Seven figures stood on the cliff's edge, peering down at the jagged rocks below. The air was still, heavy with the remnants of the chaos that had just unfolded. From this vantage point, the forest stretched endlessly in every direction, the mist swirling around the base of the cliff, obscuring the ground far below. But amidst the rocks and mist, the crumpled form of a body was barely visible—a bloodied, broken mass that had once been alive.
One of the men, a burly guard with a scar running down his cheek, squinted down at the sight. "Think he's dead?"
Another guard, younger and leaner, nudged him with an elbow, his expression uncertain. "Looks like it... no one could survive a fall like that."
The captain stood at the center of the group, his face as cold and unreadable as the stone beneath his feet. His sharp eyes never left the body below, but he remained silent, his mind working through the possibilities. He had seen enough in this world to know that appearances could be deceiving, especially when dealing with these so-called 'Immortals.' He couldn't afford to take any chances.
"Captain?" the younger guard asked hesitantly, glancing at his superior with concern. "Do you think he's... one of them?"
The captain didn't answer immediately. His thoughts lingered on the last look he had seen in that boy's eyes—the defiance, the challenge. That wasn't the expression of a man who had accepted death. No, that boy had something else in mind. He was planning something.
"If he is," the captain said finally, his voice low, "then this isn't over. Immortals always come back."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the captain's words settling over them like a dark cloud. The idea of Immortals—players who could die and return—was something that unsettled even the most seasoned soldiers. How do you fight someone who refuses to stay dead?
The captain turned, his cloak swirling around him as he motioned for his men to follow. "We're done here. Let's move."
As the group retreated into the trees, the distant howl of the wind echoed through the forest, but it was quickly drowned out by a new sound. Far to the north, in the small border town of Mist City, a heart-wrenching scream pierced the night air. It was a scream filled with anguish, loss, and rage—so powerful that it shook the very foundation of the town.
At the gates of Mist City's lord manor, townspeople gathered in confusion, drawn by the unmistakable wail of grief. The guards, standing at attention, exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what had caused such an outburst within the manor's walls.
"Do you know what happened?" one of the townspeople asked, her voice trembling as she looked at the others around her. The fear in her eyes mirrored the uncertainty in the crowd. No one knew what was happening, but the collective dread was palpable.
The name "Hill Family" was written in bold letters on the large sign above the manor gates, and it didn't take long for the rumors to spread. The Viscount's daughter, Cecilia Hill, was dead. Murdered by a band of mercenaries deep in the Mistful Mountain Range.
The news reached Mist City in just two days, and in the western part of the province, the reaction was swift. In a high mountain manor, perched so far above the valley below that only flying beasts could reach it, a group of figures gathered around a large, ornate table. Their faces were shrouded in shadow, but the tension in the room was undeniable.
One figure, a young man barely in his twenties, sat at the head of the table, his body trembling with barely contained rage. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his knuckles white as he listened to the report. His eyes burned with fury, a dangerous light glinting in their depths.
"Immortals," he muttered, the word slipping from his lips like a curse. "They dare... they dare to shame me like this?"
His voice shook with anger as he slammed his fist onto the table, sending a ripple of power through the room. The others at the table flinched, but no one spoke. They knew better than to interrupt him when he was in this state.
"We will hunt them," the young man continued, his voice a low growl. "They will pay for what they've done."
Back in the virtual world of Saga, the darkness around Emmett began to fade, replaced by a brilliant flash of light. For a moment, he felt weightless, as if floating in a sea of nothingness. Then, with a jarring thud, his feet hit solid ground.
Emmett blinked, his vision adjusting to the sudden brightness. He was back—standing at the edge of a massive town square filled with players and NPCs alike. The familiar bustle of the city greeted him, the noise of merchants shouting, adventurers haggling, and the distant chatter of the crowd filling the air.
He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers as the reality of his situation hit him. He was alive. He had made it back to the nearest spawn point.
But it wasn't without a price.
With a sinking feeling, Emmett opened his interface and checked his status. His heart sank as he saw his level drop. He had lost three levels—months of work wiped out in an instant. He clenched his fists, anger bubbling up inside him. Was it worth it? he wondered bitterly. Losing all this for a single mission?
