Results. In the Union, results meant power.

  Rem walked toward Oldetown, the wind crisp and machine-filtered, streets polished to mirror shine. Automated transports glided past, whisper-quiet, their occupants encased in tinted glass. Androids in Union livery swept the sidewalks, each movement perfect, economical. The city shimmered with efficiency — a body without waste, without hesitation.

  They had enslaved it all. People. Machines. Purpose. Everything bent toward Thrive.

  Thrive. Progressive difficulty. The strong thrive. Everyone else becomes acceptable casualties, useful only if their failures can motivate others to push harder.

  Thrive wore Noah down grain by grain, stripping his body, his mind, his will. When nothing remained to give, the Union seized upon his death – turning it into propaganda — a clean, glowing story about honor and perseverance. A moral for the living.

  Rem crossed the Landigraad Bridge. Below, the river glinted with pale light from the towering arcologies, an optimistic shimmer too perfect to be natural. He sidestepped a drone cart stacked with deliveries.

  He didn’t look back.

  Ahead, the glass and steel gave way to soot and stone. A single gate divided centuries — the clean, humming present on one side and something older, slower, human on the other.

  He stepped through.

  Oldetown breathed smoke and slow-cooked meat. The air smelled alive — flawed, unfiltered, heavy with sweat and spice. No tech here. No automated transports. Just people, working. Pushing carts, hammering metal, shouting prices for bread that wasn’t printed or preserved.

  A man repaired boots under a canvas awning, fingers raw but sure. Beside him, a woman stirred a pot over open flame, its steam carrying the faint sweetness of corn mash. Children chased a wooden hoop down the uneven street, their laughter jagged and real.

  Rem paused beneath the arch, watching it all. The monument above him — carved stone, untouched by time — caught the weak sunlight in veins of gold dust. Beautiful. Elegant. Merciless.

  .

  He shook his head. The whole time, he’d been playing the wrong game.

  The Union promised that hard work and dedication could earn the ultimate reward — freedom from death itself. But it was a lie built on control. They could have made a system that rewarded effort. They built one that maximized results. They called it benevolence, claimed it preserved life — but only the lives of those they were interested in, just the ones that thrived.

  That was the real lesson in Noah’s death. He’d exposed the truth of it.

  Power.

  Ethics? Only those that cultivated power.

  Morality? Only if it cultivated power.

  Murder. Lying. Cheating. All acceptable — if they increased one’s power.

  Rem laughed under his breath. A strange sound in this place of honest noise.

  Maybe being broken didn’t matter. Maybe the Union didn’t care about secrets, or cheats, or violations. Maybe they never had.

  He kept walking. When he got to the arch he passed by the Union officials – through the shimmering light of the arch into his workshop.

  The place smelled wrong. A quick glance around was enough for him to realize his mistake.

  The night lilies had wilted and shrivelled, some falling down over the blooms laid flatly on the floor of the workshop.

  Rem dropped his satchel and hurried to them with his watering can, shaking it to refill his dark umbral water. With a silent prayer he saturated the dark, dry soil - until shadows seemed to leak from it, then poured the water over the stems and blooms – the petals shivering under the weight of shadowed water.

  “I forgot all about you,” he said, apologizing to the languishing flowers.

  Rem retrieved his satchel and started pulling out the contents. A Wand of Silence lvl 3, and Wand of Illusions lvl 3 were his latest acquisition – combined with the challenge reward, the Wand of Sleep, he had all the first piece of his next plan.

  He slid the two wands onto the shelf by the third. That plan would have to wait till he reached level four.

  Should I rush these levels? He asked himself, not for the first time. Noah’s death still hollowed him out, and the thought of heading back to the level where his friend died caused blood to quicken. Part of him wanted to complete it and never go back, he could – right now. One three-surge run would be enough to push him over the level and go straight to four.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Part of him, the larger part, wanted to break level three, break it in so many pieces that the Union had to permanently retire it – and it was that part of him that he was inclined to follow.

  He couldn’t get revenge on the Union – at least not yet – but level three he could touch.

  SURGE ONE: Repelled.

  Exit now to receive your rewards (common).

  Cheers broke like a tired wave along the battlements. Men slumped against the walls, armor steaming, eyes glassy with adrenaline and disbelief. The air reeked of blood, oil, and cooked fur.

  Rem sat on a crate, eating rhubarb pie. The filling stained his lips a violent red.

  “Great job, everyone,” he said around a mouthful, clapping once, lazily. “Truly inspiring work.”

  A few defenders glanced at him, too drained to reply. One man poured water over his head, another retched in a corner. The gate shuddered, as if remembering what waited on the other side.

