NPC for Hire-[Gamelit|Simulation|Multi-genre]

Fen and Seraph stood steady at the port bow gunwale, watching the approaching fliers—now only a minute or so out. The crew was already in motion. Alarms had faded into focused commands, replaced by the steady thrum of readiness that only came from trained hands and practiced urgency. The Legacy bristled with activity—riggers at the lines, gunners manning the rails, officers barking final checks as midday light filtered through the thick, overcast sky.

The enemy fliers broke from the mist like a tide, shadows resolving into a full-wing formation. Dozens of drakes led the charge, their leathery wings beating the air with low, rolling thunder. Scaled and armor-plated, they surged forward with brute force, tails lashing in rhythm as they closed the distance. Most bore double saddles—one rider piloting, the other armed with polearms or ranged weapons.

High above them, eagles wheeled in tight formation. Slightly smaller than the drakes but faster and more agile, their wings cut sharp lines through the clouds. Their gold-edged feathers caught the last of the light, flashing like drawn blades. Each eagle carried a single rider, hunched low along the crest of its neck—lancer silhouettes framed against the sky.

A voice rang out across the deck. "Cannons—fire!"

The Legacy answered with fury. Ballista bolts ripped skyward in sharp arcs, their fletching singing against the wind. Cannons boomed a heartbeat later, belching smoke and steel into the sky. The volley thundered through the air, rattling Fen's chest—but it was too early and poorly timed.

By sheer luck, one drake spiraled out of formation, a bolt buried deep in its shoulder. But the rest surged forward, undeterred. Their riders ducked and twisted through the barrage with practiced grace, moving as if they'd anticipated every shot.

Desmond stormed toward the crews, his voice slicing through the chaos. "Who gave that order? They're still outside effective range! Reload, now!"

He watched the sky for a breath, then raised his hand. "Hold! Hold until they're in range!" He turned to the nearest gunners, tone sharp but composed. "Don't waste the shots—make them count."

As the cannon crews reset their weapons, sailors passed bundles of gear along the deck, their movements brisk and efficient. Desmond and Fisck stepped to the upper observation deck, where armor and boarding swords were handed to them. Both men suited up with practiced ease, Fisck's polished breastplate catching the light as he tested the weight of his blade.

Fen lingered at the starboard gunwale, eyes fixed on the incoming swarm. He scanned the faces around him—every one of them bore the red-eye mark in their hexID. Hardcore players. He hadn't expected that. For all their corporate polish and clean uniforms, most of these guys were interns, logistics officers, spreadsheet jockeys. But their movements were tight. Drilled. Like they'd actually trained for this. And their stats—he caught a few flashes of their HexIDs as he glanced around. It seemed most were B-tier averages. Higher than he would've guessed.

"So they weren't just playing at war. Either they trained for this—or they were handpicked for experience in other sims."

He blew out a breath and turned to Seraph, who stood a pace behind him near the rail. Her crossbow rested loosely in her hands, but the gleam in her eye gave her away—she was keyed in.

Fen shot her a sidelong glance, his smirk dry. "You remember how well I do with heights, right? If I end up on one of those drakes, you better be ready to catch me."

She gave a soft snort. "Still thinking about the time with the speeder bikes? You'd think by now you'd have gotten over that."

"You don't really get over being slammed into the blades of a windmill at sixty miles an hour."

Seraph chuckled, low and quiet—the sound cutting through the rising tension.

The fliers were closing fast now, their formation tightening as they prepared to engage. The riders were growing larger by the second, wicked lances gleaming in their hands. Armor shimmered along the flanks of their mounts. Among the drakes, giant eagles dove through the air with uncanny grace. Their wingspans rivaled the scaled beasts, but their movement was sharper, quieter—almost surgical.

Men who weren't manning artillery lined the deck with polearms in hand. The weapons were brutal things: long, curved hooks made for catching riders and yanking them from their mounts.

"Steady!" Desmond's voice rang out, sharp as a blade. The crew braced—no hesitation. Just focus.

Fen tightened his grip on the rail, knuckles white. The air thrummed with pressure, every breath stretched thin as wire.

Then—"Fire!"

The Legacy let loose. Ballista bolts ripped skyward in deadly arcs, their fletching singing. A heartbeat later, the cannons spoke—thunderous and final. The volley struck true. Riders dropped from the sky, mounts shrieking as they spiraled into the jungle canopy below.

But more than a dozen still bore down on them, unshaken and closing fast.

