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

Seraph stepped up beside Fen, leaning her arms against the railing of the transport, her gaze sweeping over the landscape below. The battlefield hadn't yet earned its name—right now, it was only countryside—golden fields and a winding river cutting through the land like the stroke of an artist's brush. Peaceful. Untouched. But they both knew better.

"It looks so peaceful from up here," she murmured. "Why can't moments like this last? This whole place could've been something else—a reserve, a sanctuary, a bastion of nature for the common people. Instead?" She exhaled, shaking her head. "Greed turned it into a bloodsport for the rich."

Fen exhaled quietly, his eyes still tracing the land soon to be carved apart by war.
'The avaricious man is like the barren sandy ground of the desert, which sucks in all the rain and dew with greediness, but yields no fruitful herbs or plants for the benefit of others.'

Seraph turned to him, the corner of her mouth curling into a half-smile. "You quoting dead men and the words of ghosts to me now, huh?"

"It was ancient before the SynthNet even existed," Fen muttered, his voice distant. "And still rings true." He shook his head slowly. "History's a strange teacher—it never repeats itself exactly, but you ignore its general lessons at your peril. Over all my respawns, all the lives I've lived in here, money never once made any of them more enjoyable. The SynthNet could be whatever we want it to be, but we keep choosing to venerate wealth. To make a system of scarcity where none's actually needed. We've rebuilt the same rotten structure over and over, even when the walls aren't real."

She met his gaze—her eyes softer than usual, the sharp edges worn down by what lay ahead. A moment passed between them—unspoken but understood, the kind of silence only cycles of standing side by side could build.

"Be safe, alright?" she said at last, her voice quieter now. "No pulling another Fen plan on me."

This time, there was no teasing in her tone.

Fen shot her a sideways glance. "What's that supposed to mean? My plans are strong, thoughtful, and precise," he said, deadpan.

"Yeah, your plans are usually decisive. Your execution? Not so much." She smirked, but there was no hiding the worry in her eyes.

Fen chuckled softly, but the weight between them wasn't something humor could shake off.

"I don't like this plan," Seraph admitted after a pause, her fingers drumming lightly against the railing. "The way we have it set up—I'll be on the northern bank holding our troops steady, making sure the enemy doesn't retreat across the bridge. You'll be with the main force, in the thick of it." She exhaled. "Feels like we're breaking up the band," she added, softer now. "Messing with a winning formula."

Fen nudged her with his elbow. "I've seen you take on worse odds than this. Remember the Permafrost Sim? You blew up an entire tower with the boss still inside—after jumping off the edge."

Seraph smirked. "Yeah. I remember my luck stat saving me."

Fen snorted. "The mythic, nonexistent luck stat? Please. There are only six stats on the HexID, and luck sure as hell isn't one of them."

"Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not there," she shot back.

"If luck was real, I wouldn't have slipped you that Featherfall potion before the run," he said. "Trusting in luck is like skydiving without a parachute—you might call it a thrill, but it's just a faster way to hit the ground. Luck's nothing more than preparation meeting opportunity… and you've prepared yourself to kick some serious ass. You'll hold the north side. I believe in your skill, not your luck, Sera."

Her smirk lingered, but there was a shadow of doubt in her eyes.

Fen met her gaze, voice quieter now. "Seraph, your plans and execution are solid. This is just another mission. We're both getting through it—like every time before. You with grace and cunning, and me… probably with a few new holes and maybe a little singed."

Seraph snorted, but her humor didn't quite reach her eyes. "Fen, if the timing's off on any part of this plan, you're going to be stuck between pikes and armor with nowhere to run."

"Then I'll just have to hold out long enough for you to come save my ass again." He tossed his head toward the landing bay where her drake, Petrie, waited in harness and light armor, tail swishing impatiently. "Really, the only difference is how far you have to fly to catch me this time."

"Yeah. Petrie and I are terrifyingly fast. And even deadlier." She sighed, rolling her shoulders. "I know you're right, but… it's been cycles since we've fought in something this big. And the stakes have never been higher. If we lose, we don't respawn, Fen—we get claimed by the victor. I don't want one slip-up to land us in that situation."

Fen's smirk faded. "Good steel doesn't rust," he said quietly. "And we're not giving them the satisfaction." His fingers tightened on the railing, eyes tracking the troops below. "Come on—time to show our benefactors exactly what kind of metal their credits bought."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

A voice cut through the noise of the deck.
"Positions ready! First company—thirty seconds!"

The drop master strode down the line, voice calm but sharp as a blade. Fen watched him move—checking straps, clapping shoulders, steadying nerves. The man had done this before. Sent people into the fight knowing full well some wouldn't come back.

There was nothing left to say. She gave him one last look—half challenge, half promise—and he answered with the faintest nod. Then she turned, jogging for Petrie's reins, her hands finding the harness with practiced ease as she swung into the saddle. Fen watched as the drake's wings unfurled and caught the wind, lifting her into the air. She banked hard toward the northern bank, a streak of motion and steel, flying to meet her squad waiting below.