  “Is that…” A voice behind him, hoarse, incredulous. “Is that my wife’s rhubarb pie?”

  Captain Hendrick Voss stood there, pale beneath the soot, hand trembling on his sword hilt. His eyes darted between Rem and the slice.

  “It is,” Rem said, savoring another bite. “Your wife makes this every morning. One of the few good things about this miserable challenge.”

  Hendrick took a half-step closer, nostrils flaring. “She gave you some?”

  “No,” Rem said, licking a bit of syrup from his thumb. “She asked me to bring it to you. But seeing as you’re about to die horribly to the next wave… it felt wasteful.”

  The captain’s face twisted — confusion first, then insult, then a kind of dumb heartbreak. Around them, the horns were sounding again. Men scrambled to pick up spears, and brace the splintering gate.

  Rem stood, brushed the crumbs from his coat. “Who knows,” he said, turning toward the glyph stone, “maybe one day, if you survive wave two, I’ll give you some.”

  He walked away. Behind him, Hendrick just stared, frozen in disbelief — a soldier clinging to duty, a husband robbed of dessert, a man seconds from another death.

  The wolves were at the gates. Rem was already gone.

  SURGE ONE: Repelled.

  Warning: Failure later will forfeit all rewards.

  Cheers rippled through the gateyard, weak but defiant. Archers slumped along the tower’s parapet, bowstrings slack. Someone laughed, someone wept.

  Rem sat on a crate, eating rhubarb pie. Steam still rose from the crust. He chewed slowly, watching the survivors catch their breath.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The voice came from behind him — hoarse, raw.

  “Thinking,” Rem said around a mouthful. “This pie’s incredible. Honestly inspiring.”

  Captain Hendrick limped closer, one arm bound in a sling, sweat cutting lines through the grime on his face. His eyes locked on the slice in Rem’s hand.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No,” Rem said, hopping down from the crate. “It’s a tragedy. Your wife’s nearly cracked, stuck in a loop baking this same pie every day while her husband leads his men to their deaths over and over.”

  Hendrick blinked, confusion giving way to fury.

  Rem met his gaze. “Not a joke.”

  The captain’s mouth worked soundlessly.

  “It’s your failures that lead to this,” Rem wiped the last smear of filling from his fingers, tasting the sugar and ash. “She can’t stop. None of you can. You die the same way, make the same choices, over and over — and I’m tired of watching it.”

  Hendrick took a step closer. “You think I want this?”

  Rem’s voice hardened. “I think you need help, but you’re too stupid or too stubborn to take it. So next time, I’ll you.”

  He tossed the cloth aside, red fruit stains blooming like old blood.

  The growls came again — low and savage, the promise of another surge.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Rem said, turning away. “Try not to waste it.”

  He left the captain standing there, trembling with rage as the walls began to shake again.

  locked in a loop, endlessly replaying the same moment in time, would look for a way to get out – even if there was only a slim chance. even if it was only for a minute or an hour

  Only one way to find out.

  Saskia settled on her respec class – Agent. Will allow her to build a network of anonymity. The cost is low too, not too many of those yet.

  Currently selling two health potions, one recovery potion, and two restoration potions every other day. Sticking to low profile play.

  Day off from school. might burn extra passes on challenge 3, tired of playing games.

  Rem sat on a crate while celebration erupted around him. Captain Voss barked orders from the timbered ramparts, voice raw, face flushed red with heat and command.

  This time, when the captain turned his attention to him, Rem held out the wrapped pie — the cloth stained through with red fruit.

  The man hesitated. Then hunger — or memory — won. He took it with both hands, as though it were treasure. Steam curled up between his fingers. The scent cut through the smoke of the yard.

  “Every time the wolves break through on the second surge,” Rem said, calm amid the noise, “the gate’s weak. Not properly braced.”

  Voss turned away, staring at the palisade wall. His shoulders shifted once, and Rem guessed he’d taken a bite.

  “Are you hearing me, captain?”

  A pause. Then the man’s voice came low, roughened by sweetness. “Been so long since I’ve tasted Margy’s cooking.”

  “That one was free,” Rem said, sliding off the crate. “The next will cost you.”

  The captain turned, mouth stained with red filling. “What do you want, Rem?”

  “Next time you see me coming,” Rem said, jerking his thumb toward the heavy wagon by the gate, “you tell your men to wedge that against the doors before the second surge.”

  He started toward the glyph stone. “Do that, and I’ll give you another.”

  The light from the glyph caught his face — the same exhaustion, the same resolve — but this time with purpose behind it.

  When the world began to fold, Captain Voss was still standing there — silent in the glow of the fires, savoring each bite as if it were the last good thing left.