Smoke rolled across the deck as the gunners stepped back from the artillery, drawing blades and sidearms. They knew there wouldn't be time for another shot before the enemy was upon them.

The riders closed the gap swiftly, their mounts folding their wings tight as they dove, lances gleaming in the light. The first impact was brutal—crewmen skewered and flung like ragdolls across the deck. Cries of alarm mixed with the clash of steel as the fight descended into a maelstrom.

On the deck, the wicked polearms found their targets. Sailors snagged riders from their saddles, dragging them down where others moved in to finish the job. Some mounts, struck midair, crashed into the planks with bone-jarring force, sending splinters flying. Drakes slammed down hard, massive hind legs bracing as they reared up to lash out with barbed tails and razor-edged wings. The crew pressed forward, weapons flashing as men and beasts collided in frenetic combat.

Above and below, riders streaked past—some soaring overhead, others diving beneath the keel, circling like vultures waiting for their moment to strike again. The air was a storm of wings, roars, and shouts.

Fen cast a wary glance—Seraph was watching the low-flying drakes with a gleam in her eye. She took a small step back, her stance shifting. Fen's stomach sank.

"Seraph, what are you planning? I know that look. You're thinking of doing something crazy," he said, tone warning.

She turned to him and winked, hand already on her dagger. "I'm thinking riding one of those looks fun."

Fen's eyes widened. "Seraph, no. I don't think you've thought this through—"

But she was already moving. "If I stop and think it through, I'll miss my ride. Fen?"

With that, she launched herself gracefully over the gunwale. For a moment, Fen could only gape as she sailed through the air, her timing perfect. As one of the drakes emerged from beneath the ship, she collided with the rider, dagger flashing once. The blade bit deep into the soft flesh of the neck and shoulder, and with a swift twist and shove, the rider toppled from the saddle, plummeting into the void below.

Seraph, now astride the drake, settled into its saddle with practiced ease, her grin wide and wild. She handled the beast like she was born to it, yanking the reins with sharp precision as its wings flared beneath her. She moved like someone who had done this before—maybe not with this exact creature, but with enough danger to make it look natural.

Fen exhaled slowly, grinning as he shook his head. "That did look fun," he muttered. "She always has to be so sparking flashy."

She'd always been the reckless one between them, the type to leap off perfectly good ships because it felt like the fastest way to get into the fight. Where he was cautious, calculated—she chased the thrill. But she wasn't reckless without reason. Underneath that bravado was a fighter who knew exactly what she was doing, every move measured in instinct and muscle memory. He respected the hell out of it.

Not that I'd ever admit it out loud where she could hear. Wouldn't want it going to her head, he thought, a fond smile playing on his lips.

With a final glance at her—now steering the drake like it had always been hers—Fen turned back to the chaos erupting on the deck.

"Guess there's still plenty of work to do."

He moved with purpose, the weight of the tome solid in one hand as his other reached for the hilt at his hip. The umbral blade hissed free, its edge devouring the dim light in a ripple of shifting darkness. The weapons pulsed in tandem—familiar, grounded, in tune with something deep.

They had taken new forms, freshly transmuted to fit the fight he now faced—but the soul of them was old. The tome had once been his blaster, the one he'd trained with for thousands of hours. Before that, a bow. A shotgun. His sword had been a warhammer once, then an energy blade. The SynthNet didn't care what shape they took. They were his.

His muscle memory flowed into them instinctively, effortlessly, the hard-earned skill of countless hours echoing through every movement. Like a song in a new key—but one he still knew by heart.

As the two items harmonized, the low hum beneath his skin deepened—like a war drum in his bones. The connection wasn't just familiar, it was pulling him forward. A call to motion.

Fen's eyes swept the battlefield. The cannons had gone silent now, their thunder replaced by the clash of steel and the roars of combat. Polearms met scale and fang across the deck, bodies locked in frantic motion—but it was the largest drake that seized his focus. It had already broken through the defensive line, its rider angling it straight for the observation deck, where Fisck and Desmond stood ready to face the beast.

The hum surged.

Fen moved.

Fen broke into a sprint, weapons pulsing in his grip, as a shadowed figure lunged into his path—veil drawn, curved blade flashing in the smoke-wreathed light.

Without breaking stride, he triggered the runes woven into the cloak's lining. Shadows coalesced at his feet and surged upward, curling around him like smoke. In an instant, his form blurred—Veil of Night activated.

