Game of Reflections

Washing down his burger with a Coke, Rick leaned back in his chair, chewing the last portion with mild satisfaction. But his thoughts, like annoying flies, would not let him rest. He slowly stared into the void, letting the memories carry him back to where it all began. 

That was a long time ago, back when the name Silent still meant something. The account, created from scratch, became his calling card in the virtual world. Back then, Rick was playing on a team that he thought was perfect. They weren't just fellow players—each of them felt like they were part of something bigger, as if connected by invisible threads. 

But how has everything changed? At first, there were minor troubles — disagreements, doubts. Then something inside Rick began to crack, like old glass corroded by time. He clearly remembered the day when he first wondered if everything they had built was just an illusion. 

Mika, sitting across from him, watched his thoughtful look with interest. She noticed that always recognizable expression on his face—his lips were slightly compressed, his gaze distant, as if he was no longer there. 

"Hey, are you even here?" Her voice cut through the silence like a sharp knife. — Or is it back somewhere in your virtual world? 

Rick jerked awake. 

"I'm here." Simply... I remember. 

— Oh, the time when you were a great Silent? She chuckled slightly, but there was more understanding than mockery in her eyes. 

—Exactly,— Rick replied quietly, looking into his empty glass. "It was really... different." Then everything seemed simpler. 

Mika nodded, realizing that there was more to his words. 

"You know, you've never really told me. What made you leave? 

Rick looked at her, pausing before answering. 

"Leave?" It's hard to say. I think I'll do it myself. Or all of it. I'm tired... from people, from how they betray you without even realizing it. 

Her gaze became more serious, and she sat a little closer, pushing the box of potatoes away. 

"You know I've always been watching you, right?" I've seen you change. But I never thought that you could just... let go of everything. 

He just grinned, remembering how those whom he considered friends were slowly but surely turning away from him. They were more concerned about winning and ranking than the team and friendship. 

"Sometimes it's better to be alone, Micah,— he finally replied. — Less chance of getting hurt. 

She sighed, picking up the Coke bottle and waving it in the air. 

"But look, even when you're alone, you have me... This strange guy who regularly supplies us with food. 

Rick couldn't help but smile at the mention of Sato. 

— Yes, this strange guy. I wonder what he'll say if he finds out that his "Scarlet" is me, and that his fancy dinners for two are just shared between us. 

"Well, I'd say his ego would explode," Mika laughed. — But let's be honest: he delivers amazing wings. 

They both laughed, and at that moment, the memories of the past, the shadows of old grievances and mistakes began to seem like something distant, almost insignificant. Rick was lost in thought again. Memories, like ghosts, came to him uninvited, dragging him into the past, where the era of hope and hard work still reigned. 

The year is 2059. One year before the events that changed everything. Back then, he was known as Silent, one of the last remaining members of the Alpha Guild. It was an era when the virtual world absorbed millions of players, giving them the opportunity to build their empires and live within the boundaries of fantasies that became reality after leaving their disappointing world. 

Alpha was once one of the most famous guilds on its server. Their achievements did not extend across the entire gaming world, but they were the undisputed leaders within their territory. For everyone who played on this server, the name "Alpha" was synonymous with skill and strength. Their raids, though not the most ambitious on the world stage, were a model of strategy and discipline. They were the ones who were the first to explore new dungeons, who were the first to get rare artifacts, and even in the most difficult situations they remained a close-knit team.

But over time, like everything in life, Alpha began to fade. At first, these were minor changes — those who once brought victories left. They didn't leave the server, but their interests changed. Some found new guilds where they were more valuable, where new content or new ambitions could restore their interest in the game. Others just lost motivation and started playing for themselves, not for something more. 

The guild members themselves also began to feel the changes. Constant updates to the game, changes in mechanics and balancing were draining them of their last strength. In addition, the pressure was increasing: new guilds began to gain popularity, and old players, with each update, felt more and more tired, as if the world was no longer the same as it used to be. Gameplay, which was once satisfying, has now increasingly become routine. 

