POV: First Person
I followed the direction given by the rare Cygnax—a stark contrast of advanced, grafted chrome technology against the fantasy cityscape—heading North toward the massive structure dominating the horizon. The Adventurer's Guild was built for commerce and intimidation, situated where the Town Square met the grounds of the Counsel.
I made my way to a registration terminal and addressed the administrator.
She was a pragmatic human woman, wearing the durable, dark clothing typical of the Chambers Clan, though softened by the Guild's neutral uniform. Her face was severe, framed by white hair, and she possessed a no-nonsense air fitting for someone whose clan operates the heavy industry of the North East. Her only visible accessory was a high-tech data slate, an unusual piece of gear in a city where regular gun technology barely stretched past lever action rifles.
"I choose Gentleman Fighter," I insisted.
She sighed. "That is not a recognized archetype, Fledgling. The system requires a common foundation to assign basic skills. Choose again."
"My skills are in physics and exploiting weak points," I countered. "I require a designation that reflects my method."
"Very well. Rogue, then," she muttered, attempting to force a default. She placed her hand on the smooth crystal of the terminal. "Neural sync initiating."
The moment the process began, the low, steady hum of the Guild Hall's massive green crystals—the magical power source—stuttered. The Guild's entire background ambiance of digital and magical energy flickered, giving way to a jagged, anxious static.
The terminal screen began to cycle through standard human classification IDs at an impossible, blistering speed. The light on the counter dimmed to a violent, strobing red, illuminating the alarm in the Chambers Administrator's eyes.
"What in the Hells is this?" she demanded, snatching her hand back. "The power output is spiking! It's rejecting the sync point!"
Instead of a status screen, the entire surface of the crystal terminal displayed a singular, flashing message, projected large enough to be seen across the counter:
PROTOCOL VIOLATION: HOSTILE ENTITY DETECTED. IMMEDIATE DISCONNECTION MANDATORY.
A wave of intense, raw digital force slammed against Lee's cerebral cortex—a targeted, brutal rejection. His vision tunneled. The crystalline lights, the shocked faces of the Guild members, and the Administrator's sudden panic all dissolved into a searing, blinding white pain. The world collapsed into static and agony.
POV: Third Person (switch)
He ripped the Neural Visor off his head, scrambling backward onto the floor of the camper. He was back.
The sterile perfection of the Guild Hall was instantly replaced by the humid, metallic stench of his sanctuary—the inside of the Frankenstein camper. His body throbbed with a physical phantom pain from the system's violent expulsion.
They know where I am. The illegal connection was tracked.
He crawled to the cracked window of the camper. Below him lay the sprawling, polluted cityscape of the slums. But rising above the haze, a gleaming, unstoppable force, was the corporate tower that ruled every aspect of his real life: The Corporation.
It was a black, composite structure that did not look like architecture; it looked like a weapon, its spire piercing the clouds. It was the absolute, all-consuming monopoly, and it was run by Jacob Ahriman, CEO.
His neural implant pinged. A secure, encrypted call was coming in.
He jammed his finger against the receiving plate.
"Lee," Daeghan's voice was crisp, dangerously controlled. "The God's Last Respite system defense protocol engaged successfully. That expulsion was necessary."
"Necessary?" Lee snapped, rubbing his temples. "I was flagged! Why did the system flag me?"
Daeghan's voice was cold. "The system's internal defense protocol automatically flags any non-native entry that attempts to register. It makes you trackable within the game's internal metrics."
"So, what's the plan?" Lee demanded. "I can't complete the mission if I can't even get past the front desk without being ejected by a system defense. I need access to missions, and I need money to live in that city."
"The plan is beautiful in its simplicity," Daeghan said, his voice gaining that familiar, chilling satisfaction. "Registration is a liability. I need you to be invisible from the game's internal metrics. Furthermore, I need to minimize our connection time. Jacob Ahriman controls the entire data grid and security for this entire region. If he catches the illegal power drain or the high-level encrypted back-channel signal needed for the connection, he will trace it back to my location. I need you invisible in the game so I can stay safe here."
"But the Guild is essential for accessing bounties and missions," Lee argued. "I need Guild access."
"Precisely," Daeghan countered. "Therefore, I am granting you a low-level, encrypted system bypass right now. This is a backdoor that will allow you to interface with the Guild and the city's gates."
"What does the bypass do?"
"The bypass forces the world—the NPCs, the Guild's terminals, the gates—to recognize you as a low-level, registered Scout (Unconventional Focus). You will be perceived as a member, but this bypass is shallow; it will not grant you any of the typical numerical benefits or safety nets you might expect from a standard registration."
A new, faint signal pulsed on his visor—the bypass key. It felt like a small, digital lock snapping into place.
"The ultimate illusion, Lee," Daeghan concluded. "A registered member with no stats. Go back in. Use your mind, not their numbers. And remember: the Counsel is made up of the Elders of every major clan, but their immediate proximity is controlled territory, guarded by the Caliber Clan. Avoid them until you are ready."
The call terminated.
Lee stared at the black spire of The Corporation. He was a registered ghost, armed with nothing but math and metal, dropped into a world of magic and Chi, lacking the very metrics everyone else relied on.
He put the Neural Visor back on. He re-initiated the sync. It was time to return.