[Ability: Veil of Night — Allows the wearer to teleport a short distance within line of sight, leaving behind a brief cloud of disorienting smoke that acts as a decoy.]

Fen had hesitated before equipping the cloak. The Mantle of the Abyss wasn't exactly subtle—and could've been a liability. But the ability to reposition mid-fight was too valuable to pass up. Especially now.

He shifted—phased—leaving behind a flickering afterimage as he passed cleanly through the first rider. The attacker's blade struck the phantom dead-center, stabbing into nothing. By the time the man realized it was a feint, Fen was already behind him.

[Ability: Shadowstrike — A precision melee attack that disrupts magical wards and gains power when used after casting a spell. Synergy: Charging successful strikes with this blade fuels the Tome of the Arcane Nexus with stored energy.]

His umbral blade plunged forward, the strike clean and silent. Shadowstrike triggered. The blade slid through the rider's back with practiced ease. The man stiffened, his body jerking as dark energy siphoned into the weapon. It pulsed with a hungry hum of stored force, already charging the tome in Fen's left hand.

The synergy effect was immediate. Fen turned, extending his off-hand. The Tome of the Arcane Nexus flared to life, its scorched cover splitting open with a hiss. It lifted from his hand and hovered in front of his open palm, connected by thin lines of dark aether. Arcane glyphs raced across its surface as his fingers shaped the casting gesture—guided not by thought, but by instinct.

The weapon's form had changed, but its essence hadn't. It was still his. The same conduit he'd trained with across countless cycles, through countless transmutations. That deep familiarity—the rhythm of it—flowed through him now like breath.

"Arcane Bolt," he muttered.

Though this was the first time casting it in this incarnation, the spell answered like an old companion. A crackling lance of violet energy erupted from the tome, striking a second rider dead-on. The man staggered as the bolt shattered his chestplate, raw force coursing through him in a searing surge. He dropped, lifeless.

Both foes fell in sequence, their bodies drained as the blade and tome fed on the lingering echoes of magic and motion. Fen's sword pulsed in his grasp, its edge now heavy with stolen energy. The tome shimmered beside him, its charge climbing steadily—one step closer to unleashing something far greater.

Before Fen could press forward, an arm locked around his throat from behind, wrenching him backward. The impact jarred him, and his grip on the tome faltered. His attacker—a third rider—was quick, a wiry man clad in the same veiled armor as the others. A low, mocking laugh came from behind Fen's ear as the assailant tightened his hold and drew a wickedly curved blade from his belt.

"You've caused quite the mess," the man hissed. "While your little friend is off playing dragon queen, my masters would like a word."

Fen's voice came out strained but biting. "Yeah? They couldn't send a calendar invite?"

He drove an elbow back hard into the man's ribs. Bone cracked beneath the impact, and the rider let out a strangled grunt—just enough for Fen to shift his weight.

He slammed his heel into the deck, activating the runes embedded in his Obsidian Sigil Boots. The glyphs along the soles lit up in a bright orange shimmer, flaring as they discharged.

[Ability: Grounding Pulse — Sends a shockwave through the floor, staggering nearby enemies and weakening magical shields.]

The deck beneath him responded with a sharp crack, a shockwave rippling out in a tight radius. The floor hummed like struck iron as the pulse surged outward, distorting the air. The rider's legs buckled as the force hit, his balance breaking entirely.

Fen twisted free.

In one fluid motion, he dropped low, pivoted, and rose with the tome already aglow in his left hand. It hovered just ahead of his palm, runes flaring as his fingers shaped the cast.

"Arcane Bolt," he muttered, instinct guiding the motion.

A crackling lance of violet energy slammed into the rider's chest. The blast lifted him clean off his feet. He hit the deck hard and didn't rise again, limbs twitching as the last remnants of his energy bled into Fen's blade and tome.

The umbral blade in his hand pulsed violently, humming with power that seemed almost alive, and the tome's runes burned brighter. Fen exhaled once—steady and low. The weight of the fight pressed around him, but his momentum had returned.. His gaze snapped toward the observation deck where the drake continued its deadly advance.

Fen spared a quick glance toward the observation deck. A line of men with pikes had intercepted the drake, their formation bristling with deadly intent. The creature paused, its scaled body rippling with muscle as the pikes struck home in rapid succession, dark ichor spraying with each hit. For a moment, it looked like the line might hold.

But Fen caught the shift in its stance—the way its hind legs coiled beneath it.

It wasn't retreating. It was winding up.

