"How was your trip into the Wild Zone?" Anna asked.

Luke sat at a worn wooden table, staring into the bowl of monster stew in front of him. The smell was sharp—feral, earthy—but he'd grown used to it.

The mess hall buzzed with quiet tension. Survivors crowded around cookfires, boiling scavenged meat or patching gear. Others hunched over their bowls, eating in near silence. Survival left little room for conversation.

Luke stirred the broth with his spoon, not really hungry. "Killed a few boars," he said, voice flat. "Tried tracking an orc too."

Beside Anna, Cecilia immediately started signing.

Anna translated without missing a beat. "She says to be careful. Orcs are never alone. If you see one, assume there are more nearby. They use signals—horns, traps, alarms. One mistake, and you're surrounded."

Before Luke could reply, Allison dropped into the seat across from him. One look at her face said everything—exhausted, drained.

"How'd your day go?" Luke asked.

Allison let out a long breath. "Went out hunting with the others. Honestly thought everyone would be focused on the mission every day..."

Anna gave a quiet chuckle. "Most people here are just trying to survive. We need food, gear, someone to fix the fences, someone to tend the crops. If we stay out too long, the Haven's defenses fall apart."

Luke nodded. It made sense. A constant grind would burn out anyone. Low HP, no rest—even elite hunters would collapse eventually.

He glanced back at Anna. "How do you even carry what you kill? I took down some boars earlier, but there's no way I could drag their corpses all the way back."

Anna smiled, raising her hand to show a silver ring. "Storage items."

With a simple snap of her fingers, a folded shirt materialized in her palm.

Luke blinked in surprise.

"I stash everything in here," Anna said, slipping the shirt back into the ring. "Beats hauling it around in a pack."

Cecilia lifted her own hand, showing an identical ring.

Allison frowned, leaning in. "Are those common?"

Anna shook her head. "Not even close. They're rare. And the capacity varies. Some hold as much as a backpack. Others... as much as a small room."

Luke's eyes narrowed. I need one of those.

Storage meant mobility. Mobility meant survival. Carry gear, loot, emergency supplies—without dead weight slowing him down.

He opened his mouth to ask more—

"HELP! Where's Thiara?!"

The shout cut through the air like a blade.

Instantly, the hall exploded into motion. Chairs scraped. Bowls clattered to the floor.

A group shoved through the crowd, dragging a man soaked in blood. They dropped him to the dirt. The entire room froze.

"That's Jonathan's team," someone muttered.

Luke's eyes locked onto the man's body. One arm was gone—ripped clean off. What remained was a shredded stump, pumping blood into the ground. A blur of movement hit his peripheral. A girl sprinted through the chaos. Thiara.

She dropped to her knees, hands glowing bright green as she pressed them together.

Healing magic.

Light shimmered around her fingers, pouring into the wound. The bleeding slowed—but not enough. The magic fought to close the injury, but the damage was brutal.

"It's not holding," someone whispered.

"Get him to the infirmary!" Paul's voice rang out, slicing through the panic. Calm. Commanding. Unshakeable.

A group of men lifted Jonathan's bloodied body and rushed him toward the infirmary tent.

Luke's eyes tracked them until movement beside him caught his attention. Cecilia's hands flew in frantic, sharp gestures toward Anna—fast, urgent.

Even without translation, Luke caught the key words. Mission. Mechanism.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

His pulse tightened. Whatever had happened out there... it was big.

Anna signed something back, her expression darkening. Her fingers slowed—not frantic like Cecilia's, but firm. Focused. Controlled.

Before Luke could speak, the hotel doors slammed open. Angelica strode out, her face grim, pace brisk, eyes locked forward. A mage followed close behind her, staff raised, energy already swirling at the tip.

The moment they stepped into the infirmary tent, the air shifted.

Silence.

Instant. Total.

No groans. No whispers. No wind.

Luke's eyes narrowed. Sound barrier.

Quietly, he stepped back, blending into the edge of the crowd, making sure not to draw attention. Whatever was happening inside that tent... they didn't want anyone hearing it. And that, in itself, was telling.

Eight years...

Eight years trapped in this so-called tutorial. The deeper he looked, the clearer it became—the veterans were hiding something.

"What do you think happened?" Allison asked, arms crossed, her gaze locked on the tent.

Luke didn't answer.

But Anna did. "If it's Jonathan's team... then it's about the mission."

Luke turned to her, surprised by how blunt she sounded.

Allison frowned. "Then why the hell is everyone just... accepting this? Why aren't they fighting harder to get out?"

Anna's sigh was long. Heavy. "You saw the statue. You read the mission." Her voice stayed steady, but the fatigue underneath was obvious. "You know what happens if the third mechanism is activated. The Midnight Wardens will march—unstoppable. They'll wipe out everything in their path."

Luke stared at her. "And yet... you still try?"

