gal stood alone beneath reinforced speakers and padded walls.

A drone hovered ahead, blinking green.

Gal drew in a deep breath, planted her feet—and screamed.

The sound lanced forward, not in a wide arc like before, but as a concentrated beam, a focused burst of sonic energy that struck the drone like a cannon shot.

The drone sparked, buckled—stayed intact.

Gal coughed, her hand flying to her throat. She winced. “Too long.”

She then took a drink of water. Her scream was stronger now, sharper. But the longer she held it, the more her throat burned.

Progress. But still risky.

Later, Duane and Gal stepped onto the obstacle course grid—pillars shifting, walls rotating, spike traps and kinetic fields lining the path forward

“Ready?” he asked, eyes flicking down the length of the course.

Gal’s answer was simple. She tilted her head slightly and grinned.

“Try to keep up.”

The moment the timer blinked green, they ran.

Gal moved like wind over water—quick, balanced, and impossible to predict. She hopped between pillars as they rose and fell, skimming just past a swinging blade and tucking into a roll under a flame burst. Her sound wave pulses rippled from her shoes in brief thrums, granting her micro-blasts of air momentum mid-jump.

Duane, heavier and less nimble, relied on tactical movement—and his clones.

One clone leapt ahead and tripped a spike trap, vanishing in a puff of impact smoke.

Another darted up the side wall, baiting a mounted sentry to fire—clearing a path for Duane to vault over a cracked platform that detonated half a second after his boots left it.

Gal turned her head mid-run. “That one was close.”

Duane grinned. “Calculated.”

Halfway through, the grid narrowed—just a single shifting beam bridge surrounded by energy fields.

Gal slid low under a spinning arc, boosted herself with a focused pulse from her palm, and air-dashed forward with a sharp hiss of reverb.

Duane followed behind—sending a clone to trigger the beam disruption, then kicked off its shoulders in mid-air to land in a controlled skid.

The system announced the final thirty seconds.

They pushed harder.

A wall spun sideways, nearly knocking Gal off—but she kicked out and rebounded off the edge like a dancer mid-twist. Duane’s path was blocked by a vertical slide wall, but he slammed both palms into the ground. A clone launched from his back, anchoring the next platform so he could climb up and vault clean over the shifting maze.

Ten seconds remained.

A kinetic field pulsed red.

Gal ducked, Duane rolled, and they both cleared the final sensor gate—collapsing on the floor just as the timer blared a buzzer.

[Run Cleared: Time Remaining – 0:10]

They lay on the cool tile for a few seconds, sweat clinging to their brows, both breathing hard.

Gal sat up first and wandered toward the vending unit along the side wall. She returned with two cold drinks and a quiet smirk.

She tossed one to Duane. He caught it on reflex.

“So... we’re officially a party now.” She flopped down beside him, back against the wall.

Duane cracked the bottle open with a quiet psst and took a long sip.

“Yeah. Guess I forgot we even added each other way back.”

Gal leaned her head back, eyes watching the ceiling lights flicker gently.

“Glad we did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was earned.

Two players, tested and improved—not just by the course, but by trust.

Duane tapped the side of his bottle against hers with a soft clink.

“To more clears.”

Gal’s smile lingered as she nodded.

“Yeah. To more clears—and no shortcuts.”

They sat there a while longer, breathing steady, the hum of the Iron Courses surrounding them like applause only they could hear.

As Duane and Gal cooled down, the entrance hissed open.

Jaja stepped in first, her eyes scanning the room with calm alertness. Migz followed behind her, his presence steady and cold-misted as always.

Gal waved. “Hey!”

Migz offered a warm smile. “Afternoon.”

Jaja gave a polite nod, even a small smile. “Good run?”

“Getting there,” Gal said.

The two passed by without lingering, their presence still enough to leave a ripple.

Duane stared after them, then leaned forward. “Gal.”

“Yeah?”

“You ever thought about teaming up with someone else? For the Dungeon Block?”

Gal froze for a second. Her shoulders tightened.

“…Honestly?” she whispered. “I’m scared of it.”

Duane nodded. “Me too.”

Gal looked over, surprised.

“You are?”

“Of course. And I think we should be,” Duane said, tone even. “If you’re not scared of that place, you’re either delusional or already dead.”

A long moment passed.

Gal wrapped her arms around her legs, eyes lowered.

“We could team with someone strong. Rage. Linkbreakers.”

Duane shook his head. “I don’t want to join a full group. I’d rather build a party. Something tighter. Focused.”

Gal considered that. Then slowly nodded.

“…Actually,” she said, “there’s someone I’ve been watching.”