The drake reared back, wings flaring wide as a deafening roar tore through the air. A torrent of flames erupted from its maw, washing over the defensive line in a cascade of fire. The formation collapsed, men scattering in all directions, their panicked cries drowned by the crackling inferno.

Fen picked up his pace, muttering under his breath. He would've blinked closer to the drake, but a glance at his HUD showed Veil of Night – 20 seconds remaining. Still on cooldown.

You just had to turn this ship into a giant meat smoker, didn't you, you walking bonfire? I'm coming for you, you oversized lizard, he thought, eyes narrowing at the towering beast as it pressed toward Fisck and Desmond.

The wall of flames blocked the most direct path, heat licking up from the scorched planks as smoke rolled across the deck.

He had to find another way through—and fast. If that thing reached Fisck, this was going to be one sparking short mission.

As Fen moved to skirt the burning wreckage scattered across the deck, movement to his left snapped his attention back. Two veiled attackers were closing fast—one sweeping wide to flank, the other bearing down head-on. Their coordination was crisp. Trained. No wasted steps, no flashy flourishes. Just deadly precision.

The first attacker lunged. Fen met the strike with a solid parry, his umbral blade catching the blow in a burst of flickering shadow. Their weapons locked, steel grinding against steel. Fen held the bind just long enough to shift his stance—weight forward, elbow tucked—and glanced over the man's shoulder.

The second one was already mid-sprint, spear aimed for Fen's ribs.

A faint chime pinged in his HUD.

Veil of Night — Ready.

Perfect timing.

Have to time this just right, he thought, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

He triggered the ability.

Shadows erupted around him, spiraling up in a tight vortex. The deck blurred—then snapped back into focus. Fen blinked two paces to the right, leaving the locked attacker standing dumbfounded in his place.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Right in the path of his partner.

The second assailant couldn't stop. Momentum carried him forward—and the spear plunged straight through the first man's chest. The impaled attacker jerked once, breath catching in his throat, before collapsing in a heap.

Fen didn't hesitate. He spun, weight pivoting on his back foot, and brought the blade down in a clean arc across the second man's torso. The strike bit deep, severing muscle and breath. Both bodies crumpled together, lifeless and limp.

He cursed as the cooldown timer reappeared in his HUD. Veil of Night — 60 seconds. It had saved his life, no question—but now it was spent. He wouldn't be able to reposition again until it came back online.

Fen didn't linger. His gaze snapped toward the observation deck. The drake was nearly there, claws carving splinters from the planks as it barreled forward. Fisck and Desmond stood their ground, cornered, with nowhere to run.

Across the deck, a young crewman wrestled a ballista into position, pale hands trembling as he locked in the shot. The bolt fired with a heavy thunk, slamming into the drake's side—where it should've punched through. But the angle was wrong. Instead of piercing, it deflected with a dull spark off the beast's plated scales.

The sailor froze, staring in horror as the drake turned toward him—slow, deliberate, and utterly unfazed.

Its tail lashed out.

The ballista, and the sailor manning it, were swept clean off the deck in a single devastating strike. The scream barely carried above the din before it vanished into open sky.

Veil of Night — Cooldown: 50s

Fen swore under his breath—but the next threat was already on him.

Another veiled fighter surged from the smoke, twin blades already mid-swing. A red eye gleamed in the player's HexID—Hardcore, and dangerous. Fen caught a glimpse of the stats flaring just above it. Nearly all A-tier.

Fen barely finished processing the numbers before the man was in striking range. Two swords, a blur of motion, and he was on him. No banter. Just a silent, brutal advance.

The first exchange came fast—steel meeting steel, footwork sharp and tight. Fen parried low, deflected high, but the attacker kept coming, relentless. Every strike forced Fen back, each movement honed and efficient.

He stepped into a narrow window, trying to bait a reaction—but the second blade was already cutting for his side. Fen twisted away, his cloak flaring with the motion as he ducked and countered.

Veil of Night — Cooldown: 40s

The red-eyed attacker didn't slow. One sword came down in an overhead slash while the other cut horizontally, forcing Fen to roll sideways across the scorched deck. He came up fast, his blade intercepting a strike meant for his throat. Sparks flew.

He needed an opening.

Across the battlefield, the drake let out a guttural snarl. Another group of pikemen surged forward—spears bristling as they drove toward its flank. Their attack slowed the beast, forcing it to rear back with a shriek of frustration.

Veil of Night — Cooldown: 30s

Fen used the reprieve. He shifted his stance, let the attacker come to him. A flick of his wrist deflected one blade, then another. The strikes kept coming, but Fen adjusted, feeding off the rhythm.