The guild continued to exist, but without the former brightness that once forced them to fight to the end. The battles have become less significant, the victories less important. Even their most successful raids now looked more like automatic actions than actual exploits. The guild hadn't lost its power, but its soul had disappeared. 

The players who used to be the pride of Alpha began to leave it one by one, and although the guild was still afloat, it was no longer the living organism that once inspired thousands of players. Now her existence was more a memory of a great past than something meaningful in the present. 

The remaining members tried to recreate that atmosphere, but they couldn't. Because no matter how hard they tried to retain their former glory, the game was changing. And with each new step, the old guild leaders realized more and more that they would not be able to bring back the spirit that was before. "Alpha" as a symbol is gone, and only a shadow of her greatness remains. 

Silent stood in the huge throne room. The majestic architecture, carved from marble and decorated with gold, once sparkled in the rays of light filtering through the stained glass windows. Now, the hall seemed cold and devoid of life, with only trophies and cups standing on pedestals to remind of a past triumph. 

He stood in front of the throne, where life had once reigned, but now there was emptiness. The massive throne, covered with engravings and symbols of their guild, regardless of time and ruin, stood in its place like an unshakable monument to the past. This throne was the center of all conversations, all decisions, all ambitions. They used to sit here-his friends, colleagues, and allies. And every meeting, every discussion was filled with emotions, enthusiasm and heated arguments. 

Back then, in the best years of Alpha, their voices sounded like a single powerful choir, each word was like a weapon aimed at common success. They were brothers and sisters in arms, each of them had put their soul into the creation of this guild. They were supported by: the strict but wise Leron, who always stood guard over morality, although he often liked to drink fatigue to the limit; Ranel, his right—hand man and friend, the cheerful soul of the company, who dispersed any clouds on the horizon with her laughter; Alice, the magician, whose mind and calmness did not We saved them in the most difficult situations. They were invincible, it would seem, when their powers combined into a single whole. It was their time, their home. It was the "Alpha" that was worshipped. 

But now it was different. 

The hall, which had once been filled with the sounds of discussions and plans, was now engulfed in silence. There was no Leron, no Ranel, no Alice. The throne where the greatest minds once sat now looked like an empty seat. The echo of footsteps was the only thing that broke this oppressive atmosphere. Every step echoed heavily in the empty hall, where once there had been orders, predictions, and jokes that had brought them all closer. 

"Where are they now?" He thought, feeling the weight of the memories. Leron left when he stopped believing in the meaning of this game. He was different from everyone else, and at some point he realized that the Alpha world was not what he aspired to. He was looking for something more, something real. Ranel, remembering every detail of their victories, left for his new guild, which promised more ambitious goals. Alice, whom he always respected for her calmness and clarity, also left their ranks when she could not find satisfaction in the constant game changes. They all went to a place where they could be understood, where they were appreciated. 

But despite all this, he continued to stand here, in front of the throne, in front of what remained of his former greatness. He couldn't just leave. He couldn't leave this guild, even though he knew its days were numbered. He was the one who stayed. Not because he believed that it was possible to regain his former greatness, but because a sense of duty did not allow him to leave. The guild became a part of him, as he was a part of it. He was connected with this place, with those people, with those moments that cannot be forgotten. 

But every time he looked at the empty throne, when he saw these symbols that once represented victory and strength, there was something heavy in his soul. He didn't know what to do next. Leave? And leave it all behind? Or try to collect the remnants, find new people, new allies, and bring back at least a small part of what was once their greatness?

Time passed, but the memory of those days still remained. About how Leron, with a serious face, proposed tactical changes in the last raid, how Ranelle, with her unchanging smile, constantly joked and created an atmosphere in which there was no place for anxiety, how Alice, quietly and judiciously, analyzed every step, protecting them from mistakes. These moments were here, in the air, in every step. 

