Since Regna Fracta's explosive rise to popularity in 2221, it had become a digital lifeline for millions, a solo sandbox RPG offering a universe of possibilities far removed from daily life and its restrictions. Arnold, who had always used games and web-series as his primary escape from reality, had climbed aboard the hype train early. He was among the first wave of users when the game launched over a year ago.
But the time spent playing was always rationed. During his final, brutal year of university, playing was a reward, not a right. He'd allowed himself sessions only on weekends, the fear of failing a single subject a more terrifying boss than any the game could throw at him. His progression had been slow and methodical but each time he immersed himself in the game he could forget about the stress and struggles that constantly pressed down on his psyche.
Now, slumped in his worn gaming chair and clad in soft, comfortable clothes, he looked at the bright launcher screen with a faint, weary smile. This game, with its pixelated aesthetics and demanding gameplay, had been one of his only constants besides exhaustion itself.
He clicked the 'Launch' button and a familiar text prompt popped up.
[Last login: 17 days ago. Current location - Jötunheim.]
[Do you wish to continue? Yes/No]
He clicked [Yes].
[...]
[Welcome back to Regna Fracta 'Mercury'!]
The screen resolved into the familiar, deliberately low-fi view of his character, 'Mercury', standing motionless in a vast, snowy landscape. The developers had chosen a retro, pixel-art style partly for performance, but mostly to encourage players to use their imagination to fill in the blanks. Arnold, an engineer by training, appreciated the elegant efficiency of it. The game's massive success was a testament to how many others did, too.
He wiggled the mouse, making Mercury take a few stiff steps through the deep snow, reacquainting his fingers with the controls. It had been weeks. He panned the camera, observing his immediate vicinity: endless white, jagged peaks in the distance, and a sky the color of lead. He was alone. He opened his minimap, confirming his isolation in the frozen hinterlands of Jötunheim, one of the game's most dangerous and least-documented regions.
His companions, the NPC members of his guild, were nowhere to be seen.
Arnold's entire playstyle was built around a single, incredibly lucky break from the game's launch. To celebrate its release, the developers had created a premium gambling wheel. Pay for a spin, win a prize. Most players ignored it or got useless trinkets. Arnold, in a moment of uncharacteristic greed, had bought one single spin.
And he had hit the jackpot. A [Mythical]-rated win.
His prize wasn't a flashy weapon or a game-breaking attack spell. It was a passive skill called [Blessing of the World Tree]. The name promised immense power, but the reality was heavily restricted to maintain game balance. The skill offered him no personal combat power. Instead, it was a permanent buff he could apply only to a limited number of NPCs, enhancing their growth and potential.
At first, he'd been bitterly disappointed. What use was a buff he couldn't even use on himself? But over time, it had fundamentally shaped his experience. It had opened the door to a unique playstyle: Guild Building. He wasn't soloing the game, he was a manager and somwhat of a strategist. He recruited NPCs, trained them, equipped them, and sent them on missions. It was a mix of city-building, coaching, and economics. That one skill was now the main reason he still played.
Focusing on the present his mind wandered. Why was Mercury alone in this frozen wasteland? Memory trickled back. A post on a fringe forum, buried deep in the Jötunheim sub-section. It mentioned a hidden dungeon here, rumored to contain a rare magic scroll - a {S} rank spell that could finally bolster his personal attack power.
As a Mage, his build was specialized in Divination and Defense magic. This let him find the best recruits, locate hidden items, and solve complex puzzles, and when things got dangerous, he could turtle up behind layers of shields or flee if push came to shove. The glaring weakness was his pathetic offensive capability. This scroll was supposed to be the solution.
He'd left his guild members behind because Jötunheim was lethally unpredictable. High-ranking monsters roamed freely. Players could respawn after a time penalty; NPCs, once his companions died, were gone for good, only retrievable through very expensive and rare methods. He couldn't risk them.