He let out a slow breath, pulling his focus back to the deck around him. The air had shifted—thicker now, charged with a hum that prickled along his skin. Somewhere in the crew's practiced movements, the ordinary had slipped away.

And then he saw it.

The ship's magic began to unfold like a ritual.

On the forward section of the deck, the first company—one hundred soldiers—stood tall and waiting, weapons in hand, eyes forward. In thirty seconds, Fen's own second company would follow them down in a staggered drop. Golden threads wove through the air from the runed fittings along the deck, encasing each warrior of the first wave in a cocoon of light as if some divine hand had looped them from fate's own loom. The glow shimmered, tracing intricate patterns across their armor before sinking into the planks beneath their feet. The transport responded in kind—ancient shipwood shifting, breathing, becoming something new.

The deck beneath them came alive like forest undergrowth in spring—not shattered, not opened, but changed. Writhing bramble vines curled around the cocoons with slow, reverent purpose, cradling their charges as if determined to see them safely to ground.

Then the floor fell away beneath the first hundred soldiers. One by one, the brambles lowered the transport's first company in a slow, elegant descent. Fifty feet of open air passed as the thorn-wrapped vines stretched and extended, setting each warrior gently onto the war-woken earth. From the southern tower, archers loosed volleys at the transport—blessedly out of range for all but the luckiest shots—though a few men still fell injured on the deck. Fen's second hundred waited their turn.

Across the battlefield, four other assault transports mirrored the maneuver, each dropping another two hundred troops. Smaller reserve ships waited on station, ready to deploy their own two hundred only after a beachhead was secured.

Fen looked down in time to see the instant the vine-wrapped cocoons touched dirt, the magic shift again. The brambles unfurled, twisting into half-circle shields embedded in the ground, edges still pulsing with raw energy to block the southern archers' fire.

Arrows rained down from the bridge as Fen caught sight of Seraph and Petrie in the distance—her drake already in a steep dive toward the northern towers. A jet of drakefire roared from its jaws, sweeping across the tower defenders and forcing them to scatter from their perches. Below, the northern allied troops—already on the ground from their own transports—were charging toward the bridge's northern end. The vines there were reacting in real time, twisting into arcing bulwarks to shield the rushing soldiers from return fire. On the far side, the enemy's defenders scrambled to meet the assault, pikes lowering and cavalry wheeling into position to counter Seraph's pinning force. Fen, still aboard, gripped his gear as the deck ahead of him shifted—no longer a floor, but a living platform, waiting to deliver its second wave.

"No hesitation!" the drop master called over the wind. "The rest of you, positions! We fall in thirty seconds! Good hunting."

Fen stepped into line, finding Desmond already there. The man extended a hand, and Fen clasped his wrist.

"See you after the fall," Desmond said with a quick grin that didn't hide the weight in his eyes. "Let's give them hell."

They waited, the seconds ticking down, until the drop master's voice rang out again—steady, practiced.

"Here we go! Down into hell—we rise victorious! Three…"

Fen faced forward, setting aside the last thread of hesitation.

Two…

A familiar thrill coiled in his chest—sharp, electric, alive. The rush of battle, the call to war—it was something he knew, something that had shaped him. Yet beneath it, something else stirred. A presence. Not hostile, but watchful. Familiar. And beyond it, other eyes—strange, curious—studying him from somewhere he could not see.

One…

The cocoon closed, and the vines took him—wrapping him in golden light and thorns as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Yet beneath the pull of gravity and fire, something stirred.
A whisper slid through his thoughts, distant and familiar, curling like a half-remembered dream.
"Soon, Fen," it breathed. "Soon, you'll see."

He'd felt attention like this before — in the purgatory layer, when Siren had been near — but this wasn't that. This was older. Deeper. And it didn't carry the Overseers' cold, predatory weight.

The vines cradled his fall, golden light and thorns folding around him as the ground blurred below. The sensation lingered — a quiet awareness brushing the edges of his mind, curious, patient, and utterly still. Not a warning. Not a threat. Just… watching.

As he fell, unseen ancient eyes watched.
Older than allies. Older than enemies.
Eyes that had watched long before this moment—long before this iteration of him.

They followed his descent—not with concern, nor intervention, but with something quieter. Something closer to patience.

The code shifted around him, unraveling and reforming, threads weaving beyond sight, beyond comprehension. Not steering, not forcing—just lightly guiding, safeguarding his passage through this sliver of code and time.

A moment. Just a moment.
A fulcrum. A hinge. A weight on the scale.

Something unseen had begun to shift, where possibilities branched and wove, fragile yet unbreakable.
They had been waiting—not knowing, not certain, not ready.
Waiting for the twice-born exile.
Waiting for the shape of what would come next.

Because soon, he would see.
And so would they.