"It was so easy to be a leader back then," he said softly to himself, peering into the empty space where his friends had once stood. It was a time when every day was full of tasks and goals. They moved forward with indomitable energy. 

And despite that, he stayed. 

Silence slowly looked around the room. On a pedestal against the wall stood their conquered relics: the trophy they received for destroying the dragon ruler, the cup for winning the guild tournament, the banner of the first war, where Alpha had established itself as a force to be reckoned with. 

Each of these things is not just an object. They were symbols of their work, friendship, and unity. And now they meant nothing. 

Rick ran his hand over one of the trophies, brushing away imaginary dust. 

— How did we get to this point? He muttered softly, more to himself than to the empty room. 

There was no response. Only silence, which became his only companion. 

He remembered the faces of his other friends, the guild members. Fenrir, their commander and first leader, who went to the "Grand Lions" in pursuit of ambition. Laria, their strategist, once said: "We're too tired. This path will bring us nothing." And even Ash, the most loyal of them all, couldn't stand it and left them when the guild started to collapse. 

Silent was left alone. This castle, these walls, these trophies—they were part of it. He felt that leaving them would be a betrayal. 

Rick sighed. The new recruitment to the Alpha Guild, once famous for its greatness, turned out to be a disappointment. It seemed that the deserted halls of the castle began to be flocked not by warriors eager for glory, but by random travelers who barely held a weapon. They did not know the team game, they did not understand the meaning of unity, which once made Alpha invincible. And the few who had the strength did not have the patience to work in a group, accustomed to acting only alone. 

Silent made every effort to restore the guild to its former glory. He made plans, trained newcomers, organized raids, but deep down he understood that this was a struggle against the inevitable. Alpha has long lost its place among the strongest. Once their name was heard on every corner, they were among the top 10 strongest guilds on the server. But now... they've dropped out of the hundred. 

Sitting in the council chamber, Silent looked at the empty chairs. Those who had supported him before were no longer there. Their place was taken by inexperienced and sometimes frankly useless players, each of whom hoped for personal gain, but not for a contribution to the common cause. The greatness of the Alpha remained only in the memories and awards that decorated the castle walls. 

Every conversation between these newbies was annoying to the limit. He got up heavily and walked across the hall. His footsteps echoed through the deserted corridors. Once upon a time, this castle was alive — there was laughter, arguments, and conversations about strategy. Now, even from the center of the main hall, one could hear the wind outside the building blowing away the last shreds of glory. 

Silent walked over to the wall where their trophies were kept—artifacts obtained in battles, rare armor, banners of defeated guilds. They were silent witnesses of an era that was irrevocably gone. He reached for one of the cups, his fingers slid over the cold metal, and the faces of those who helped win this prize rose before his eyes. Their laughter, their words of encouragement, their desire to be the best... It all seemed like a mirage now. 

— I tried, friends. I really tried," he said softly, clenching his fist. 

But even that short sentence echoed off the walls, coming back to him like a mockery. 

A decision has been brewing for a long time, and now it has become inevitable. Silent will leave the castle before disbanding the new guild members. Anyway, sooner or later, an empty and weakened guild will lose ownership, and the castle will pass to another, stronger organization. Artifacts, cups, and trophies will return to his inventory as guild leader, but what do they mean without the people they were mined with? 

He looked around the room once more, trying to capture it in his memory. The castle was not just their mainstay — it was a symbol. A symbol of friendship, strength, and victories. 

— Goodbye, the house that we created together, — he said, stepping towards the exit. 

Massive doors closed behind him, cutting him off from the past. The wind lifted the dust, as if wanting to erase the last traces of their presence. And now, standing on the threshold, Silent took a step into the unknown. After walking through the clearing for a couple of hours, he stopped and sat down by a quiet lake, his reflection in the water surface seemed ghostly and uncertain. He rubbed his face with his hands, as if hoping to erase the accumulated fatigue. 

—Holy shit...— he whispered, throwing a pebble into the water. 

