Red Zones didn't behave like disasters; they behaved like markets. Conflict attracted attention, attention attracted competition, and competition attracted structure. Humans didn't invent the hierarchy. The system just gave it rules and waited to see who learned fastest.
Lena didn't ask if I was following. She walked with the posture of someone who understood that words were expensive and time was a currency with diminishing returns. The Pulse Hound trotted ahead, as if its function were to preview error margins.
The woman who absorbed the Mutators stayed behind, shaking, still caught between terror and adaptation. If she survived the first hour, she might become relevant later. If not, the system would repurpose her like any other inefficiency.
We cut across a row of parked taxis, each one aligned to grid boundaries they didn't know existed yesterday. Glass reflected sky partitions in precise angles. The city looked like it had been purchased by mathematics.
Stability ticked again—47% to 48%—without an obvious trigger. Maybe proximity to Red gave returns if one wasn't the target. Maybe Stability itself was a hedge against collapse. The categories felt financial in the worst possible sense: meritocratic, ruthless, indifferent.
Ahead, a billboard flickered, cycling through static that wasn't static. The imagery didn't match advertisements; it matched failure to resolve visual data under new physical constraints. The screen wasn't broken. The laws it relied on had changed. Electricity now served different masters.
Red streaks bled down the adjacent street, deeper, more saturated. Not random; they followed conflict vectors. The sound of struggle echoed before we reached the intersection. Not gunfire—metal and flesh colliding with engineered precision.
Three E1 humans engaged a creature twice their mass. Not a wolf this time. Not quadrupedal. Bipedal, insectile, with legs like articulated scythes.
Classification registered:
Red Zone Fauna: Rift Mantis (Tier 0.4)
Tiering implied progression inside categories. Rift Mantis wasn't Chitin Runner with a costume upgrade—it was a higher order of instability weaponized into form.
The E1 trio fought together. Not because they were trained, but because failure to coordinate would have resulted in collapse. One distracted with feints that targeted the Mantis's center mass. Another targeted its joints. The third circled wide, waiting for opening. Strategy emerged when consequences demanded it.
The Mantis didn't roar—it calculated. Movements sharp, angular, eruptive bursts followed by stillness. Each strike was a vector solving an equation of minimal energy and maximal effect.
Lena didn't rush to join. She observed.
"What are they doing?" I asked quietly.
"They're learning margins," she replied. "Every combat has conversion rates. You spend stamina, Stability, or blood to acquire resource. The system tracks efficiency."
"Is there a way to see efficiency?" I asked.
"Later. When Sync rises, interface expands."
Below, the Mantis clipped one fighter across the ribs. No slicing—just kinetic transfer. The man stumbled, hit a grid line, and regained footing. Stability values flickered above him—68%, then 63%.
Loss promoted caution. Caution promoted adaptation.
The fighter with the pipe struck again. The Mantis sidestepped with inhuman efficiency, but the blow connected with a joint cluster. Chitin cracked. Not much, but enough to trigger system attention.
Resolution Pending…
Resource Probability: 41%
The woman in the trio saw the probability and lunged for the opening. She miscalculated. The Mantis pivoted, mandibles scissoring inches from her throat. Only the grid saved her, redirecting vector enough to reduce lethal accuracy.
She rolled back, panting. Her Sync jumped—19%. Adaptation rewarded near failure.
The third fighter moved in, faster than the others. His movements didn't resemble panic or bravery—they resembled someone who had already decided death wasn't the worst outcome, inefficiency was. He slipped beneath a strike, planted his foot, and drove a steel spike into the Mantis's abdomen.
Chitin ruptured. Liquid that wasn't blood hissed across the pavement. Red streaks around the intersection flared brightly, then dimmed.
Resolution Complete
Material: Mutators + Essence (Tier 0.4)
The Mantis collapsed. Not with drama—with finality. Collapse wasn't spectacle. Collapse was accounting.
The trio didn't celebrate. They guarded the resource.
Lena turned to me. "And now you see why competition escalates."
"Because resources matter."
"Because early access defines mid-game," she corrected. "Whoever reaches mid-game first sets conditions for everyone else."