Recalling that the forum post was vague, he'd used his Divination spells to pinpoint the dungeon's location before his last logout. He was sure he was close. He cast the spell again to be certain.
[You have used the Divination spell 'Locate Treasure' {A}.]
The rank reminder was a small comfort. He was an A-ranked Mage, teetering on the brink of the prestigious S-rank. He just needed a few more good farming sessions.
A moment later, the game responded.
[Spell succeeded. Follow the marked route.]
A thin, almost imperceptible thread of golden light appeared on his screen, cutting a path through the swirling snow. He followed it, his pixelated avatar trudging forward for quite a while until it stopped before a cave entrance almost completely obscured by a drift. It was small - maybe three people wide and half as tall.
"There it is," he muttered to the silent room. "Let's see if that post was telling the truth."
A flicker of excitement cut through his lingering dejection. Carefully, he cast [Detect Traps] and [Locate Danger].
[Detect Traps: Positive. Dungeon entrance confirmed.]
[Locate Danger: Extremely Positive. High-level threat detected.]
The second message made his stomach clench. His cowardly nature, a trait of his he prided himself with, screamed at him. In Regna Fracta, death wasn't just an inconvenience. It meant a time penalty before you could log back in, a loss of hard-earned experience progress, and a chance to drop valuable items from your inventory. He avoided it at all costs.
His internal alarm bells were tingeling inside his head without stop. 'Damnit. I already expected this would be a high-level dungeon but this is way too risky. I should wait. Level up the guild, gear them up properly, then come back. Yeah, that's the smart move.'
He sighed, the sound loud in his tiny apartment. The decision was made. If his spell had this intense of a reaction, it wasn't worth the gamble. He had made experiences in the past where he had underestimated the effectiveness of this spell and found himself clinging onto the last strads of survival.
According to his judgement he began the process of turning his character around.
It was then that the attack came.
[Danger! Your character was attacked and lost a quarter of his health points!]
Arnold's eyes widened. On the screen, Mercury stood rigid for a moment before staggering, crimson droplets spraying from his chest to stain the pristine snow. A single, impossibly fast shot arrow had buried deep in his left shoulder.
[You are bleeding and will constantly lose health points from now on.]
"What the hell!" he shouted.
His hands flew across the keyboard. He cast [Minor Heal] and slammed the key for a high-grade healing potion from his inventory. The pixelated vial appeared magically in Mercury's hand, and he drank it, the bleeding status blinking away.
Only a moment later a speech bubble materialized on the screen.
[Ah… I missed your heart. How unfortunate … how come a high-ranking Mage like you comes to a faroff location like this? Arcane studies? ... how did you find this place anyways?]
A figure emerged from the darkness of the cave entrance. It was clad in deep black, a hood obscuring its face. The most striking feature was a red symbol emblazoned on the chest of the robe: a grotesque, horned demon's head.
In one hand, the humanoid silouette held a menacing, darkwood bow and had a quiver strapped to its back.
"Are you serious right now…?" Arnold whispered, a slight nervousness manifesting itself in his mind.
He recognized the insignia. This was a member of The Syndicate, one of the most notorious and powerful NPC factions in the game. They were bogeymen, assassins and lunatics powerful enough to hunt down, kill and permanently cripple S or even higher ranked players who crossed them. Their members varied greatly in strength but the upper echelons were endgame bosses he had only seen in gameplays before.
'This damn troll.' The realization hit him. The forum post was a trap. Someone had laid bait to lure greedy or curious players to their doom.
Because this Syndicate member wasn't just any NPC. A notification from the game a moment later confirmed it.
[You have triggered a hidden boss fight.]
[Enemy: Elder Syndicate Member Yarei {S}.]
S-rank. A whole tier above him. And while Arnold was a defensive and evasion specialist, this thing was a purebred killer.
He didn't waste time typing a response. His fingers danced, layering spell upon spell as his character's condition stabilized.