His off-hand twitched. The tome pulsed at his side, runes flashing brighter.

It's charged.

He summoned it mid-duel. The heavy tome lifted from his belt, floating to his open palm with pages already cycling through arcane glyphs.

Fen growled, low and menacing, "Grasp of the Hollow."

[Spell Cast: Grasp of the Hollow — Summons spectral hands from the ground that seize and torment nearby enemies. Immobilizes and weakens foes.]

The planks beneath the attacker groaned—and then split open with a shriek of twisting wood. Ghostly hands surged up from the deck, spectral and skeletal. They clawed at the dual-blade fighter's limbs, gripping wrists and ankles, dragging him downward with an otherworldly wail.

The man struggled. One sword fell from his grip as the spirits wrenched at his arms, their translucent forms writhing in sync with the tome's glow. Fen advanced, blade raised high.

The first strike severed resistance. The second ended it.

Veil of Night — Cooldown: 10s

Dark energy siphoned upward, feeding into the blade's edge and the waiting pages of the tome. Fen exhaled, slow and controlled. Around him, the deck crackled with flame, the battle still raging.

But the drake was no longer stalled. The pikemen were dead or scattered.

It was moving again—gaining ground.

Fen adjusted his grip and broke into a sprint.

Veil of Night — Cooldown: 5s

The next blink would be his last shot.

The drake's claws ripped into the deck, its hulking frame bearing down on the observation platform. Fen cursed under his breath, scanning the chaos for an opening. There wasn't enough time to head it off directly—the beast would reach Desmond and Fisck before he could get there.

His eyes flicked upward, past the writhing shadows of the melee, to the network of ropes and rigging beneath the massive balloon overhead. There, taut and braced against a support beam, he spotted his solution.

"Perfect," Fen said, smiling. his cloak humming faintly as the cooldown indicator flashed in his HUD.

Veil of Night - ready

With a flick of his wrist, he fired an arcane bolt at the drake. The blast cracked against its flank in a burst of violet sparks, scorching the scales but doing no real damage. Still, it was enough. The creature hadn't been challenged since the ballista shot glanced off its side. This one landed clean and bold—an obvious threat. The drake's head snapped around, eyes burning with fury. Just what Fen was counting on.

The beast reared back with a piercing hiss, golden eyes snapping toward Fen.

A shape moved atop its shoulders. The rider—veiled and goggled, crouched low in a forward saddle—yanked sharply on the reins, barking clipped commands. He hadn't been guiding the drake directly this whole time—just steering it toward chaos and giving it free rein. But now he wanted it focused. Wanted it to finish Fisck and crush the platform.

Which meant Fen had just bought them a few seconds.

He exhaled, sliding the tome into the square holster at his hip. The drake had taken the bait, turning away from Fisck and toward him. Good. The cloak's hum surged beneath his collar—and Fen vanished.

He reappeared at the bracing line mid-ship—just where he'd noted it earlier. One arm wrapped around the thick tensioned rope as it swayed with the ship's motion. Without hesitation, he slashed it loose. The line snapped, curling like a whip as its end tore free. Momentum yanked Fen forward, hurling him in a wide arc around the edge of the deck.

Wind roared in his ears.

He tightened his grip, umbral blade drawn, the weapon thrumming with unnatural force. It wasn't just steel anymore—not after what it had absorbed. Each strike in the last few minutes had siphoned echoes—fragments of fading soul energy from the fallen. The spell he'd cast to end the veiled swordsman had supercharged it further, flooding the blade with volatile energy. And now, paired with the speed and weight of his swing, it hit like a collapsing star.

The drake turned too late.

Fen collided like a thunderbolt, his blade driving deep into the side of its neck. There was no resistance—just a flicker of darkness and a sound like tearing silk as the creature's scales split apart. Dark energy surged through its flesh, disrupting the very essence that bound it together. The drake buckled with a strangled cry, wings flailing as it staggered sideways.

The rider shouted in alarm, trying to wrest control. But before he could recover, a bolt tore through the chaos—a clean, pinpoint shot from above.

It struck him square in the visor.

The man toppled backward without a sound, limp and weightless, disappearing over the side as the drake collapsed beneath him in a heap of wings, blood, and smoke.

