There's a shape to this place.
Most people don't see it. They think it's just chaos. Random cruelty. Punishment with no rules. They're wrong. Everything here follows a design. You just have to look long enough. Count long enough. Survive long enough.
My hands move without me watching them anymore.
Pick. Twist. Drop. Pick. Twist. Drop.
The nightberries fall into the basket at my hip with soft, wet sounds. Juice coats my fingers, turning them the same dark blue as the barrier in the distance.
[EXP: 0.010002]
The number flickers in the corner of my vision, slow and mocking. I only glance at it for a second. The system lies with its delays. It makes every gain feel smaller than it really is. It wants you to forget how much time you've already lost.
So I don't trust the number. I trust the count.
"Two thousand one hundred twelve," I whisper under my breath.
That's just today. Not the total. The total is the kind of number that breaks people.
Zone 0 isn't large. That was the first truth I learned. It feels endless when you're new—row after row of bushes stretching toward a horizon that never gets closer. But it's an illusion. Everything here is measured. Everything here is contained.
I mapped it during my first… I don't even know anymore. Hundred attempts? Maybe less. Time resets. Memory doesn't. That's the only small mercy we get.
The field is a rectangle. Close enough to perfect. Three hundred and twelve rows. Each one roughly one hundred and eighty steps long. I know because I counted them twice. Then a third time, just to be sure.
At the far end sits the shed. Wood and rusted metal. No windows. One door. Always unlocked. Always waiting. That's where we wake up. That's where we return. That's where they keep us.
And surrounding all of it is the barrier.
A complete circle of blue light. From far away it looks soft, almost pretty. Up close it hums. A low vibration that crawls under your skin and settles deep in your bones. The first time I reached it, I thought maybe I could push through. I was wrong.
"Hey."
Dort's voice pulls me back. He always finds me.
I don't answer right away.
"Two thousand one hundred thirteen," I mutter, dropping another berry.
"What?" I ask without looking up.
He shifts closer, trying to match my rhythm and failing like always. "You ever think about it?"
"Everything," I say.
"No, I mean… outside."
I almost smile. Almost.
"Constantly," I answer.
Outside isn't freedom to me. It's a variable. Unknown. Unmeasured. That's what makes it dangerous. That's what makes it necessary.
"They say there are higher zones," Dort whispers, voice full of that stubborn hope. "Real classes. Skills. Quests. Actual power."
"They say a lot of things."
"But what if it's true?"
I glance at him. He's serious. Hope still clings to him like dirt under the fingernails—hard to wash off.
"Then we'll know when we get there," I say.
Not if. When.
I see the word hit him. Good. Let him hold onto it. It might keep him alive a little longer.
"Two thousand one hundred fourteen."
Pick. Drop.
The system hums in the background, always watching, always taking its cut. There's an EXP siphon in Zone 0. It's never written anywhere, but it's real. I proved it.
I spent ten straight days counting every single berry. No mistakes. No lost focus. By the math, my EXP should have been much higher. It wasn't. It plateaued, then dipped, then settled at a lower rate. Like something invisible was skimming off the top.
"Two thousand one hundred fifteen."
"They're stealing it," I mutter.
"What?" Dort asks.
"Nothing."
He frowns but doesn't push. He's learning.
Above the overseers are handlers. We rarely see them—only silhouettes at night and voices that don't belong here. And above them is something else. The real owner. The one who gets fat off our endless labor.
"Two thousand one hundred sixteen."
My fingers ache. I ignore it. Pain is just data.
"You talk to Mags today?" Dort asks.
"No."
"You should. She was saying weird stuff again."
"She always does."
"Yeah, but this time…" He hesitates. "She said the system wasn't always here. That before this, there were no levels. No zones. Nothing."
I stop picking for half a second.
"Repeat that."
Dort swallows. "She said this place was built. Not created. Built."
Something shifts inside my chest. Not emotion. Recognition.
Built means structure. Structure means flaws.
I look toward the far edge of the field where Mags works. She moves slower than everyone else, but she never stops. Everyone thinks she's insane. They laugh at her stories. I don't. Because even crazy people follow patterns, and patterns can be tested.
"Two thousand one hundred seventeen."
Pick. Drop.
Night falls slowly, then all at once.
The horn blows. We line up. We walk. We don't speak. The shed swallows us whole.
I sit in my usual spot against the wall, eyes closed, counting breaths. When the shed grows quiet and most bodies have slipped into exhausted sleep, I stand.
I step carefully over sleeping forms and slip out the loose board at the back.
The night air is cold. The field lies empty and silent under the blue glow of the barrier. I start walking. Not running. Running wastes energy. Running makes noise. Walking is enough.
"Fifty." "Seventy." "One hundred."
The air grows thicker with every step. Heavier. Like pushing through water.
The blue light flickers at the edge of my vision.
[WARNING: Boundary Zone]
I keep walking.
"Two hundred."
The ground here is harder, less worn by feet. Most slaves never make it this far.
The hum becomes a vibration that rattles my teeth.
[WARNING: Lethal Zone]
My heart beats faster. Not from fear. From anticipation. This is the only moment that ever feels truly real.
"Two hundred fifty."
The barrier stands right in front of me now—a living wall of blue light. Watching. Waiting.
I lift my hand. Hesitate for a single heartbeat. Not out of fear. Out of calculation.
Every time I've touched it, I've failed. But every time, I've learned something new.
I step forward.
The light surges—brighter, hotter, louder.
[FINAL WARNING]
I walk straight into it.
—
Straw ceiling.
The smell hits first. Dry. Stale. Familiar.
I stare up at it, breathing slow and even.
[EXP: 0.000000]
Reset. Again.
Silence stretches out, long and heavy.
Then I sit up.
My body feels fine. It always does. No burns. No scars. No progress.
"Eleven thousand, four hundred and twelve," I say quietly.
Dort, who must have woken up waiting for me, stares with wide eyes.
"What?"
I look at him. Really look.
"Times," I say.
He blinks. "What… times?"
I lie back down on the cold floor and stare at the ceiling again.
"That's how many times I've tried."