The Federation's supervisors arrived not with weapons, but with briefcases and contracts. Yet the chill they brought into FrostHaven felt sharper than any blade.
They claimed their role was "oversight," but their presence spread like poison through the studio. Every line of code had to be approved, every change logged, every patch justified with a report. It slowed us to a crawl.
Evie slammed a binder onto her desk one afternoon. Papers fluttered everywhere."They want a full explanation of why the raid boss has a second phase! As if storytelling itself needs their permission!"
Mike groaned from across the room. "What's next, a form to justify why monsters drop loot? 'Please explain in triplicate why players enjoy rewards.'"
The supervisors, seated smugly in the corner, didn't even flinch at the sarcasm. They scribbled notes, murmured into headsets, and reminded us — politely, always politely — that failure to comply could lead to "temporary suspension of FrostHaven's operations."
Temporary. The word dripped with threat.
The first real blow came a week later.
I logged into Runestone to test a new dungeon layout, only to find chaos. Spells wouldn't trigger. Cards flickered and vanished mid-match. Entire raid groups were being booted out of the game with "unauthorized error" messages.
At first I thought it was a bug. But the more I traced the problem, the clearer it became. This wasn't sloppy coding. It was deliberate interference.
Someone was throttling Runestone from the inside.
My blood ran cold.
At the evening meeting, I laid it out for the team. "They're tampering with the Core. Masking it as system failures so players think the game is unstable. If the community loses trust, the Federation won't need to shut us down — people will abandon us themselves."
Evie's face was pale with anger. "That's… sabotage. In broad daylight."
Mike cursed under his breath. "Do they think we're blind?"
Natalie, who had come to check on us, crossed her arms. "They're betting you won't be able to prove it. Accuse them, and they'll drown you in paperwork. Deny it, and you bleed players until you're nothing."
Silence settled heavy around the table.
For a moment, despair threatened to creep in. But then I remembered the faces in those raid clips, the voices chanting "Runestone is ours." They hadn't fought for us just to see us collapse at the first sign of pressure.
I stood. "Then we don't fight them on their terms. We fight on ours."
That night, I stayed in the studio long after everyone had gone. The supervisors thought oversight gave them control — but they didn't know about the System within me.
The Game Creator System glowed faintly in my vision as I pressed my hand to the Core.[Detected external interference. Override possible. Apply?]
"Yes."
Energy surged through me, not just stabilizing the broken code but weaving in hidden threads — a secret layer invisible to anyone without the System's sight. A backdoor only I could open.
If the Federation wanted to sabotage Runestone, I would make sure the game itself healed faster than they could wound it.
But that wasn't enough. Players needed to see something too, something that reminded them Runestone was alive, unbroken.
So I crafted a surprise. A new event, hidden deep in the Core, designed to trigger the next time supervisors tried to interfere. A living message woven into gameplay itself.
When I finally leaned back from the Core, the sun was rising. My eyes burned, my hands shook, but for the first time in days, I felt fire in my chest again.
The next evening, the sabotage came again.
Players screamed in frustration as their raid froze, cards flickering out of existence. Supervisors smirked from their corner, already preparing to file their "error logs."
But then, something unexpected happened.
Instead of collapsing, the raid shifted. The broken battlefield shimmered, reshaping into a glowing arena where a colossal figure appeared — not an enemy, but a guardian draped in runes of sapphire light.
Its voice thundered across the game:
"Runestone endures. Together, we rise beyond chains."
The players erupted. Screenshots, clips, live reactions flooded forums within minutes. Far from losing trust, the community grew louder, more united.
And the supervisors? Their smirks vanished. They typed frantically into their terminals, but no matter what they did, the guardian refused to disappear.
It was proof, right there in front of everyone, that Runestone was fighting back.
By midnight, hashtags trended worldwide: #RunestoneLives, #BreakTheChains. Civilians, Players, even journalists joined in.
Natalie arrived at the studio the next morning with a half-smile. "You've lit another fire. They'll hate you for it. But you've bought time."
Evie, still buzzing with energy, slapped my shoulder. "Theo, that was genius. You turned their sabotage into an event."
Mike grinned through bloodshot eyes. "Players are already calling the guardian 'Theo's Avatar.' They think you coded it on purpose."
I chuckled tiredly. "Maybe I did."
But deep inside, I knew the System had amplified my intent far beyond what I'd planned. It wasn't just me anymore. Runestone itself was alive, pushing back.
Of course, the Federation wasn't finished.
Two days later, they launched a new attack. Not sabotage this time, but law. A formal decree: civilians found attempting to bypass restrictions into Runestone would face penalties. Accounts banned, fines imposed, even surveillance flagged.
They thought fear would do what sabotage couldn't.
For a moment, the forums went quiet. Protest slowed. Doubt began to creep in.
But then, a new wave surged — Players posting under aliases, guides spreading like wildfire on how to slip past restrictions, civilians refusing to give up. Clips emerged of families playing together, children laughing as they summoned dragons, parents shouting strategy like veterans.
"If Runestone is a crime, then I'll gladly be guilty," one viral post read.
The Council wanted control. Instead, they had ignited defiance.
Late that night, after the chaos of the day, I sat alone with the Core again. My reflection stared back, eyes shadowed by exhaustion but still burning.
The System pulsed.
[New Objective: Protect the flame.]
I whispered into the silence. "I will."
Because this was no longer just about me. Not just about FrostHaven. Not even just about Runestone.
It was about a world that had grown tired of being told to obey, tired of joy being rationed, tired of dreams being caged.
And if the Council wanted a war, then maybe — just maybe — it had already begun.