To illustrate its point, a hundred players scattered throughout the crowd were suddenly wreathed in a violent, pulsing red light.
"A demonstration of authenticity is required."
The ground beneath them did not glitch or pixelate. It erupted. Jagged, metallic tendrils, slick with corrosive rust, shot upwards with brutal, physical force. They impaled bodies, tearing through armor, flesh, and bone. The sounds were not digital static, but the wet, horrific sounds of ripping and breaking, mixed with short, choked-off screams that were silenced forever. The bodies did not vanish. They were tossed aside like broken dolls, lying in grotesque, bleeding heaps. The metallic stench of blood now mixed with the ozone in the air.
The Architect's face began to dissolve.
"Your survival begins now. Climb, or be forgotten."
Then, it was gone.
The Architect's presence vanished, but the evidence of its words remained. The silence that fell was broken only by the moans of the injured, the sobs of the terrified, and the slow, sickening drip of blood from the impaled tendrils.
Ryley stood frozen, the image of the mangled bodies seared into his mind. His ambition was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp understanding. This was not a game to be won. It was a world to be survived.
He was Ryley Dyke, a man with nothing left to lose, standing in a field of death. The first move was his.
The Architect was gone, but its words were branded into their minds, a psychic scar that pulsed with the same rhythm as their frantic heartbeats. Climb, or be forgotten. For a long, suspended moment, the ten thousand players were a gallery of frozen statues, their eyes locked on the grotesque, mangled proof that this was no game. The metallic tang of blood now hung thick in the air, a perfume of terror. Whimpers cut through the silence, the first fragile sounds of breaking sanity.
Ryley stood his ground, his breath coming in short, controlled gasps. The initial, icy shock was hardening into something else—a razor-sharp survival instinct. He analyzed the scene not as a man, but as a player who understood the fundamental rules of a deathmatch. No respawns. One objective. Everything else is an obstacle.
Then, the Administrator's voice returned, not as a sky-filling boom, but as a cold, clear whisper that seemed to originate inside their own skulls, a directive etched directly onto their consciousness:
"Reach the kingdom of Rust, or die."
As the final syllable faded, the ground answered. It began as a subtle tremor, a vibration that tickled the soles of their feet. Within seconds, it escalated into a deep, rhythmic pounding, a seismic drumbeat of approaching doom. It came from the north, from the jagged, rust-caked canyons that lay in the Spire's long shadow.
Heads swiveled in unison. The collective grief and terror were momentarily overridden by a dreadful, morbid curiosity. What fresh hell was this? They were about to find out.
Over the northern ridge, the horizon itself began to move. It wasn't an army; it was a plague. A living, churning tide of corruption poured over the crest. These were the Corrupted—creatures of nightmare forged from twisted flesh and weeping rust. Some scuttled on clusters of sharp, metallic legs, their bodies a chaotic fusion of insect and machine. Others lurched on two legs, their humanoid shapes a mockery of their former selves, with glistening, rusted blades fused to their limbs and hollow, glowing eyes that held no thought, only hunger. The sound was a physical assault: a cacophony of grinding metal, wet, guttural clicks, and shrieks that spoke of endless agony.
The last vestiges of order dissolved.
The crowd erupted into a single, screaming organism of panic. It was no longer a group of individuals; it was a stampede, a wave of pure, animalistic fear crashing southward. The City of Rust, its broken silhouette a promised land against the sickly sky, was the only goal.
"Move! Get out of the way!" a hulking man roared, shoving a smaller player aside. The boy tumbled, his cry cut short as a dozen boots trampled over him. He did not get up.
Ryley was caught in the current. He didn't fight it, but navigated it like a raging river, using his elbows to carve a pocket of space, his eyes fixed on the distant city gates. He saw a young woman, her face pale with terror, trip over a rock. Her hand shot out, clutching at empty air. This time, Ryley didn't just pull her up. He hauled her close, his face inches from hers, his voice a low, intense snarl meant to cut through her panic.
"Look at me!" he barked. Her wide, glistening eyes focused on his. "If you fall, you die. Your legs are your life. Now run!"
He released her, and she stumbled forward with renewed, desperate energy. It wasn't compassion; it was asset management. A living player was a potential ally, a distraction for the monsters, a body that could hold a gate. A dead one was just a piece of the landscape.
The drama unfolded in vignettes of terror all around him. A man who had chosen a Mage class tried to stand and fight, hurling a weak fireball at the advancing horde. It fizzled against the lead creature's hide, which didn't even break stride. The creature lunged, and the mage's scream was swallowed by the tide of monsters. A group of three players had linked arms, trying to form a defensive line, but the sheer force of the panicked crowd broke them apart, scattering them into the chaos.
The Corrupted hit the rear of the fleeing mass. The sounds were not of combat, but of slaughter. The wet thuds of impacts, the sharp cracks of bone, and the brief, horrific screams that were suddenly silenced. It fueled the panic into a frenzy. They weren't just running to safety anymore; they were running from a grinder.
---
High above, perched on a crumbling archway that overlooked the plain from the relative safety of the city's outer ruins, a figure watched the exodus. His armor was not the pristine, new leather of the arrivals, but a patchwork of scarred metal and hardened hide, stained deep with the hues of rust and old blood. He did not move as the carnage unfolded below.
A voice, raspy and laced with a deep, ancient fatigue, spoke from the shadows behind him. "So. They have finally arrived."
The watcher on the arch didn't turn. "Another batch," he replied, his voice flat and hollow. "Fresh meat for the grinder."
The voice in the shadows let out a sound that was half-chuckle, half-cough. "They come with such fire in their eyes. It never lasts. The Architect has grown impatient. This Tide is stronger than the last."
"Let them run," the watcher said, his gaze fixed on the desperate, surging crowd, his eyes lingering on a few who, like Ryley, seemed to be moving with purpose rather than blind terror.
"Let the Tide test them. The weak will be culled. The strong... they will join our conquest of the Spire. Or they will die trying."
The voice in the shadows sighed, a sound of utter weariness. "Or they will die trying," it echoed.
Then, silence fell between them. They were the Forsaken, the survivors of a previous cycle, and they watched the new lambs march to the slaughter with the grim patience of those who had already walked through hell. The hope and terror of the newcomers were just fleeting noises. The only constants were the Spire, the Rust, and the Tide.