The words were lost in the silence, broken only by the sounds of night crickets. Everything was stacked against him. Not only the guild, but his class itself seemed destined for extinction. A recent update literally clipped the wings of the assassins of his class, replacing mana with an endurance scale. 

This scale was replenished slowly, too slowly. This deprived them of their main advantage — the ability to strike blow after blow, without letting the enemy come to their senses. Now he had to calculate every step, every move, as if he were not a killer, but a chess player calculating the positions on the board. Everything seemed to be stacked against him. 

"What's next?" he thought. It seemed to him that the developers had done everything to make his favorite class useless. If before he could track down a single target and hunt methodically, turning the whole process into an art, now it's all ruined. In addition, the general debuff added oil to the fire. The killers became more vulnerable, less deadly, and their secrecy seemed like a pathetic illusion.

At the same time, the riflemen and fighters received significant reinforcements. Now, those whom he had previously hunted down and destroyed in a matter of seconds could safely survive his attacks and even fight back. 

— Sure, why not make them even stronger? He muttered bitterly. 

Silent clenched his fists, feeling the impotent rage boiling inside. He didn't want to give up, but the whole world seemed to be pressing down on him. His sword, once sharp and deadly, now looked like a prop from an old play. 

Yesterday he could consider himself a virtuoso of his craft, but today… He was nothing today. 

Silent stared at the water, still thinking, but now his thoughts were far beyond the current problems with the game. They were going back to a time when everything was different—to a time when Wirsal Online was the epitome of perfection. Back then, the players respected the developers, and the game itself was perceived as a second home, an ideal world without flaws. 

But everything changed suddenly, like a lightning strike. The game's creator, Marucho, a man of legend, has died. His death shocked not only the gaming community, but the entire world. A young genius who was not just a developer, but literally the father of this universe, died one fateful night. He was only 34 years old. The attack by a group of robbers, as the police claimed, ended in tragedy — stabbings and death on the spot. 

At that time, Silent, like millions of other players, could not believe it. The news broke the airwaves, the forums were filled with condolences. People who had never known Marucho personally were crying, as if they had lost someone close. Some wrote that for them he was not just a developer, but the creator of the world where they found solace and inspiration. 

But I didn't have to grieve for long. Almost immediately, rumors began to circulate that his death could not have been an accident at all. It was said that one of the major players in the technology and gaming market decided to remove a competitor. The press fueled these speculations, calling the incident "suspicious." Silent didn't believe the gossip, but one thing was clear: after Marucho's death, everything started to change. 

The corporation that created the game seemed to have lost its soul. Anderson Maestro, a close friend of Marucho's, was appointed to replace the president, according to officials. But anyone who watched the game couldn't help but notice: The Maestro was completely different. Under his leadership, a policy of aggressive monetization began, and advertising appeared in the game for the first time. 

And although they tried to limit her after the massive outrage of the players, she was still present. Silent remembered logging into the game and seeing the banners pop up. It was like a spot on a blank canvas. There was nothing like this in the world of Wirsal before. Back then, it was an ideal digital world, free from the intrusive reality. Now it began to resemble an ordinary commercial product. 

"Everything has changed..." he muttered, looking at his reflection in the water. 

Advertisements, debuffs, ill—considered updates - all this poisoned the very essence of the game, turning it into a shadow of what was created by Marucho. 

Anderson Maestro is... a close friend, Silent thought sarcastically. He couldn't tell if he believed the conspiracy rumors, but his heart told him there was something wrong with the story. 

The most painful blow to the game was dealt by something that no one could have thought of before. In early August 2059, the corporation announced the introduction of a new monetization system. The first hints of the changes appeared in the official news: "We strive to provide players with more options to personalize the gaming experience!" Naive words that did not portend disaster back then. 

Silent, like most players, ignored this message. He was sure that we were talking about skins, new decorative elements, or some additional cosmetic features again. But everything changed when the update came out. Along with it, a new system called "Platinum Advantage" appeared. 