[You have used the spell 'Air Shield' {B}.]
[You have used the spell 'Mana Armor' {A}.]
[You have used the spell 'Mana Wall' {A}.]
[You have used the spell 'Mana Recovery' {B}.]
[You have used the spell 'Increased Regeneration' {B}.]
It was one of his best defensive combinations. 'Air Shield' would deflect physical projectiles. 'Mana Armor' and 'Mana Wall' would create layered barriers against magical or magically infused attacks which were the norm for most high-level fights. The enemy had used a bow, so he was likely a Ranger. This setup had once withstood the full-force magical assault of a {S-} rank Yeti Shaman for a respectable amount of time. He had confidence in it.
A smirk tugged at Arnold's lips. 'I wanna see you try shooting me this time, idiot.'
The Syndicate member didn't interrupt the casting. It just watched. The AI's arrogance was baffling.
Another speech bubble appeared.
[Not bad, truly. You are quite powerful. I can even sene the presence of a ancient power eminating from you. How strange ... But even so it is not enough to go against me. Far from it … you should have stayed in your Magictower, Mage.]
Arnold's brows furrowed. The NPC's condescension and cryptic comments were starting to get under his skin. He wouldn't be able to maintain all these spells for long - maybe a few minutes, even with 'Mana Recovery' active. His priority was still escape. He began the casting sequence for [Escape Route], a high-level Divination spell that would chart a safe path out of immediate danger.
Suddenly the figure vanished.
It didn't move, it simply ceased to be in front of the cave. Arnold's finger froze over the keyboard. His character's gaze swept the empty landscape.
[Your character has been critically wounded! You are about to die!]
"?!"
A furious, disbelieving grimace twisted Arnold's face. On the screen, the dark-clad figure had materialized from the shadow cast by Mercury himself. It was now standing behind his avatar, a ominous, dark-glowing sword thrust completely through his back, the tip protruding from his chest. The pixelated heart, a vital hit point organ, was pierced.
In a single, effortless motion, it had bypassed 'Air Shield', shattered 'Mana Wall', and torn through 'Mana Armor' as if they were paper.
The revelation was staggering. This wasn't a Ranger. It was a Prowler, a class specializing in stealth, shadow manipulation, and brutal, close-quarters assassinations. The bow had been a ruse. And the weapon it held… it had to be S-rank or higher, capable of ignoring magical defenses. Against such a weapon, his Mage's pitiful physical defense stat was meaningless.
'FUCK.'
The word was a silent scream in his mind. The frustration of the entire day - the eleventh rejection, the condescending pity, the long journey back to his shitty apartment - culminated in this single, digital death. He was about to lose progress, possibly items, and be locked out of the game for two full days even though that seemed to be a rather miniscule problem compared to the others.
Before the screen faded, the Syndicate member spoke one last time, its text a final, mocking gesture.
[This is the decree of the Great Demon.]
The world turned black.
[You have been slain.]
[Some of your progress will be lost and your character may lose some items. You received a 48-hour time penalty before being able to respawn.]
"Bullshit!" Arnold roared, slamming his fist down on the cheap board desk. It shuddered violently. "What a stupid game! This damned NPC! 'This is the decree of the Great Demon.' Shut your stupid mouth! Argh!"
He pushed the power button on his PC, the screen dying instantly and plunging the room into near-darkness, lit only by the sickly orange glow from the billboard outside. The vein on his forehead throbbed with painful intensity. There was nothing left to do.
Stomping into his bedroom, he let himself fall onto the thin mattress, the springs complaining with a loud creak. He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he could see was the pixelated spray of blood on the snow and the cool, mocking text of the Syndicate assassin.
It took a long, long time for sleep to claim him, the bitterness of his double defeat haunting him till he finally fell asleep. At that moment, lying in the gloom of District E11, he had no idea that even after 48 hours he wouldn't be able to relog into the game to get his revenge.