One of the fighters spotted us. He didn't wave. He didn't threaten. He simply evaluated. Humans became animals that assessed others for advantage, threat, or irrelevance. It was remarkably fast how ethics decayed when optimization arrived.
"We shouldn't contest them," Lena said, as if reading my thoughts. "Not yet."
"What would we lose?" I asked.
"Stability," she answered. "And possibly life. But more importantly—Choice."
Choice had value. If the system incentivized conflict, then free action could become a resource.
We turned down another street. Red thinned. Blue blossomed in veins along fences and mailboxes, converting chaos into order.
"Zones don't control territory," Lena said. "They control behavior."
"So Blue is training?"
"And refinement," she said. "Essence adjusts physiology. Mutators adjust anatomy. Blue adjusts cognition. Together they produce Adaptation."
"And White?"
"White produces society. Communication. Politics. Power brokers. Factions form in White. Contracts form in Blue. Violence forms in Red. Black forms the rules."
"And Black?"
She didn't answer. Not because she didn't know—because now wasn't the time to explain cosmology.
The Pulse Hound paused at a storefront whose windows had shattered inward. Not from force—from pressure differential. Inside, racks of clothing had collapsed along a diagonal. A faint blue glimmer traced the floor.
Blue Zone: Micro
Pulse Hound entered, tail raised, navigating the store like a scanner. We followed cautiously.
Inside, the Zone shifted scale. Patterns decorated every surface—modular labyrinths of lines and angles that weren't random. A man sat at the back of the store, cross-legged, focused on a collapsed stack of plastic hangers.
He didn't look up when we approached. His evaluation hovered in the air.
E1 — Stability 71% — Sync 33%
High Sync for hour one.
He arranged the plastic pieces into symmetrical shapes—triangles nested inside squares. The Pulse Hound watched.
"What is he doing?" I whispered.
"Proving he can follow instructions the system hasn't spoken yet," Lena said.
The man completed a pattern. The Blue Zone pulsed. His Sync jumped—33% to 39%.
Patterns. Sync as reward. Blue Zones didn't train bodies—they trained cognition.
He finally looked up, eyes sharp. Not hostile—engaged. "You shouldn't waste Red if you plan on staying E0."
Was that directed at me?
Lena answered for herself. "I didn't waste Red. I observed its efficiency profile."
The man nodded, as if acknowledging competence. To me, he said, "E0s can't afford observation. Observation is for E1."
"I'm learning the rules," I said.
He smiled faintly. Not condescending—approving. "Then learn the first: the system doesn't explain. It tests."
"And the second?" I asked.
He gestured around at the patterns. "Interpretation outranks strength."
Lena added a third: "But strength outranks survival."
Then the Pulse Hound barked once—notification, not emotion.
The Blue Zone collapsed. Not destroyed—collected. The patterns folded into themselves like origami, dissolving into the grid.
The man's Sync hit 41%.
Pulse Hound left the store.
We followed again.
Outside, Red resurged. The screams had stopped—not because conflict ended, but because conflict became efficient enough not to produce noise.
"What happens next?" I asked.
Lena answered without hesitation. "Factions."
I frowned. "Already?"
"It doesn't take ideology. It takes incentive. Tier 0 kills are cheap. Tier 1 kills won't be. You'll need allies to secure resources."
"Did we just ally with the trio?" I asked.
"No," she said. "They didn't challenge us. That's not alliance. That's non-aggression."
"And Blue-man?"
"He's not an ally either. He's a specialist. Specialists don't ally early. They invest."
"What about you?" I asked.
She stopped walking and turned toward me for the first time with full attention. Her Sync flickered—41%.
"Me?" she said. "I'm efficient. Efficiency looks for leverage first and partners second."
"And what am I?"
"You're undecided. That can be valuable."
Before I could respond, the grid flashed again—white to red to white—like a camera flash but spatial.
System Notice:Human agency confirmedResource economy activeCompetition escalatedOpportunity window (Early Tier) closing
The word "closing" carried weight.
Lena exhaled. "And now the clock starts."