At first glance, everything looked harmless. Players could purchase special items or temporary powerups that "enhanced" the gameplay. But it quickly became clear that we were talking about things that affect the mechanics of combat itself. Additional damage, increased attack speed, reduced damage from enemies — all this could be obtained for real money. The balance of the game was destroyed in an instant. 

Silent remembered the day when he first saw a player with "platinum powerups". In an arena where a fair fight was always decided by skills and strategy, this man easily defeated all the opponents. Neither tactics nor experience mattered anymore. Money became the new weapon, and those who could afford it turned into invincible monsters. 

The player communities exploded. The forums were filled with complaints, petitions to change the mechanics were signed by millions. But the corporation remained deaf. They only saw income charts that went up sharply. Anderson Maestro even gave an official statement.: 

 "We understand your concern, but we are confident that the new update adds depth to the game. Now every player has the opportunity to choose their own path to victory!" 

These words sounded like a slap in the face to everyone who loved this game for its honesty and equal conditions. 

For Silenus, it wasn't just insulting. It was a betrayal. He built his career on a fair fight. He learned to read opponents, develop strategies, and make the most of his class's capabilities. Now it all turned out to be unnecessary. What's the point of skill if you can buy it? Sitting by the lake, he remembered his last fight before this update. Back then, he was fighting another assassin as skilled as himself. They exchanged blows, each calculating the other's steps. It was an intense and magnificent match. Silent won, but not because of chance or money-he won because he was better. 

"And it's all in the past," he whispered softly, feeling something inside him break. 

Now, he looked at the gaming arena and saw how the meaning of this fight had dissolved. Those who had been with him from the beginning were gone. The newcomers didn't understand why a team game was needed if they could just pay for a victory. Old friends, those who had built Alpha with him, no longer logged into the game. Each of them found other activities, other games, or left the virtual world altogether. 

"We wanted to create a legend," Silent thought, looking at the water surface. But now it's all become a farce. My thoughts drifted back to a recent event. The stadium in the game was bursting with the screams of the fans. The final of the tournament was an exciting sight, but for Silent it became an unbearable reminder of how far the game world has gone from its origins. The memories took him far back into the past again.

At the regular weekly tournament, a new champion stood in the arena, surrounded by dazzling light, which was enhanced by the effects of his "platinum" equipment. Unlike the old heroes, who deserved respect for their skills and perseverance, this man was the epitome of a new order—an order where the richest, not the strongest, win. 

Donater raised a huge trophy above his head, sparkling so brightly that it was impossible not to pay attention to it. He was enjoying the moment, reveling in the triumph. And suddenly, instead of a speech of thanks or words about a difficult victory, he burst into a scream that echoed throughout the virtual world.: 

— Well, have you eaten it, bitches?! Your era is over! 

The crowd froze for a second, and then there was a deafening roar — a mixture of indignant shouts and approving applause. The camera, which transmits the image to the streams of millions of viewers, lingered on Donater's face. His expression was so smug that Silent felt his insides tighten. 

These words struck not only at the veterans, but also at the very essence of Wirsal, which once symbolized equality of opportunity and the struggle of honest players. This moment was the culmination of everything Silent hated about the new era. He stared at the screen with clenched teeth, his hands shaking with anger. 

"This is what it means to be a champion now..." he gasped, realizing that this cry was addressed to him as well, as one of those who clung to the old era. 

This statement became a symbol of the gap between the old and new schools of players. It caused a storm of emotions, debates on forums, memes and long discussions about where the game is heading. But for Silent, this moment was not only humiliating, but also a personal challenge. 

Has his era really passed? Or is there something else you can change? 

The defeat at the tournament was just the beginning of a long series of scandals. The apotheosis of all this was the battle in the Ashar Valley 

The platinum system was tearing the game world apart. At first it was just annoyance, then it was open hatred. The players who had once fought side by side for common goals now looked at each other with disdain. Top guilds, average players, and beginners — no one was spared by this wave. 