As the frustration mounted, his interface pinged with a flood of notifications. Ignoring the system messages, he opened the group chat instead, scrolling through the messages from his teammates.
Five. Only five of them had made it out alive. The rest of the team had died in that cursed mission.
He sighed, his mood darkening. What a waste.
Emmett shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way through the busy streets toward the Thorn Mercenary Group's headquarters. The streets of Beginner City 1 were familiar to him—every shop, every vendor, every building etched into his memory from countless hours spent here. Yet today, everything seemed distant, like he was moving through a fog. The weight of his failure pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.
When he reached the guild, he paused at the entrance, his gaze lingering on the large wooden doors that led inside. He could hear voices coming from within—familiar voices. His comrades were already gathered, likely waiting for the captain to arrive.
He pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The main hall of the Thorn Mercenary Group was bustling with activity, but the atmosphere was subdued. The members who had survived the mission sat around the large table, their expressions grim. No one spoke, but the tension in the room was palpable. They all knew what had happened. They had all felt the sting of defeat.
Emmett walked to the side of the table, taking a seat next to Sebastian, his drinking buddy and fellow mercenary. The others nodded at him in greeting, but no one said a word. The air was thick with unspoken frustration.
For several minutes, they waited in silence. The only sound was the occasional scrape of a chair or the soft murmur of conversation in the private chat. Finally, the doors at the far end of the hall opened, and the captain of the Thorn Mercenaries strode into the room.
Mirabelle Collins.
She was as striking as ever—her long dark hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, her sharp eyes scanning the room with that familiar, no-nonsense expression. Despite her cold demeanor, there was a quiet grace to her movements, an elegance that made her seem untouchable.
She took her place at the head of the table, resting her hands on the worn wooden surface as she looked around at the gathered mercenaries. Her eyes lingered on each of them for a moment, as if gauging their reactions, before she spoke.
"I want to start by thanking all of you for your efforts," Mirabelle said, her voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. "I know the mission was difficult, and we lost more than we should have."
Her gaze swept across the room, and for a moment, Emmett thought he saw a flicker of something—regret?—in her eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
"The target was eliminated," she continued, her tone growing sharper. "Miss Cecilia Hill is dead, and with her death, we've secured something invaluable for the Thorn Mercenary Group."
With a wave of her hand, a large, archaic book materialized on the table in front of her. The book was old—its cover worn and frayed at the edges, but the symbol etched into the leather was unmistakable. A crescent moon partially obscured by clouds.
"The Moon Scripture," Mirabelle announced, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "This is what we fought for. With this, our group now has access to a complete cultivation manual that will take us beyond Body Forging to Qi Condensation, and beyond."
The room erupted in murmurs, excitement bubbling beneath the surface. The Moon Scripture was no ordinary manual—it was a treasure, the key to power beyond anything they had ever dreamed of. With it, they would surpass every other mercenary group in the city.
Mirabelle raised a hand, silencing the whispers. "This manual will be available to everyone in the group—at a price. But," she added, her gaze sweeping over the survivors of the mission, "for those of you who risked your lives on this mission, the manual is yours to study. Free of charge."
Emmett couldn't help but smile at that. The mission had been brutal, and he had lost three levels, but now he had something to show for it. The Moon Scripture was worth its weight in gold, and if he could master it, he'd be back on top in no time.
But before he could celebrate, Mirabelle's sharp eyes locked onto him. "Emmett," she said, her voice cold. "Stay behind. We need to talk."
The others exchanged glances but said nothing as they filed out of the room, leaving Emmett alone with the captain.
As the doors closed behind the last of the mercenaries, Mirabelle folded her arms across her chest and stared at him, her expression unreadable. "You lost three levels," she said, her tone neutral. "And yet, the mission was a success."
Emmett shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah, well... it wasn't exactly easy."
Mirabelle arched an eyebrow. "I'm sure it wasn't. But you're a survivor, Emmett. That much is clear."
She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "And survivors... are useful."
Emmett blinked, caught off guard by the shift in her tone. "What do you mean?"
Mirabelle's lips curled into a small, dangerous smile. "Let's just say... I have a proposition for you."