Fen's boots hit the top of the stairs with a thud, landing hard in front of Fisck and Desmond as the last of the fight ebbed behind him. His balance wavered, but he stayed upright, blade still in hand. As he straightened, a shadow swept overhead—Seraph, straddling the smaller drake she'd commandeered, guiding it in a slow, banking pass above the deck. Her crossbow was already halfway reloaded, smoke trailing from the shadowform weapon.

He raised his blade and shouted up, grinning. "Nice shot, show-off!"

Seraph glanced down, her grin wicked beneath windswept hair. "Says the man playing pirate on the rigging!"

The drake beat its wings hard, carrying her in a wide arc toward the far side of the ship.

Fen shook his head, turning to Fisck, who stood watching, stunned. "See, Mr. Fisck?" he said, flashing a grin. "Worth every credit." He tapped the blade against the deck for emphasis. "A few more of these, and I might even ask for an early bonus—"

His words cut off as both Fisck and Desmond shouted in unison, fingers jabbing frantically toward something behind him.

"Fen! Move!"

"Behind you!"

He blinked, confused—then turned, just in time to see the drake in its death throes. Its tail lashed out in one final act of vengeance, whipping across the deck with jarring force.

"Sparks—" was all Fen managed before the tail struck him square in the chest. His armor absorbed most of the blow—but not enough to stop what was coming. The world spun as he was launched clean off his feet, sailing over the railing in a tangle of limbs and utter disbelief.

Fen's last coherent thought before he disappeared over the edge was an irritated, She's never going to let me live this down.

A guffaw burst from Seraph, loud and unrestrained, as she watched Fen sail over the side of the airship, arms flailing wildly. She had to clutch the reins tightly as laughter stole her breath.

Oh, sweet code, she wheezed, shaking her head. I am never letting him live this down.

The drake beneath her shifted, reacting to her excitement like it felt the joke too. Even transmuted, it had a will of its own—half creature, half code—but it had already started leaning into her commands, recognizing a capable rider. That was enough.

She guided it into a tight, wing-tucked dive, plummeting after Fen with smooth precision. The wind roared in her ears as she closed the gap, sharp eyes tracking her falling friend. Just as she'd expected, Fen wasn't panicking. He adjusted his posture mid-air, angling his descent, boots bracing as if this had been part of his plan all along.

With a flick of the reins, she brought the drake beneath him. Its wings flared, catching the air hard—and Fen landed in the saddle with a thud and a grunt.

"Shut it, Seraph," he muttered, not even looking at her.

"Oh, who me?" she teased, voice syrupy with mock innocence. "I'd never dream of commenting on such an extraordinary maneuver. I'm sure it was part of your plan."

He gave her a look, somewhere between a glare and a sigh, but it broke into a faint grin.

Seraph's pulse was still racing, but in a good way. The kind that came right before a second round.

Fen's glare softened into a faint grin. "While we're up here anyway, you feel like dishing out some pain from the high ground?"

Her laughter bubbled up again as she leaned forward. "Absolutely. Never underestimate the high ground. Let's show them how it's done."

She spurred the drake upward, and it answered with a primal shriek. Its wings caught a thermal and began climbing fast, banking in a wide spiral to gain altitude. The deck was still under siege—enemy fliers swooping and darting, peppering the defenders with crossbow bolts and dive attacks. Time to flip the script.

As they crested the top of their climb, she felt the shift. The wind stilled for a moment, the horizon clear.

"Now," she whispered.

They dove.

Fen, steady behind her, loosed a volley of arcane bolts—each one a streak of violet energy that lit up the sky. Seraph fired alongside him, her shadowform crossbow hissing with every pull. The bolts struck true. Riders tumbled from their saddles, some crashing to the deck below, others vanishing into the abyss.

From this height, with Fen at her back and the wind screaming around them, she felt untouchable.

As the tide of battle shifted, movement stirred on both horizons. Behind them, heavy riders from the bay crested into view—reinforcements at last, still too far to intervene, but close enough to escort the rest of the journey. From the east, enemy reinforcements approached on smaller, faster mounts. It was clear they would reach the ship first.

Relief settled in—measured, but real. The newcomers weren't here to fight. They were an extraction force.

That became clear as the remaining enemy riders on deck vaulted into their saddles and peeled off into the sky. Those without mounts hurled themselves over the edge, their desperate dives caught midair by allies with double saddles. Not all made it. A few plummeted into the jungle far below, their screams quickly swallowed by the vast green expanse.

Seraph guided her drake into a graceful landing, claws clattering against the scorched deck of the Legacy. Sliding off in one fluid motion, she gave the beast's scaly neck a fond pat.