A scandal broke out in the Blade of Dawn Guild, known for its discipline and cohesion, which marked the beginning of the end. At the next meeting, their leader, Commander Alterius, addressed his colleagues with a stern expression on his face. 

"We're not here to play games. We built this guild on honesty. Each of you went through hell to earn your place," he cast a hard look at Martell, whose armor shone with a platinum light. — And you decided to just buy yourself a victory? 

Martell crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze full of challenge. 

"Bought it?" Do you call that honesty? When have I been defeated for months because of a poor balance sheet? Now that I have the means to get ahead, do you want to condemn me? 

"It's not a game, it's a sale," Alterius snapped. "You're insulting everyone standing here." 

The hall exploded with arguments. Some supported Martell, arguing that everyone has the right to use the available tools. Others, like Alterius, felt that it destroyed the very essence of the guild. Soon, the secretary's voice rang out: 

— Let's vote. Who is in favor of expelling Martell? 

Most of them raised their hands. And on the same day, Martell left the Blade of Dawn. But instead of accepting it, he created his own guild, the Platinum Sunrise. He was joined by other donors who were also expelled or shunned in their teams. 

The average level of players (the majority of players), who did not have the same resources as the top players, reacted even more violently. On the popular game's forum, thousands of messages merged into endless streams.: 

 — These donors are just buying a victory! 

 — Yes, ban their reinforcement in tournaments already! 

 "No respect. Not a drop. 

On the other hand, there were excuses: 

 "You're just jealous!" 

 — If you don't know how to play, leave. Who stopped you from donating? 

The gaming community is divided. The "black lists" began — the nicknames of players with platinum powerups were added to them. Raids with such people were boycotted, and invitations to groups were ignored. Former friends became enemies, and donors faced open harassment in the arenas. Teams of ordinary players huddled together just to humiliate one platinum player. 

But the donors did not stay away either. They began to form their alliances from the same platinum players, creating territories where no one from the outside could enter. Within these unions, their own clans and guilds grew, where the platinum ruled unchallenged. 

The platinum system even severed personal relationships. One day, a scene played out in a tavern where the players were gathering, which became a meme among the community.

"We started out together," said a player in armor with traces of many battles. His voice was trembling. "And now you're one of them." 

"So what?" His former partner replied calmly, shining with platinum blades. — You just couldn't adapt. It's not my fault. 

"You sold yourself!" — the first one shouted, angrily clenching his fists. "You are no longer worthy of our respect. 

After this conflict, both left the tavern, and no one else saw them together. 

And somewhere in the developers' headquarters, the game's director, Anderson Maestro, was reviewing the reports. The profit growth was staggering. His face remained stony while the staff discussed the next update. 

— Mr. Maestro, — said one of the analysts, — the indicators continue to grow, but ... the popularity of the game among older players is falling. Reputation goes into negative territory. 

The maestro slowly raised his gaze. 

 —Does it matter?" 

There was silence. He threw the reports on the table. 

 — Money speaks louder than any forum. 

So they decided to release even more platinum items. Meanwhile, pressure on donors was increasing in Ikrad, they were expelled, beaten, and shunned from everywhere. For the donors, it was a real blow below the belt. None of them, even those who sincerely considered the platinum system to be a worthy development of the game, could have imagined that their world would be turned upside down. They came to this universe to enjoy its scale, to become heroes or even legends. But now they are on the verge of exile, like outcasts in a world that once welcomed them with open arms. 

At first they tried to justify themselves. Forum posts, angry comments, and attempts to open the eyes of other players: "It's not our fault! It's all the developers!" They begged to be understood, claiming that they were only using the available tools like any other players. But the world didn't want to hear them. 

Blacklists appeared on the forums. "Careful, platinum ones!" the themes read. Players seen with platinum items or powerups were publicly branded and their nicknames were recorded in the database so that no one else would dare to take them into the group. It was the beginning of the end for the donators' usual life. 