Night fell soft over Floor 30. The usual glow of Market District lanterns flickered across the rain-washed pavement, while mist curled along the gutters like a shy cat. In the distance, the towering spires of the Echo Pit pulsed faintly, like the breathing of something enormous in sleep.

Duane and Gal walked in step through the side streets, shoulders close, boots quiet. Their bodies ached from the day’s obstacle course—limbs sore, muscles tight—but their minds were restless.

The sign for The Hollow Flask hung slightly askew, its hand-painted lettering illuminated by strands of soft red and violet neon. Inside, warmth welcomed them: low amber lighting, clinking glasses, and the subtle hum of live jazz drifting from a tucked-away corner where an old player idly coaxed notes from a synth-keyboard.

There were no rowdy PKs here. No arena brawlers.

Just murmured conversation, flickering wall lanterns, and booths lined with high-backed seats for quiet gatherings.

Duane nodded toward the far window.

“Over there.”

Gal followed his gaze.

Michelle and Neriel sat in a corner booth, just slightly apart from the rest of the room. The table between them held two neat bowls, steam rising faintly from the surface. They hadn’t noticed Duane and Gal yet—or rather, they hadn’t acknowledged them.

Michelle sat upright, her black jacket half-unzipped to reveal a fitted shirt beneath, her gloved fingers neatly curled around a teacup. Her expression was unreadable, eyes lowered, but watchful—like a mirror that reflected only what you let slip.

Neriel sat opposite her in a traditional seated posture, legs folded beneath him. His kimono hung loose around the shoulders, and his long braid trailed gracefully over one arm. He spooned soup with methodical ease—calm, unhurried. His eyes were closed.

They didn’t speak.

Not out of tension. But out of understanding.

Gal hesitated for a moment before stepping forward.

“Hi,” she said gently. “Do you have a moment?”

Michelle looked up with precision—no surprise, no alarm. Just awareness.

Neriel’s eyes opened, faintly, mid-sip. He did not stop eating.

Duane stepped forward. “We’re building a team,” he said, voice steady. “A small one. Focused. For the Dungeon Block.”

Michelle raised one eyebrow. Her voice was smooth, but sharp.

“Why us?”

Gal answered without looking at Duane.

“Because we’ve seen you. In the arena. On missions. You’re strong. Efficient. Quiet. You think before you move. That’s rare.”

There was a pause.

Neriel set his spoon down with a soft clink.

“We’ll give it some thought.”

Michelle stood up slowly, her chair barely making a sound. She looked at Duane—directly, with eyes that didn’t blink or soften.

“We’re not against it.”

She stepped past him without waiting for a reply, her coat flaring slightly as she moved. Neriel followed with silent grace, his presence shifting like a shadow catching moonlight.

The door closed behind them with a soft chime.

Gal let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She watched the door for a long second, then looked up at Duane.

“What do you think?”

Duane scratched his chin, brow furrowed slightly. “They didn’t say no.”

Gal’s lips curled into a faint, crooked smile. “Think we have a chance?”

He shrugged and stood up from the booth. “Maybe. A temporary one.”

Gal tilted her head. “You okay with that?”

Duane looked back at the table—the two empty bowls, the cups still faintly steaming.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes temporary’s enough. Long as it holds when it counts.”

The two of them walked out into the chill of the Floor 30 night. The mist still lingered. The streetlamps hummed.

Their steps were quiet. Measured. But something had changed.

The fire had been lit.

And in the city of broken banners and fleeting alliances, something was starting to take shape.

A small party was forming.

One step, one silence, one earned moment at a time.

Back to Top

Chapter 19.2

The Whispering Wilds

The sun had barely risen when Ray found himself at the edge of the emerald woodlands that bordered Floor 30’s NPC village.

He leaned slightly on his carved walking stick, smiling as a wild rabbit twitched its ears at him from atop a mossy stone.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen any rowdy goblins around, have you?” Ray asked softly.

The rabbit blinked. “The weather’s been awful,” it said. “Rain two nights in a row, and Mr. Hedgehog’s still going on about how no one respects the food rotation system.”

Ray laughed. “I suppose he’s got a point. A little order never hurt anyone.”

The rabbit continued, unfazed, “And don’t even get me started on the bluejays. Loud, dramatic things.”

Ray chuckled, crouching beside it. “You’re a talker, aren’t you?”

“I prefer ‘conversationalist.’”

“Well, conversationalist, if you remember—goblins?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, sorry. Yes, they’ve made camp not far from here. Filthy creatures. You want me to lead you?”

“I’d appreciate that,” Ray said, rising with a nod. “And I’ll buy you a snack once we’re back.”

They walked together, side by side—an old man in a green cloak and a rabbit who clearly had opinions about everything under the sun.

