The trio's playful scuffling finally ceased. Only in the sudden quiet did they notice the eerie shift in their surroundings.
Deeper into the withered woods they'd wandered, until even the silhouette of Starcrest Outpost had vanished behind them.
Bark peeled like scabs from skeletal trees. The cracked earth beneath their feet might as well have been a corpse—all vitality long sucked dry. Their grip on weapons tightened, senses razor-sharp.
Then—a skittering footfall.
"Contact!"
"Got it!"
A dun-yellow blur exploded from behind a dead trunk. Black Tortoise Shield, wielder of the group's only shield, lunged forward to intercept.
CRUNCH.
The wiry jackal's charge sent his hulking avatar stumbling backward—ass meeting dirt with a graceless thud.
"Stats too low… but no HP loss!" He braced on one elbow, yelling, "Flank it! Kill!"
The jackal seemed equally stunned that this mountain of muscle hit like a wet noodle. Now, denied its ambush, it snarled, encircled.
Swords flashed left and right—no technique, just frantic speed. A lucky slash connected. The beast yowled, venomous gaze locking onto Dragon Scale Sword, who'd dealt the blow.
"Fall back! I'll tank!"
Black Tortoise Shield (all bark, no bite) was already up, shield raised like a dinner plate. He ate another pounce, toppling like a felled oak.
Slaughter Moon Blade seized the opening—steel bit deep.
"It's one hit from dead! Finish it!"
Through trial and error, they'd learned the jackal's patterns. Three strikes later, the beast collapsed.
"Haaah…" Wiping sweat (purely cosmetic, but satisfying), they grinned. "Hell yeah!"
"Last hit's mine," Dragon Scale Sword announced. "Next low-HP mob, you two take it."
"Who's counting?" Black Tortoise Shield waved him off. "XP per kill?"
"Five."
"Level-up at forty. Seven more wolves and you ding?"
Dragon Scale Sword shook his head. "We level together. This is beta—no need to min-max like gold farmers."
"This game's insanely realistic," Slaughter Moon Blade mused, shaking their head. "That fight just now? Felt like high school all over again—when that rabid stray dog chased me. My legs went numb with fear back then. And these jackals? Ten times worse than a rabid mutt."
"Pain settings low, balls up! We respawn anyway," Black Tortoise Shield barked, hauling himself upright. "Let's bag five corpses first, turn in the quest, and grind cash for gear."
"Deal." The other two nodded.
"But mark my words—this game's revolutionary," Slaughter Moon Blade added, eyes gleaming. "A gold-farming studio here could print money."
"Your valor has earned Starcrest Outpost's gratitude," Lind declared, standing before a small mountain of jackal carcasses. Four Undying stood before him—though "White Stockings Enthusiast" had clearly struggled alone, taking a full in-game day (and two deaths) to scrape together five kills.
Meanwhile, the trio—Black Tortoise Shield, Slaughter Moon Blade, and Dragon Scale Sword—had butchered sixteen. The local jackal population was now officially extinct.
Lind noted the puppy-sized corpses dumped atop the pile—pathetic attempts to inflate the count.
While he'd expected players' grind tolerance, his soldiers gaped in disbelief.
Four people. Twenty-plus jackals. Naked. Wielding rusted scrap.
Impossible.
"These Undying are terrifying," Lind thought, watching the players' eager eyes as he distributed rewards.
The coins left his hands now, but he knew they'd circle back soon enough.
Sure enough, the quartet raced to the [Weapon Shop] the moment gold hit their palms.
His soldiers stared blankly at the mountain of jackal carcasses.
Why?
Their confusion deepened when the group emerged triumphantly clutching junk weapons.
Whatever. The Lord understands.
Their brains had officially clocked out.
Lind observed the four, curious if they'd leveled up—and what rewards his quest had granted.
The players, meanwhile, huddled openly, chatting without restraint.
"White Stockings, I followed your vid here. How much XP till level?"
"Two more wolves. You?"
"Black Tortoise Shield and Slaughter Moon Blade need three. Dragon Scale Sword and I need two."
"Squad goals," White Stockings Enthusiast sighed. "Lucky you're IRL friends."
"Sophomores. Same dorm."
"..." White Stockings stared at Slaughter Moon Blade, then slowly raised a thumbs-up. "Legendary."
Three beta keys in one dorm? That alone deserved the title.
Though other interpretations of "legendary" came to mind...
As they talked, Lind pieced together more intel:
White Stockings was a gaming content creator. The trio had followed his videos to Starcrest Outpost—a prime target for recruitment to boost the outpost's visibility.
Players could see enemy HP bars (red-named targets only). Neutral/friendly units showed no stats.
This... opens strategic possibilities.
"To forge a true alliance with these Undying, I'll need irresistible incentives," Lind mused. Experience points were the ultimate prize, of course—but since he couldn't grant those, gear and rare items would have to suffice.
"First, offload these to Prey Town. Trade for shelf-stable supplies," he decided, eyeing the jackal carcass mountain. "Fertilize the garden plots too—might eke out vegetables before winter." At least meat shortages were off the table. And he'd heard rumors: some survivors in the wastelands still coaxed crops from dead soil.
The quartet now loomed before him, vibrating with restless energy.
"My lord! Got more work for us?"
Idle players are chaos incarnate. Lind suppressed a shudder.
Drawing from half-remembered church parables and childhood fables, he spun his pitch:
"The Calamity's breath is winter itself—a gale from the Giants' maw. Any soul caught sleeping outdoors when darkness falls… gone. Even you Undying won't relish suffocating in the void. Thus, I grant you leave to build a sanctuary within Starcrest's walls."
A beat of silence—then:
"HOLY SHIT, WE CAN CONSTRUCT HOUSING?!"