In the raids, everything escalated to the point of absurdity. When the platinum player joined the group, no one said anything directly. But as soon as the battle began, everything became obvious. The healers stopped treating them, leaving them to die in the thick of the battle. The tanks deliberately diverted the enemies towards them, making them the main target. And then, when Donater died, the whole group either abandoned the raid or moved on, pretending that nothing had happened. 

In one of these raids, Donater, known as Argemont, realized the depth of self-contempt. He was a powerful mage whose platinum staff allowed him to destroy enemies with waves of fire. In the midst of a boss fight, he felt his health start to plummet. 

— Treat him! Treat me, damn it! — he shouted into the chat. But there was no response. 

Soon after, he saw his health reach zero, and then the familiar "You have been defeated" appeared on the screen. When he returned to the rebirth site, the group's chat was bursting with sarcasm: 

— Well, one less "rich". 

 "You can handle it, right?" You have "platinum power". 

Argemont withdrew from the group and did not return to this raid. But his story was not unique. This was happening everywhere. Donors were purposefully squeezed out of teams, their quests were sabotaged, and sometimes they were even simply attacked in the open world, setting up whole hunts. 

It was a world filled with hatred and contempt. But the donors were not fools. They understood that they had money, and that money was power. They began to regroup, forming their own guilds and alliances. The first such guild, Platinum Sunrise, became a symbol of their pride. Their motto was simple: "Strength does not require apologies." 

Those who refused to be humiliated began to gather around this guild. They built fortresses where ordinary players had no place. They were developing strategies to regain their dominant position. After all, they had the resources to create the strongest characters, even if they were hated. 

But with every move they made, the world of the game became more hostile. Ordinary players began to form alliances to counter the donors. They wrote on the forums: 

"We can't let them destroy our world!" 

 "This is a war, and we can't lose!" 

It was at this point that the game reached its boiling point. A secret meeting was held at one of the fortresses belonging to the Donater guild. Argemont, now one of the leaders of the Platinum Sunrise, turned to his colleagues: 

"They think we're weak. They think we're just buying our own power. But we will show them that money can create not only power, but also order. 

"Are you suggesting an attack?" Another mage, wearing a platinum robe that sparkled in the torchlight, asked him. 

- no. We will create our own game. Do they want war? We will give them a war. 

With these words, a new era began, in which both sides — donors and ordinary players — were preparing for the inevitable clash. 

After being driven out of the lands where they were persecuted, the Donaters united, deciding to start from scratch. They left the bustling cities and inhabited territories, going to the wild, abandoned corners of the world. There, in the wastelands where the wars of the ancient guilds once raged, they began to build their own fortifications. Their wealth, accumulated through the platinum system, became the basis for a new civilization, built with grace and pragmatism. 

Majestic fortresses surrounded by powerful walls and armed garrisons began to grow on the site of lonely ruins and dilapidated castles. The donors used their powerups to easily clear the local lands of monsters and establish resource extraction. They had the best architects, rare drawings bought for fabulous sums, and, most importantly, a huge amount of gold. 

At one of these meetings, held in the hall of the newly built Platinum Citadel Castle, their leaders gathered around a round table. The emblem of their union flashed on the central panel of the table: a platinum circle with a sword piercing its center. 

"We were exiled,— said Argemont, the leader of the Platinum Sunrise Guild. His voice was firm, and his cold blue eyes scanned the room. "They left us with no choice. We could have stayed and suffered humiliation, but is this the way of those who consider themselves strong? 

— no! — it was heard from the back of the hall. One of the people gathered, a warrior in shining armor with embossed gold patterns, slammed his fist on the table. "We created this world with them. We funded the game when many people were just enjoying the free benefits. But now they call us outcasts, not realizing that it was our money that allowed this universe to reach its heights. 

"And yet,— Argemont continued, raising his hand for silence, "we must not seek revenge. For now. Our enemy is too numerous, and our image is too vulnerable to propaganda. We will show them true strength not in anger, but in order. We will create a new world that they will be forced to recognize. 