"I'm keeping this little fellow," she announced to no one in particular, a playful glint in her eye. Then she turned directly to the drake, brushing her hand along its jawline. "I'm going to name you Petrie."

The drake let out a soft rumble and leaned into her touch, nuzzling her palm with surprising gentleness.

Fen dropped down with far less elegance, landing with a grunt and eyeing the creature with visible distrust. "That's a dumb name for a drake."

"Shut it," Seraph replied, smirking. "You'll hurt Petrie's feelings."

The drake rumbled low, turning its head toward Fen as if sizing him up. Then it gave a sharp shake—just enough to unseat him as he swung his leg over the side.

"Seriously?" Fen managed, landing hard on his side. He lay there a beat longer than necessary before rolling to his feet with a sigh.

The drake let out a pleased chuff, his tail thumping once against the deck like a wagging dog, then flicking it smugly in Fen's direction.

Fen brushed off his coat, his expression stuck somewhere between a glare and a grin. Seraph stepped away, still chuckling as she gave Petrie a final pat.

"Show-off," Fen muttered with a pained chuckle, brushing off his cloak as he rose. "Saves my ass and gets a cool drake. Of course she does."

Fen's mood sobered as he glanced around the deck, the aftermath settling in like ash. Fires crackled in shallow burns, sailors dousing them with torn canvas and buckets of foam. Scattered across the planks were bodies—some crumpled mid-step, others sprawled in unnatural heaps. Blood soaked the wood in places, smeared into the grooves by boots and claws.

Fen's eyes lingered on a fallen soldier in dark armor—one of Fisck's. The visor was cracked. No movement. No flicker of light. Just stillness.

"Poor sods," he murmured. "Looking at this carnage it looks like most here on both sides were hardcore."

He turned toward the far rail, where several enemy corpses lay slumped—fighters from the opposing force. One of them shimmered—just for a moment—then evaporated into a scatter of golden pixels. Another followed, leaving behind only a dark smear and an empty stretch of deck.

"Guess not all of their team were hardcore," Fen muttered, nodding toward the dissolving avatars. "Those ones just got kicked back to the login screen—probably slumped in a rig somewhere, feeling like they got hit by a freight truck."

Seraph stepped up beside him, her expression tight. "Ouch! Pain receptors stay on until you're out of the sim," she said. "They'll be talking about this around the watercooler by tomorrow morning."

"Yeah." Fen exhaled. "They'll feel it 'til they're dumped out—but hey, at least they get to tell the tale."

He looked down at the armored figure near his boots—no pixelation, no shimmer. Just stillness.

"That one's not coming back." His voice softened. "Hardcore. Gone for good." He paused. "Hope the softcores on our side didn't suffer too much before they got bounced. With luck, they'll respawn outside the Expanse with a headache and a story."

Boots approached behind them—measured and deliberate. Fisck and Desmond stepped up. Desmond's face was pale, eyes darting to the fallen. Fisck, composed as ever, folded his hands behind his back.

"Respawn?" Fisck echoed, voice flat. "No—not for my men."

Fen turned, frowning. "Wait, seriously? None of them were softcore?"

Fisck's gaze didn't waver. "Maybe the other corps use softcores as rank and file, but not me. I don't enlist people who fight like they've got extra lives. Every soldier wearing my badge is hardcore. It's a condition of employment."

Seraph's brows lifted, voice sharp. "You make them go hardcore? Just to join your little army?"

Fisck didn't flinch. "No one's forced. But if you want a seat at my table, that's the price. I make it clear up front: we only bring in those ready to risk everything."

There was a beat. Then he continued, "Of course, when we're short on numbers… exceptions get made. Papers get filed. Statuses get toggled."

"Fisck, that's barbaric. Is that even legal?"

His voice didn't rise, but something in it chilled the air.

"It's in their contracts. And mine. Contingency clauses—meant to guarantee we have the advantage in here." He gestured vaguely, as if to encompass the entire SynthNet. "And out there."

"You think anyone gives their best knowing they'll just respawn, be given a second chance?" he said quietly. "You only find your edge when the consequences are real. That is true in business or war."

Fen said nothing. He just looked down again—at the bodies—and felt the silver lining he'd been clinging to dissolve.

He paused, his voice growing cold. "The reason we win so often is because we put it all on the line—myself included."

Fen's brow furrowed. "You say you're hardcore—but you've been in fights and you're still breathing. So unless you're immortal, that means you surrendered at some point." He tilted his head. "Funny how that option only seems to show up when it's your life on the line."

