Reever did not hesitate. The moment the other players began moving in different directions, he activated his camouflage skill and blended into the environment. The facility was about to descend into chaos, and his priority was simple. Survive the match, complete the missions, and secure his promotion to Veteran rank.
The system's words echoed in his mind. Teams assigned to sabotage other missions.
That single line was enough to put him on edge.
This was not a small arena. There were roughly three hundred players scattered across an abandoned scientific facility that stretched for kilometers. Corridors, research halls, collapsed laboratories, underground storage areas. A perfect place for ambushes, betrayals, and misunderstandings. The system had not provided any marker to identify which players belonged to which mission group. Anyone could be an enemy. Anyone could pretend to be harmless.
Worse, innocent players could easily be mistaken for saboteurs.
That meant unnecessary deaths.
Reever moved carefully, his steps silent as he passed through dimly lit corridors and broken hallways. Dust floated in the air, disturbed only by the occasional vibration from distant explosions or collapsing structures. Somewhere in the facility, battles had already begun.
"Luckily this is just a game," he thought, keeping his breathing steady. "Death here is just a reset."
Even so, the violence felt real enough.
As he moved deeper into the building, he crossed paths with several players. Five, maybe six. Some ran openly, weapons drawn. Others crept along walls, scanning corners like predators. None of them noticed him. The camouflage skill held firm, bending light and sound just enough to keep him invisible.
If he had been forced to fight, it would not have been a problem. With his current strength and equipment, most rookies were no real threat. Elderwood's words came back to him, though, bringing a trace of caution. Not every rookie was ordinary. There were legacy players, children born into powerful families, trained from a young age, entering the game already carrying ingrained skills.
Those were the dangerous ones.
One of the few rules Reever appreciated about the game was the age restriction. Players could only enter once they reached twenty. No child soldiers. No early rank climbing. At least, that was what the public rules claimed. According to the library records he had read, the game was designed to create fairness. Disabilities were erased upon entry. Injuries healed. Physical limits removed.
That was why the game dominated the world.
Still, Reever was not naïve enough to believe that everyone played by the same rules. Legendary and mythical families always bent reality to their will. If exceptions existed, they existed there.
"The unfairness of life," he thought, letting out a quiet breath.
His panel pinged softly, pulling his attention back to the mission. A locator icon pulsed on the map, guiding him toward the nearest power core. He adjusted his path, moving faster now, slipping through a collapsed research wing and into a section where the walls were scorched and partially melted.
After several minutes, he reached a sealed room. The locator signal was strongest here.
Reever slowed down. He placed his hand on the door and pushed it open.
The moment he stepped inside, his camouflage deactivated.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
The skill did not fail gradually. It shut down instantly, like a switch being flipped. Reever froze and scanned the room, his instincts screaming at him to find the cause.
Then he understood.
Energy.
The room hummed with it. Invisible waves pressed against his senses, dense and unstable. Whatever powered this place interfered directly with stealth skills. Camouflage simply could not exist in such an environment.
He relaxed slightly once he confirmed there was no immediate threat.
The power core floated at the center of the room.
It was large, nearly thirty inches tall, suspended in midair as if gravity had no authority here. Blue light pulsed slowly from its surface, casting soft reflections on the cracked walls and metal floor. Energy arcs flickered across it, quiet but intimidating.
Reever circled the core carefully, eyes sharp. He checked the ceiling, the walls, the floor. No hidden turrets. No traps. No hostile presence.
Clean.
He stepped closer.
At one meter away, the core reacted. The violent energy fluctuations smoothed out, the light stabilizing as if recognizing him. Reever reached out and placed his hand against it.
To his surprise, the core settled instantly.
The energy calmed. The floating stopped. The core lowered itself gently into his palm, obedient and warm.
He blinked once.
"That's it?" he murmured.
The core was lighter than he expected. He turned it over in his hand, spinning it once like a basketball, testing its balance. No resistance. No backlash.
Satisfied, he opened his storage compartment and attempted to place the core inside.
The system denied him.
[Core cannot be stored.
Energy output exceeds player capacity.
A makeshift storage bag will be provided.]
Reever let out a slow breath and clicked his tongue.
"Of course it can't be that easy."
The system's design was obvious now. By forcing players to carry the cores physically, it turned them into moving targets. Anyone who completed a mission instantly became more vulnerable. The longer you survived, the heavier the risk became.
Moments later, a brown military style bag materialized on the floor. Reever picked it up, inspected the reinforced lining, and carefully placed the core inside. Once secured, he slung the bag over his back.
He straightened up.
"With this on me," he thought, "camouflage doesn't matter anymore."
He exited the room and broke into a light run, this time summoning his weapon. The rare sniper rifle materialized in his hands, familiar and reassuring. His senses stretched outward as he moved, scanning corners, checking reflections, listening for footsteps.
He did not get far.
Two figures stepped into his path.
They wore black robes that brushed against the floor, their faces hidden behind white skeletal masks. Their posture was relaxed, confident. Too confident.
"Well, well, well," one of them said, voice rough and amused. "Looks like a fly wandered into its own funeral."
The second tilted his head slightly, voice smooth and calm. "No need to panic. You only need to die once. You'll fail the mission, maybe lose your rank up chance, but there's always next time."
Reever tightened his grip on his rifle.
"Demons," he thought, steadying his stance.
His first real battle of the match had begun.