Divine Glitch: I Regressed With Endgame Knowledge

Epitaph belonged to Reaper's Call guild. The moment he logged in that day, a guild officer passed him an assignment: escort a batch of fresh recruits to the neutral territory of the Arid Plains and help them find their footing.

Keen to secure a spot on Reaper's Call's main raid team, Epitaph accepted without hesitation. He put his own Arid Plains quests on hold and headed straight to Verdant Spire, where the new Undead players were waiting.

Reaper's Call's influence was spreading fast. Players from the Tauren and Orc factions were joining their ranks in growing numbers, so Epitaph didn't rush off after collecting his charges. He stayed, coordinating movements, checking equipment—and that was when he saw Featherlight arrive.

Ryan hadn't displayed his real-time ID, but several of the surrounding guild members had theirs visible. While Flowing Light, Featherlight's guild, wasn't a massive force, his reputation was distinctive enough that most seasoned players knew the name.

Later, when Ryan and his team moved to stir up trouble across the neutral map, they disabled their IDs. But Epitaph didn't need the floating nameplate above the man's head to identify him; the distinctive cut of his armor, the muted gleam of his polished greaves, and, most of all, the black skull emblazoned on that massive shield had already burned themselves into Epitaph's memory the moment he first saw them.

After collecting additional recruits from the other factions, Epitaph mostly put Featherlight out of mind. Until, to his surprise, their paths crossed again.

He had just finished assigning positions to the newcomers and was preparing to lead them out when a furious voice burst through the guild channel.

"Damn it, a Paladin is deliberately provoking me!"

The voice belonged to an Undead warrior whose handle Epitaph remembered: Death Dance. Loud, restless, and endlessly talkative, the rogue had already made himself hard to forget.

"Hold on," Epitaph replied, keeping his tone even. "Don't get worked up. Tell me what happened."

"We were out here killing monsters for a quest," Death Dance began, his voice sharp with irritation, "when that Paladin suddenly tossed his shield at a newly spawned monster right next to us, and the thing ricocheted straight into our squad."

He gave a short, bitter laugh. "What else could it be but provocation? Even I, an Undead, know what a Paladin's Avenger's Shield does. You think he doesn't?"

Epitaph's brow furrowed. He glanced over and followed Death Dance's glare to the Paladin in question.

One look at that shield and the black skull stamped across it, and recognition hit him like a blade to the gut.

Featherlight.

Epitaph's expression shifted immediately. He opened the guild channel again and spoke, "Death Dance, do not engage. Fall back to me—now."

"What? Retreat? You want me to just swallow this insult?"

Death Dance stomped over, face twisted in frustration. "I'm sorry, Captain, but you better give me a good reason for why I'm supposed to take that lying down."

Epitaph, tasked with training and guiding these new recruits, was more mentor than commander—the nickname "Captain" was just what they called him.

He held Death Dance's gaze for a moment before answering.

"That," he said quietly, "is Featherlight."

Epitaph's tone turned cold.

"If we go at him now, it won't just be a fight between two players—it'll turn into a war between our guilds. And while his guild might be small, they've built a solid reputation in the Human faction."

He let the thought hang before adding, "If it escalates, it won't simply remain a grudge match between our two guilds," Epitaph said, his voice low but carrying across the channel. "It will drag in the entire Undead and Human factions, and once the lines are drawn and blood has been spilled, it's only a matter of time before the other four factions smell the opportunity, join the fray, and turn this map into a chaotic six-way battlefield."

Epitaph tilted his chin toward the view outside the camp, where players were cutting down packs of Graywolves. Six major factions, coexisting without open hostilities—questing side by side as calmly as if they were in a safe zone.

"Epitaph's absolutely right," another voice cut in over the guild channel. It belonged to Reaper's Scythe, Reaper's Call's vice leader. "Once there's blood outside the camp, unless we're willing to swallow the insult, it'll snowball. Incidents will pile up, and before long, we'll be in a six-faction brawl."

He gave a low, humorless laugh. "Right now, the Humans are still being squeezed hard by the Orcs in Blood Gorge. Not many of them have pushed into the Arid Plains. Featherlight's trying to change that—stirring up chaos here to help his faction close the gap."

"Exactly," came another voice—deep, authoritative. Reaper's Frenzy, the guild leader himself. "That's why Featherlight and his crew disabled their IDs. They singled out Death Dance's squad because you'd just left the camp and hadn't seen his little stunt earlier."

Reaper's Frenzy had been on his way to turn in a quest when he spotted the Human Paladin outside the camp, pulling more than ten monsters with effortless precision. From the murmurs around him, he'd quickly realized who it was.

Later, when the crowd's attention had drifted, Featherlight lobbed his shield at a nearby monster—letting it ricochet into several players in Death Dance's squad. The provocation was blatant. Frenzy's first instinct had been to rally the guild and crush him. But Reaper's Scythe's quick assessment had cooled his head; there was a bigger game at play.

Still, Frenzy wasn't about to let the insult slide.

"But we can't just sit on our hands," he said firmly. "If we let this go without a response, people will think Reaper's Call is weak. We're not some nameless, ragtag guild—we have influence across multiple games."

Reaper's Scythe smirked, seeing that everyone had caught on to his train of thought. He was just as annoyed at Featherlight's attempt to use them as bait, and he wasn't above returning the favor.

"You're our first player to hit Corporal rank," he told Death Dance. "Later, take four rogues and form a strike squad. Circle around him. I don't care if you kill him—just make his life miserable."

He leaned back in his chair, sounding almost casual as he added, "If you can't finish him, retreat. But make sure you capture the moment—screenshots, videos, whatever you can get. Then post them all over the forums."