Everyone froze, realizing that it wasn't just an idea. That was the plan. The new order. 

Fortress after fortress, their cities grew. They weren't limited to just accumulating power. The donors understood that survival requires strategy. Forges were opened on their lands, working around the clock. Hired workers created items that could compete with the rarest drops from the raids. They've been improving their technology, hiring the best programmers to modify interfaces and develop combat algorithms. 

On one of the outskirts of the platinum lands, a huge training camp was busy. Dozens of players have honed their skills by learning from mentors who used to be members of the world's top guilds. They didn't care what the regular players said. Here, in these lands, it was not the disputes that mattered, but the results. 

— Blow! Faster, sharper! The mentor shouted, watching a group of newbies practicing combo attacks. 

— You have to be machines when the time comes. Without pity, without a doubt," he added, giving them a hard look. 

Those who did not have time to master complex maneuvers could count on the support of their platinum powerups. But even this did not free them from tough training. 

The meetings of the leaders continued. Now the donors lived not only in isolation, but also with plans for the future. The discussions reached a critical point in one of the halls. 

"We can't hide forever,— said Barlius, the leader of the other guild. — If we want recognition, we must come out of the shadows. 

—Early,— Argemont replied, leaning forward. — Let them keep fighting each other. Let them weaken. When they realize that fighting for their ideals is pointless, we will come with our order. 

Barlius was not convinced, but he understood that Argemont was not inclined to make decisions on impulse. They were waiting in the wings. 

—Time is on our side," said the magus in scarlet robes, who was sitting to the side. "Their hatred of us is the fuel for our power. And when we come back, it won't be revenge. This will be a transformation. 

Thus began a new chapter in the history of the platinum society. They did not seek revenge so early, but dreamed of power. And now, beyond the walls of their fortresses, their enemies were beginning to realize that the wastelands were no longer as desolate as they seemed. 

The events that followed the expulsion of the donators developed slowly but inexorably, like a gathering thunderstorm. At first, the players who remained in the regular guilds felt relieved. The world seemed to have been cleansed of those they considered "parasites" of the system. The return to fair play has become their new banner. However, the euphoria did not last long. 

The first rumors began to spread in the chat of small guilds. 

"Did you hear that?" The caravan of the Golden Blade was defeated. 

"Again?" This is the third week in a row! 

— Let them collect. They don't understand that our resources are limitless, and our discipline surpasses their chaotic alliances. If they attack, we will break their will. And if they don't attack, they will die slowly, one by one. 

At the other end of the map, in a small settlement, a group of adventurers were discussing the latest developments. Among them was Gard, an old veteran who had been through dozens of wars, and a young archer named Kaylan, who was just starting his career. 

"These platinum bastards think they can come back and take everything we've built!" Gard growled, slamming his fist on the table. "I will not tolerate being kept in fear again." 

"But what can we do?" Kaylan asked cautiously, his voice filled with doubt. "They have armor, they have weapons, they have... everything. 

Gard looked at the young archer, his gaze heavy. 

"They have everything but one thing. They don't have our spirit. We are not fighting for gold, but for honor. This is something they will never understand. 

But even Gard knew that these words sounded more to maintain morale. Deep down, he understood that spirit and honor might not help if your enemy could literally buy his invincibility. And even the availability of skills is not enough here. 

Meanwhile, the donors continued to gain strength. Their armies trained in the most remote corners of the map, preparing for something more. There was an order in their ranks that ordinary players lacked. Each new day brought them closer to their main goal: to show the world that those they called "outcasts" were actually the new elite. 

Active work was underway around the platinum citadel. Donors bought resources, built new fortifications, and hired professionals to improve their combat algorithms. Their plans were ambitious, and their leadership was impeccable. 

When the message about the new donater attack reached the main chat, many players froze. 

"They've struck again. This time it was a city in the Teira Valley. 

"Losses?" 

"Total annihilation. No one survived.