They spoke of clouds and mushrooms, of tree roots and fireflies. The rabbit offered gossip about a particularly dramatic squirrel family. Ray, in turn, shared wisdom from travels past.

Eventually, they reached a quiet rise overlooking a charred clearing. Down below, goblins clustered around a firepit, cheering as they tore apart the corpse of a minor monster, its body limp and bloodied.

The camp was chaotic—broken tents, rusted weapons, and half-eaten food strewn across the soil.

The rabbit froze. “I… I can’t go further. This place stinks of fear.”

Ray knelt, his expression kind. “That’s alright.”

He reached into his satchel and handed over a pouch of dried fruit. “From the market district. Sweet and chewy.”

The rabbit took it, paws trembling. “Be careful, Ray.”

“I always am.”

He rose and stepped back from the ridge.

Time to rally.

He turned to the ridge and exhaled.

“All right, Vantemyr,” he whispered, reaching beneath his cloak.

A slow, deliberate hiss came in response.

A massive black cobra slithered from beneath the folds of Ray’s cloak, its golden eyes glowing faintly in the shade.

“You woke me,” Vantemyr rasped, tail flicking irritably. “I was sleeping, Ray.”

“Goblins,” Ray said.

Vantemyr uncoiled, his hood spreading. “You’re lucky I like your shoulders.”

“You’re lucky I still have grilled mouse jerky in the bag.”

The cobra grumbled.

Ray reached down to his belt and removed a small sealed jar. Inside, venomous bees buzzed softly—loyal creatures he’d once rescued from a fire that consumed their hive.

He opened the jar.

Inside—dozens of venomous bees, their wings shimmering with green and gold. Once a dying swarm, now loyal allies since Ray had saved them from a burning grove.

He twisted the cap open.

“Time to dance, little ones.”

The bees erupted with cheerful buzzing, rising into formation.

Ray raised a hand. “Cause some chaos.”

Moments later, goblin screams echoed through the trees.

It began as a single shriek—sharp and panicked—rising above the lazy crackle of their campfire. Then came more. Dozens. The sound of chaos spilling from tent to tent like fire catching dry leaves.

Panic surged through the clearing as Ray’s bees burst into action, swarming the ragged tents like a golden storm. Their tiny wings hummed like blades, and their stings pierced skin and ego with surgical precision. Goblins flailed and screamed, some tumbling into their own fires, others tearing off armor in desperation.

Vantemyr was already in motion—his long, obsidian body slithering through the grass like smoke. He struck ankles with lightning speed, dragging goblins to the ground before curling around throats and squeezing until there was no breath left to scream. One tried to run. Vantemyr snapped up and dragged him down in a silent blur.

Ray stepped forward toward the entrance of the camp, his boots crunching softly on pine needles. In the crackling orange light, his green cloak shimmered with dew and ash. He moved like an old tree leaning into the wind—but the fire in his eyes said otherwise.

Three goblins spotted him.

They were younger, judging by their size and recklessness. One pointed. “Old man!”

Another grinned, jagged teeth gleaming. “Let’s take his boots!”

The third, with a rusted blade, let out a shriek and lunged.

Ray didn’t flinch. Instead, he pursed his lips and gave a single, sharp whistle—high-pitched, piercing, unnatural.

There was a blur in the darkness behind him.

A low growl.

Then—a blur of shadow launched into the air.

The goblin never touched him.

The black panther collided with the goblin mid-lunge, jaws open in a savage roar. They hit the ground in a tangle of fur and green limbs. Blood sprayed, dark and hot against the cool forest floor. The other two goblins screamed and turned to run, but it was already too late.

From above, the sky darkened.

Birds descended—dozens of them. Finches, hawks, crows, even a few owls out far too early. They dove like knives, slashing with talons, stabbing with beaks. The air became feathers and shrieks and the metallic scent of fresh blood.

The goblins fought back, swinging wildly, but they couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. The sky and ground had turned on them. Their camp—their numbers—meant nothing.

Ray inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly. The fight was his now.

He surged forward, faster than anyone had a right to expect. Cloak whipping behind him, he drove his walking stick into the earth with a roar.

The ground answered.

It split open with a thunderous crack.

Golden light erupted from the point of impact, racing in jagged lines through the soil like veins of fury. The earth heaved. Goblins were launched into the air, flailing, arms and weapons torn from their grip. Tents collapsed. A rusted cookpot flew like a comet into a tree and clanged hollow.

[EARTHSPLIT STAFF] – A rare item from the Market District

Effect: Sends a seismic rupture forward.

Limit: Twice per day. Causes severe fatigue.

Ray swayed as the tremor faded, gripping the staff for balance. His breath caught briefly in his throat.

“Still got one more,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.

Behind him, a new scream rose—closer.

