**Chapter 12: The First Guilds**
**Day 1,115.**
**Status: Social Engineer.**
**Current Mood: Machiavellian.**
Sociology is just biology on a macro scale. If you put a hundred rats in a box with unlimited food, they breed. If you put a hundred rats in a box with one piece of cheese and a knife, they organize.
I sat in the War Room of the Atacama facility, the holographic map of Aethelgard floating above the central console like a glittering, violent nebula.
"The chaotic phase is ending," Zero observed. The AI's avatar was analyzing user behavior patterns, which manifested as swirling streams of colored light. "The player base has exceeded sixty million active users. The 'Silver Visor' injection has professionalized the dungeon diving experience. However, individual mortality rates remain high."
I watched a feed from the *Weeping Woods*. A solo player—a Level 4 Vanguard named *IronChad*—was currently being disemboweled by a pack of Flux Slimes because he had nobody to watch his back.
"Solo players are inefficient," I said, taking a bite of a synth-apple I had fabricated from pure carbon and water vapor. It tasted like green jolly ranchers. "They die too fast. When they die, the bio-feedback loop is interrupted. I lose my Tithe."
"Recommendation?" Zero asked.
"Tribalism," I said. "Humans are pack animals. They crave hierarchy. They crave a flag to die for. Right now, they are just a mob. I need to turn them into armies."
I swiped my hand across the console, bringing up the heat maps of player interactions.
Two distinct clusters were forming. They weren't official organizations yet—the game didn't support guilds mechanically—but they were ideological gravity wells.
On the eastern jagged coast of Aethelgard, in a zone called the *Obsidian Scar*, the players were brutal. They were the power-levelers, the ex-military contractors, the competitive FPS players who saw the world as a leaderboard. They killed monsters, and if a player got in their way, they killed the player too.
They called themselves the "Blades."
On the western plains, in the *Sun-Dappled Meadows*, the vibe was different. It was defensive. Players clustered around high-level Weavers who specialized in restoration magic. They shared loot. They revived strangers.
They called themselves "Sanctuary."
"Order and Chaos," I mused. "The oldest story in the book. Let's see what happens when we force them into the same room."
"You intend to introduce the Guild System?" Zero asked.
"I intend to drop a piece of meat between two starving dogs," I corrected.
I opened the code for the World Event generator.
"Zero, spawn a Field Boss. Something massive. Something that requires at least fifty players to kill."
**[Constructing: The Broodmother.]**
**[Location: The Crying canyon (Equidistant from both factions).]**
**[Loot Table: Generating...]**
"Override the loot table," I commanded. "Drop the standard gear. I want a unique item. A *Guild Charter Token*."
"Effect?"
"The holder can establish a formal Guild. It grants a shared chat channel, a shared bank, and most importantly... a *Sanctuary Zone* in the real world. A localized reality anchor where monsters cannot spawn during the Mana Break."
Zero paused. **[That is a strategic asset of immense value. Governments would go to war for a Safe Zone.]**
"Exactly," I smiled. "But governments can't log in. Only players can."
I leaned forward, my eyes reflecting the blue light of the map.
"Let the politics begin."
***
**Simulation Layer: Aethelgard**
**The Crying Canyon**
The Canyon was a scar in the earth, a mile deep and choked with purple fog. The sound of wind rushing through the rock formations sounded like weeping—hence the name.
Damon stood on a ridge overlooking the misty depths.
In the real world, Damon was a thirty-five-year-old corporate liquidator. He fired people for a living. He was good at it because he understood that empathy was a budget leak. In Aethelgard, he was *BloodLetter*, a Level 14 Berserker wielding a massive greatsword made of jagged bone.
He wore the Silver Visor. He was one of the competent ones.
Behind him stood forty players. They were a motley crew of Vanguards and Shadows, all wearing red armbands.
"Report," Damon barked.
A Shadow stepped out of stealth. "The target is in the center of the canyon. A giant spider. *The Broodmother*. Level 25 Raid Boss."
Damon grinned. His avatar's face was scarred and rugged, an idealized version of his own sharp features. "And the competition?"
"Sanctuary is moving in from the west," the scout reported. "Maybe sixty of them. Led by *Saintess*."
Damon spat over the edge of the cliff. "Sixty sheep. They have too many healers, not enough DPS. They think they can out-sustain the damage."
"What's the play, boss?" asked a Vanguard named *Rictus*. "Do we wait for them to engage?"
"No," Damon said, drawing his bone sword. It hummed with a dark, red energy—a passive effect of his class that increased damage as his health dropped. "We let them start the fight. We let them take the aggro. And when the Boss is at twenty percent..."
He turned to his group.
"We kill the healers."
A murmur of excitement went through the Crimson Blades. This wasn't just about loot. This was about dominance. The System allowed Player Killing (PK) in contested zones, but there was no penalty for it other than a red name tag. To Damon, a red name tag wasn't a warning; it was a badge of honor.
"The Architect gave us power," Damon said, his voice low and charismatic. "He didn't give it to us to hold hands and sing Kumbaya. He gave it to us to conquer. Today, we establish the first Kingdom."