Fisck's jaw tensed, but he gave a curt nod. "There have been a few surrenders in the past for our side. Costly ones. But necessary."

His gaze drifted toward the bodies again—cold, detached, calculating. Like he was an accountant tallying losses on a spreadsheet, not mourning the dead.

Seraph stepped forward, her voice sharp. "And how many of your people got the option to surrender before dying? Or does surrender only exist for the ones with board positions? This is evil, Fisck."

Fisck met her stare without blinking. "Evil or not, like it or not, these are the stakes. The ones you agreed to when you joined this campaign." His tone shifted slightly, smoothing. "But I didn't come here to debate morality. I came to commend you both."

Fen and Seraph exchanged a glance, tempers still high.

"That was an impressive display," Fisck continued. "Fen, you mentioned a bonus before your… premature departure." He nodded toward the section of the gunwale where Fen had been flung overboard. "I believe you've earned it."

He stepped closer, drawing a slender blade from inside his coat.

"Extend your right hands, palm down."

Fen and Seraph both hesitated, instincts bristling. Neither liked the idea of letting Fisck near them with a blade—not without knowing what came next. Fen tensed, watching for a feint. Seraph's eyes narrowed, but after a beat, they both complied.

The blade flashed. Fisck moved with practiced efficiency, slicing shallow lines across the backs of their hands. The cuts stung, a bright shimmer of golden light tracing each wound before fading into the skin.

"There you are," Fisck said, sliding the blade away. "A boon. From me to you."

As Fen turned his hand over, a system prompt flared into view:

Boon of Command
A small, intricate sigil is burned into the back of the right hand, etched with shimmering lines of golden script that pulse faintly when active.
(Note: This is a passive boon, not counted among active item slots.)

Effects:
Right to Parley – When captured, the bearer may invoke parley instead of immediate execution or detainment. This forces a negotiation or discussion before further action can be taken.
Tracking Link – Allies may track the bearer's location at all times while they remain in the Verdant Expanse.
Moment of Absolution – Once during the Division Wars, the bearer can be summoned instantly to the location of another marked individual at that person's discretion. The mark is consumed from both parties upon activation.

Fisck's gaze lingered on the sigils, watching the intricate golden lines pulse faintly across the backs of their hands. The energy spread slowly from the shallow cuts, settling into a pattern equal parts brand and contract. His tone was flat, unreadable.

"Thank you for your assistance. I anticipate more spectacles like this in the near future."

He turned without waiting for a reply, boots crunching through ash and blood as he disappeared into the ship.

Desmond remained behind, staring after him. The usual poise in his posture had slipped, as if the weight of what they'd done was finally dragging at his frame.

"High stakes," he muttered. "Heavier costs."

Seraph's glare snapped to him. "You're okay with this?"

Desmond didn't answer at first. He looked down, then toward the bodies—then away entirely, like he couldn't bear to settle on any one thing for too long.

"By the code? No. I'm not okay with this." His voice was low. Honest. "But I knew the terms when I signed up. Everyone in Fisck's army does. Or… they think they do." He hesitated. "It's easy to sign the line when the rewards are stacked so high you can't see the drop beneath them."

He glanced toward the horizon. The weight in his shoulders didn't lift, but something in his stance sharpened—straightening, steeling. When he spoke again, his tone carried a quiet edge of command.

"We should be arriving soon. Until then." With a small, weary nod, he turned and began tending to the wounded.

Fen and Seraph didn't speak. But the silence between them was louder than anything Fisck had said.

They had known there were hardcore players here. Of course they had. But knowing wasn't the same as seeing. And even now, part of them had clung to the idea that at least some of these lives would flicker back online. That not every scream had been final.

But the truth hit harder than they'd expected.

In the SynthNet, going hardcore was a choice. A declaration. A vow to live—and maybe die—fully in-sim. Not just for thrills or bragging rights, but because it meant something. Because this world, this data-born life, was the one that mattered.

To force that choice on someone… to strip it of meaning…
And then to spend that life like currency?

That wasn't just callous. It was sacrilege.

Fen stared at the branded mark on his hand. Seraph's fingers curled around hers like she could hide it. They didn't speak. But the look they shared said it all:

Disgust. Shame. And beneath it, a grim resolve—because this mission wasn't over.

This was what NPCs were made for, after all.
Doing the jobs no one else wanted.
And now, maybe, making damn sure someone paid for it.