A goblin had crept from behind the brush, spear raised high, aiming for the old man’s back.

Ray turned too slowly.

But something small and fast moved faster.

A flash of light brown fur shot from the underbrush, ears tucked back, paws stretched forward like blades.

The rabbit leapt.

It hit the goblin square in the shin with a solid thunk, teeth sinking into green flesh. The goblin howled, stumbling, weapon clattering from its hand as it crashed to the ground.

Ray blinked.

But before it could strike, the rabbit leapt from the underbrush and bit its leg, sending it tumbling. It released its bite, leapt back, and puffed its fur to full height, tiny chest heaving.

Ray blinked. “Well I’ll be—”

“Thought you might need backup!” the rabbit shouted, fur puffed, eyes wide.

Ray stared, caught between amusement and awe. “Well, I’ll be—”

“Don’t underestimate conversationalists,” the rabbit added, glancing at the fallen goblin.

Ray laughed—deep and warm and true. “I owe you a proper dinner.”

“Dried fruit and carrots,” the rabbit declared.

“Deal.”

A second goblin tried to rise behind them.

This time, the panther was faster. It struck from the flank, slashing the goblin across the throat and pinning its corpse without breaking stride.

Vantemyr rejoined them, fangs bloodied, eyes narrow. “You were late Loudy,” he hissed to the rabbit.

“I was waiting,” the rabbit said, ears tilted back smugly, “for the perfect moment for my grand entrance.”

Ray blinked, then let out a laugh so sudden and warm it startled the birds above.

“Dramatic little thing,” Vantemyr muttered.

“Obviously,” the brown rabbit said, brushing his paws against his chest fur. “You only get one heroic debut. Mine involved aerial assault and biting. I stand by it.”

Ray stepped over the bodies and looked across the field.

The camp was ruins now. Flames from overturned firepits smoldered against the wreckage of their lean-tos. Goblins lay scattered, broken and unconscious—or worse. The bees buzzed above in proud, swarming formation. The birds returned to the branches, preening blood from their feathers.

The panther padded back to Ray’s side and sat silently, breathing steady.

Vantemyr coiled loosely near his feet, tongue flicking.

The rabbit hopped beside him and sat on its haunches. Its eyes sparkled.

“You… really are incredible.”

Ray crouched and patted the rabbit’s head gently. “I’ve just got good friends.”

“I want to come with you.”

Ray was quiet for a moment. “It won’t be easy. Dungeons. Death. People worse than goblins.”

“I know. I don’t want to sit and gossip forever. I want to help.”

Ray smiled.

“Then you’ll need a name.”

He thought for a moment, stroking his beard.

“How about… Pip?”

The rabbit blinked. “Pip. I like it.”

Ray rose, Vantemyr curling back into his cloak, bees settling into their jar, and the panther quietly padding up beside him.

He looked out across the field, the blood-soaked remnants of the goblin camp glinting under the afternoon sun.

“Let’s go home, Pip.”

Back at the Banner Nexus, Ray stood before the clerk, dirt-streaked but smiling.

Mission Complete.

+600 Blings awarded.

Goblins repelled.

NPC Village secured.

He tucked the reward away and stepped into the sunlight, his panther at his side, the rabbit riding his shoulder, and his walking stick tapping steadily on the cobblestones.

The Whispering Wilds had gained a new voice.

Floor 30 had many teams.

But none quite like Ray’s.

Back to Top

Deadlink

Season 2

Chapter 16

The Metropolis of Veiled Promises

Chapter 16.2

The Herb and the Divide

Chapter 16.3

Echo and Mirage

Chapter 17

Brackets and Bloom

Chapter 17.1

Ink and Resolve

Chapter 17.2

Breaker Momentum

Chapter 17.3

The Platform Gauntlet

Chapter 17.4

Echoes of the Champion

Chapter 18

Threshold

Chapter 18.1

The Egg and the End

Chapter 18.2

Momentum

Chapter 19

Rage Form

Chapter 19.1

Quiet Sparks

Chapter 19.2

The Whispering Wilds

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Deadlink

Season 2

Chapter 16

The Metropolis of Veiled Promises

Chapter 16.2

The Herb and the Divide

Chapter 16.3

Echo and Mirage

Chapter 17

Brackets and Bloom

Chapter 17.1

Ink and Resolve

Chapter 17.2

Breaker Momentum

Chapter 17.3

The Platform Gauntlet

Chapter 17.4

Echoes of the Champion

Chapter 18

Threshold

Chapter 18.1

The Egg and the End

Chapter 18.2

Momentum

Chapter 19

Rage Form

Chapter 19.1

Quiet Sparks

Chapter 19.2

The Whispering Wilds

Deadlink - Season 1

Coming Soon

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