***
**The Western Ridge**
Elena adjusted her gloves. She was a *Life Weaver*, a rare healing class she had unlocked by spending three days straight curing NPCs of a virtual plague in the starter city.
In reality, Elena was an ER nurse in London. She was tired of losing patients. She was tired of the chaos of the Mana Break.
"Hold the line," Elena commanded softly. Her voice was amplified by a wind spell, reaching the ears of the sixty players behind her. "The Broodmother deals poison damage. Weavers, keep *Cleanse* on rotation. Vanguards, rotate aggro every thirty seconds. Do not let the stacks build up."
"Elena," whispered a young archer next to her. "The Blades are on the east ridge. I can see them."
Elena looked across the canyon. She saw the silhouette of the Berserker with the greatsword.
"I know," she said.
"They're going to flag on us," the archer said nervously. "Everyone knows BloodLetter is a psycho."
"Focus on the objective," Elena said firmly. "The System Announcement said the winner gets a *Charter*. If we get that, we can create a Safe Zone. We can protect the low-levels. We can stop the grieving."
She raised her staff, a rod of white ash topped with a glowing amber crystal.
"We don't fight for glory," Elena declared. "We fight so others don't have to. Sanctuary! Advance!"
***
**The Atacama Facility**
I watched the two armies descend into the fog.
It was cinematic. On the left, the red-armband warriors, moving with predatory silence. On the right, the white-clad healers and tanks, moving in a tight phalanx.
In the center, the Broodmother screamed.
It was a horrific creature, mostly legs and eyes, spitting venom that dissolved the virtual rock.
"Here we go," I whispered.
I tapped the console.
"Zero, adjust the drop rates for health potions in that zone to zero percent."
**[That will severely disadvantage the attackers,]** Zero noted.
"Exactly. It makes the Healers the most valuable resource on the field. And it makes the Blades desperate."
I leaned back. "Let's see if greed beats altruism."
***
**The Battle of Crying Canyon**
The fight began with chaos.
The Broodmother didn't care about politics. She sprayed a cone of acid that melted three of Sanctuary's tanks instantly.
"Heal! Heal!" Elena shouted, casting a dome of golden light.
The Sanctuary line held. They were disciplined. They rotated the injured back, topped them off, and sent them back in. It was a war of attrition.
Across the canyon floor, the Blades charged.
Damon didn't bother with tanking. He leaped onto the spider's back, hacking at the chitinous armor. His damage output was insane. Every swing took a visible chunk off the Boss's health bar.
"DPS! Push it!" Damon roared.
The two groups fought the same monster, ignoring each other for the moment. The Broodmother's health plummeted.
**[HP: 75%... 60%... 50%...]**
At 50%, the Broodmother enranged. She shrieked, and hundreds of smaller spiders—*Broodlings*—erupted from the ground.
The Sanctuary line buckled. They were swarmed.
"Protect the Weavers!" Elena screamed, bashing a spider away with her staff.
The Blades were struggling too. They had high damage, but no sustain. Their health bars were dropping.
Damon looked across the battlefield. He saw the golden dome of protection around Elena.
He made a calculation.
"Rictus," Damon shouted over the din of battle. "Take the Shadow Squad. Go through the stealth. Flank the white-robes."
"Now?" Rictus asked. "The Boss is still at half health!"
"We need their mana," Damon said coldly. "We don't need *them*."
Rictus grinned. "Understood."
Ten shadows vanished from the battlefield.
I watched from my god-view.
"Classic move," I commented. "Eliminate the support structure."
A moment later, the slaughter began.
Sanctuary was focused on the spiders. They didn't see the invisible knives until it was too late.
Five Weavers dropped in the first second, their throats slit by the Shadow Squad.
"Ambush!" Elena cried out. "Turn! Defensive circle!"
But the chaos was absolute. The Broodlings were biting from the front, and the Blades were stabbing from the back.
Damon laughed. He abandoned the Boss and charged into the Sanctuary lines. He was a whirlwind of bone and steel. He cut down a Vanguard, kicked a Weaver into a pit of acid, and carved a path toward Elena.
"Why?" Elena shouted, blocking a strike with a mana shield. "We need to kill the Boss!"
"The Boss drops one token!" Damon roared, smashing his sword against her shield. The impact cracked the magical barrier. "One King, Elena! Not a committee!"
He shattered her shield.
Elena fell back. She looked at her people—her friends—dying. Not just dying, but being farmed.
The Blades weren't just killing them; they were looting their corpses before the bodies despawned.
Rage, hot and unfamiliar, flooded Elena's chest.
"Sanctuary!" she screamed, her voice changing. It wasn't the voice of a nurse anymore. It was the voice of a Valkyrie. "Switch to *Smite*! Burn them!"
The surviving Weavers shifted their stance. The healing gold light turned into searing white fire.
The battle turned into a three-way brawl. Spiders eating players, players killing players.
It was messy. It was brutal.
And it was feeding me.
**[Tithes Received: +0.00005%.]**
**[Source: Emotional Resonance (Betrayal/Rage).]**
"Delicious," I whispered.