Anna lowered her gaze. Her fingers traced the edge of her spoon. Then she nodded—small, tired, but certain. "Most are afraid. But not all. Some of us still believe."

"Believe in what?" Luke asked.

She hesitated, thumb running along the silver ring on her finger. "Bartholomew."

Luke exchanged a sharp look with Allison.

"What about him?"

Anna exhaled, eyes drifting toward the hotel. "He's not just a tyrant. People follow him because... he's the only one with a plan."

Her voice softened, but the edge never left. "He controls the water. He controls the walls. The food. The safety. He commands the strongest fighters. Even if we hate him... even if everyone curses his name... he's still the best shot any of us have at surviving this."

Luke stayed silent, watching her carefully.

Anna's hand tightened around her spoon. "I came here three years ago. Left a family behind. Everyone did. No one gave up. Not really." Her voice hardened. "Bartholomew wants to purge the Wild Zone. Push forward. Take ground. Map the three mechanisms. Build a path straight to the castle."

She paused, gaze distant. Haunted. "But he won't activate the final mechanism until every survivor is ready. Until every man, woman, and child can run—all the way to the castle gates."

All or nothing.

"Only then," Anna said quietly, "will we stand a chance against what's waiting."

She picked up her spoon and resumed eating, but her shoulders stayed tense, stiff. She wasn't calm. Not really. Underneath, she was afraid.

"It's not simple," she added, voice lower now. "The Wild Zone is massive. Twisted. The Lords rule their territories like war gods. The Renegades hunt the weak. Bandits own the ruins. And the monsters... they roam everywhere. Hunting anything that breathes."

Luke's thoughts lingered on the barricades—the makeshift walls, the armed patrols stationed on every rooftop, the battered gates of the Safe Zone barely holding together with rusted metal and desperation. This place wasn't built to last. It was patched, repaired, and reinforced with whatever scraps people could find.

"We protect this place the best we can," Anna had said. "But there are too many mouths to feed. If we send everyone charging toward the castle and the Safe Zone falls behind us... what then?"

She'd laughed after that. Not out of amusement—but out of sheer frustration.

"That's the dilemma. Do we push forward? Or make sure there's still something left to come back to?"

Now, sitting in silence, Luke leaned back in his chair, her words looping through his head like a weight that refused to leave.

Safe Zone. Wild Zone. Castle.

And above it all—Bartholomew. Preparing. Waiting. Watching.

But what waited inside that castle? What was really behind all of this?

Luke glanced down at his arm—the same one that had been slashed open earlier that day. It was fully healed now. Not even a scar. Basic Blood Regeneration worked better than he could've hoped.

And it only pushed him further.

He wasn't going to wait for others. Wouldn't sit back depending on hope, or faith, or someone else's plan. Wouldn't rot in this purgatory pretending this was life.

No.

He'd fight his way out. On his own terms.

***

Luke moved like a shadow through the Wild Zone, each step precise, every sense sharpened. Anna's voice still echoed in his mind—so many had already accepted their prison, resigned to wait for a savior that would never come.

Not me.

No time to waste. Every step forward, every fight, every drop of EXP mattered.

His eyes caught it—a soft glow against the wreckage. A mission orb floated atop the fractured remains of a stone house, resting there like a relic left on an altar.

No hesitation. Luke sprinted, scaling the cracked wall with the fluid motion of someone who'd done it a hundred times. His hands and feet found every hold without pause, momentum carrying him to the top in seconds.

Fingers reached out. The system window popped into view.

[Mission Orb Acquired]

But before he could even read the details, a sharp current sliced through the air. His instincts flared. Luke dove sideways just as an arrow shattered against the stone where his head had been a second earlier. Another followed. He twisted, body dropping low, narrowly slipping out of its path as it splintered into the debris behind him.

His gaze snapped toward the treeline. Shapes emerged from the brush—six men, armed and grinning.

"Got one," one of them said, voice casual, confident.

"These orb traps never fail. Almost too easy," another chuckled as he stepped forward.

Luke's grip tightened around the handles of his kukris. His eyes swept the group, cataloging threats with brutal efficiency. Three archers positioned in the rear. Two melee fighters taking point. A mage stood behind them, staff already humming with energy, arcs of violet lightning crawling along its surface.

A lightning caster. Bad news.

Then the leader stepped in front, relaxed, wearing a smirk that dripped with arrogance. "Two choices, rookie. Leave your gear—especially those pretty knives—or die."

The mage's staff pulsed, the air shimmering as electricity built, heat and static crawling across Luke's skin.

A shift in the undergrowth pulled his attention left. More figures. Crossbows drawn. Four of them, settling into elevated positions along the brush line, perfectly angled to cut off any escape route.

Ten total. Surrounding him. Full ambush formation.

The leader spread his arms wide like he was delivering a sermon.

"So?" he asked, grin widening. "You want to live... or die?"

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