Part 1: The Bored God of the Clock Tower
The Clock Tower was the highest point in the Starter Town. It was a massive, steampunk spire of brass and gears that ticked loudly enough to be heard in the slums.
Sitting on the gargoyle at the very tip of the needle was a man.
He wore a trench coat that was too big for him and a wide-brimmed hat tilted over his eyes. Resting on his knee was a rifle—a long, sleek weapon made of wood and gunmetal, illegal for a Level 10 player to own.
His name was Roger. And he was bored out of his mind.
"Left, three degrees. Wind speed, 5 knots," Roger mumbled, looking through his scope at a goblin camp three miles away in the forest.
BANG.
A goblin head exploded in the distance.
Roger didn't even smile.
"Too easy," he sighed, chambering another round. "Why is the hitbox on these things the size of a watermelon? Where's the challenge?"
He was about to take a nap when he heard footsteps.
Not the heavy, clanking footsteps of a guard. These were light. Deliberate.
Roger didn't turn around.
"This is a restricted area, tourist," Roger said lazily. "Selfie spot is two floors down."
"I'm not a tourist," a voice replied. Flat. Cold. "I'm a recruiter."
Roger chuckled. He spun around, sitting precariously on the edge of the gargoyle, aiming his rifle directly at the intruder's forehead.
Standing on the narrow maintenance ledge was a young man with dark hair and eyes that looked dead inside.
"Recruiter?" Roger scoffed. "Let me guess. The Dynasty? Black Lotus? You want me to snipe bosses for you while you take the loot?"
"I want you to join my guild," Elian said, ignoring the gun barrel inches from his face. "We have an opening for a mechanic."
Roger raised an eyebrow. "Mechanic? I'm a Marksman, kid."
"You're a bored genius who calculates wind shear for fun," Elian corrected. "And you're wasting your talent killing goblins."
Roger's grin vanished. He cocked the hammer of his rifle.
"Tell you what. I'm bored. So let's play a game."
He pointed to the far end of the clock tower ledge—about fifty meters away.
"If you can walk from there to here without getting shot, I'll listen. If you die... I take that fancy black sword on your back."
Elian didn't hesitate. He turned and walked to the edge.
He turned back.
"Start."
BANG.
Roger fired. He didn't aim to miss. He aimed for the knee.
Elian didn't dodge. He simply shifted his weight.
The bullet tore through the fabric of his pants, missing the skin by a millimeter.
"Luck," Roger muttered.
BANG. BANG.
Two shots. Chest and head.
Elian tilted his head to the left. He twisted his torso to the right.
The movements were minimal. Efficient.
It looked like the bullets were passing through a ghost.
[Passive Skill: Mask of the Stoic Active.]
[Calculating Trajectory... 100%.]
[Agility Check: Passed.]
Elian walked calmly across the ledge. He wasn't running. He was strolling.
Roger's eyes widened. He stood up, firing rapidly now.
BANG-BANG-BANG.
"Die! Why won't you die?!"
Elian reached the gargoyle. He reached out and placed his hand over the barrel of the rifle, pushing it down.
"Because you aim where I am," Elian whispered. "You should aim where I'm going to be."
Roger stared at him. He looked at his smoking gun, then at the monster standing in front of him.
For the first time in two years, Roger's heart was racing.
"Who... who are you?"
"Elian," the boy replied. "Pack your gun, Roger. We have work to do."
Part 2: The House of Chaos
"So," Roger said, adjusting his hat as they walked through the slums toward the East District. "You're telling me you have a blind elf, a cursed gambler, and a child tank? This isn't a guild, Elian. It's a circus."
"It's a ecosystem," Elian replied. "Valen should have secured the Gambler by now. We meet at the warehouse."
They turned the corner to the abandoned warehouse district.
Elian stopped.
The smell of smoke hung in the air. Not the industrial smog of the city, but the sharp scent of burning wood and mana.
"Is that... your base?" Roger asked, pointing.
The heavy steel doors of the warehouse were dented inward. Scorch marks littered the walls.
"Valen!" Elian shouted, breaking into a run.
They rushed through the broken doors.
The scene inside was chaos.
The warehouse was a wreck. Crates were smashed. Kael's anvil was overturned.
In the center of the room, a massive magical barrier flickered, barely holding on.
Inside the barrier huddled Luna and Kael.
Outside the barrier, a single small figure stood against twenty attackers.
It was Titan.
The seven-year-old boy was bruised, bleeding, and barely standing. His shield was cracked.
But he hadn't moved a single inch.
"Give it up, brat!" a mage wearing the gold-trimmed robes of The Dynasty shouted. "Move, and we'll make it quick!"
Titan spat blood. "No."
[Trait: World Eater's Shell Active.]
[Damage Absorbed: 4500.]
[Defense Increasing...]
In the corner, sitting amidst the debris, was Caelum.
The blind elf was shaking violently. He was hugging his knees, his head buried in his arms.
"Help them..." Roger whispered, horrified. "Why isn't the Elf helping?! You said he had 50,000 Mana!"
Elian saw Caelum's status.
[Stress Level: Critical.]
[Mana Leak Detected.]
[System Warning: Anomaly Detection at 89%...]
"He can't," Elian realized, his blood running cold.
Caelum wasn't cowering from fear of the enemy. He was holding himself back.
If Caelum used even 1% of his power to vaporize these low-level thugs, the sudden spike in mana would flag him to the Administrator.
He would be deleted instantly.
He was watching his friends die because saving them would mean erasing himself.
"Valen? Seraphina?" Elian scanned the room.
"They aren't here," Roger noted, unslinging his rifle. "Just the kid and the crafters."
A Dynasty warrior raised a massive warhammer over Titan's small head.
"Die, you stubborn rat!"
Titan looked up. He didn't close his eyes. He prepared to take the hit.
CRACK.
The sound wasn't the hammer hitting Titan.
It was the sound of a bullet passing through the Warrior's wrist.
The hammer fell to the ground with a clang. The warrior screamed, clutching his shattered hand.
The entire Dynasty raid squad turned toward the entrance.
Elian stood there, The Reaper's Edge drawn, his eyes glowing with the golden light of [Terror Gaze].
Beside him, Roger blew smoke from the barrel of his rifle.
"You missed the head," Elian critiqued.
"Wind shear," Roger lied, grinning for the first time. "And I wanted to hear him scream."
Elian stepped forward. The temperature in the warehouse dropped.
"Titan," Elian said softly. "Drop the shield."
The boy looked at Elian. His legs gave out, and he collapsed—but he smiled. "Boss... you're back."
Elian looked at the twenty Dynasty members.
He looked at Caelum, who was weeping silently in the corner from the guilt of inaction.
He looked at the blood on Titan's face.
"Roger," Elian commanded, pointing his sword at the terrified mage leader.
"Welcome to the guild."
Roger laughed. He chambered a fresh round.
"Target rich environment. I think I'm going to like it here."