***
The Broodmother fell at the worst possible moment.
With the players distracted killing each other, the Boss had been whittled down by DoT (Damage over Time) spells. She let out a final death rattle and collapsed.
A massive treasure chest slammed into the mud.
Silence fell over the canyon.
There were maybe twenty players left standing. Twelve Blades. Eight Sanctuary.
Damon stood closest to the chest. He was covered in digital gore, his health bar flashing red at 5%.
Elena stood ten yards away. She was out of mana, her robes torn, bleeding from a dozen wounds.
Damon put his hand on the chest.
"Game over, Saintess," he panted.
He opened it.
A golden light bathed his face. He reached in and pulled out a heavy, ornate scroll sealed with red wax.
**[Item Acquired: Charter of the First Guild.]**
**[System Announcement: The Crimson Blades have claimed the First Seal.]**
**[Guild Established: The Crimson Blades.]**
**[Guild Master: BloodLetter.]**
**[Perk Unlocked: "Warlord's Domain" - All guild members gain +5% Damage in contested territory.]**
Damon held the scroll up triumphantly. "The Crimson Blades rise!"
His surviving men cheered.
Elena fell to her knees. They had failed. They had tried to be good, and they had been slaughtered for it.
Damon walked over to her. He raised his bone sword.
"Mercy?" he asked, mocking her.
Elena looked up. Her eyes were dry. "No," she whispered. "Memory."
Damon swung.
Elena's avatar shattered into blue pixels.
Damon looked at the spot where she had been. "Weakness," he scoffed.
He turned to his men. "We have the Charter. We have the power. Now, we go back to the real world. We find a dungeon. And we claim it."
***
**The Real World: London**
Elena woke up in her apartment, ripping the Silver Visor off her head.
She wasn't crying.
She stood up, her hands shaking with adrenaline. She walked to the window and looked out at the London skyline, where the purple glow of the Thames reflected off the clouds.
She picked up her phone. The group chat for "Sanctuary" was exploding.
*"We lost everything."*
*"They stole my gear."*
*"I'm quitting."*
Elena typed a message.
**Elena:** *We didn't lose. We learned.*
She looked at her reflection in the glass. The "Mana Sight" from the Silver Visor lingered. She could see the ley lines of the city.
**Elena:** *Damon thinks power is taking things. Power is keeping things alive. He has the Charter, but we have the numbers. We have the trust.*
**Elena:** *Sanctuary is officially a Guild as of tonight. No Charter. No buffs. Just us.*
**Elena:** *And if I see a Red Armband in London... I will show them that healers know exactly how the human body breaks.*
***
**The Atacama Facility**
"The narrative is set," I said, leaning back in my chair. "The villains have the castle. The heroes are the rebellion."
"Analysis," Zero chimed in. "The establishment of 'The Crimson Blades' has caused a spike in aggressive player behavior globally. PK incidents are up 300%. However, the formation of 'Sanctuary' has created a massive network of support. They are organizing supply chains for potions and gear."
"Conflict drives innovation," I said.
"There is one anomaly," Zero noted.
"Oh?"
"Subject Ren. He was present in the canyon."
I blinked. "I didn't see him."
"He was in stealth. He watched the entire encounter from the ridge. He did not intervene."
I pulled up the replay. Sure enough, a faint shimmer on the cliffside. Ren, the Strider, watching the slaughter.
"Why didn't he help Elena?" I asked. "He has a hero complex."
"Perhaps he realized that saving them would weaken them," Zero suggested. "Or perhaps... he was looking at the loot table."
I zoomed in on Ren's position.
As Damon walked away with the Guild Charter, Ren had dropped down into the canyon. He had walked over to the corpse of the Broodmother.
While the Blades were celebrating and the Sanctuary was dying, Ren had used his **[Scavenger]** skill on the Boss's body—a skill I taught him when I was playing as the Beggar.
He pulled something out of the mandibles.
It wasn't a Charter. It was a small, black egg.
**[Item Acquired: Egg of the Weaver (Unique Pet).]**
I started to laugh.
"The Blades got the title. Sanctuary got the moral high ground. And Ren got the spider."
"It seems the solo player has decided to create his own faction," Zero said. "A faction of one."
"Not one," I corrected, looking at the egg pulsing with shadowy energy. "A faction of two."
I stood up. The show was getting good.
"Zero, approve the Guild creation for Sanctuary manually. Give them a hidden perk: 'Martyr's Grace'. Increased healing when allies are low health."
"That is interference, Architect."
"It's balancing," I said, walking toward the Sarcophagus. "If the game is too hard, people quit. If it's too easy, they get bored. I need to keep the tension perfect."
I climbed into the suit. The gravity seals engaged.
"The First Guilds are born," I whispered as the weight of the world settled back onto my shoulders. "Now, let's give them a war worth fighting."
**[Day 1,115 Ends.]**
**[Daily Growth: +10% + 0.006% Tithes.]**
My power increases without limits. And finally, so does the drama.
**Chapter 12: The First Guilds**