The wind carried faint laughter from the shoreline, a sharp contrast to the oppressive silence of the farm. I had seen the group of new players earlier—wide-eyed, naïve, full of hope. Their excitement had been almost palpable, a stark reminder of the fleeting joy I'd seen in her smile. The thought was a distraction I didn't need.
But something pulled my attention back to them. A disturbance in the natural rhythm of the world. Their laughter had stopped, replaced by voices—mocking, and commanding. Not the kind of voices one uses to inspire courage or camaraderie. No, these voices carried the cold bite of cruelty.
I turned toward the source, my gaze cutting through the waves of heat rising from the distant field. Four figures surrounded the newcomers now. No, not four. Three predators, circling their prey like vultures.
Thorne.
Even from this distance, I recognized his mismatched armor, cobbled together from loot stolen from players who had been too weak to defend themselves.
The red skull above his head practically glowed, a beacon of his shame. And beside him, his lackeys moved with the same practiced arrogance, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight.
The Noob Hunters.
I could feel my knuckles pop as my grip tightened on the worn handle of my sickle. But this wasn't my fight. They weren't my concern. The wall beyond the sea was all that mattered. Every moment spent here was a moment wasted. Yet…
I couldn't turn away.
I watched as the newcomers huddled together, their movements uncertain, their voices shaky. The smallest one, with glasses and trembling hands, stepped forward. I couldn't hear what he said, but I was certain I saw it in his stance—the foolish bravery of someone who didn't know better.
Thorne laughed, a sharp, grating sound that carried on the wind. Then, the scimitar-wielding rogue stepped closer to the group, swinging his blade in lazy arcs meant to intimidate. The girl with the daggers flinched, her stance collapsing under the weight of her fear. The larger player tried to step in, but Thorne's lackey cut him off with a venomous whistle and a spin of his throwing knives.
I tasted the blood in my mouth. It was my own. I hadn't even notice I'd clenched my jaw. I could still walk away. Let them fend for themselves. Let them learn the way this world truly worked.
But I didn't.
Her words echoed in my mind, as vivid as the day she'd spoken them. "I'll come back to you. I promise." She'd always been so fearless in the face of impossible odds. For as long as I've known her. How could I be any less?
Before I knew it, my feet were moving, the worn leather of my boots crunching softly against the dry earth. The ocean breeze tugged at my tattered sleeves as I stepped onto the shoreline, the weight of the sickle in my hand a comforting reminder of everything I'd survived.
Their voices grew louder as I approached.
"Hand over the coins, and maybe we'll let you keep your starter gear," Thorne said, his smirk wide and venomous. "Or, we could take everything. Your call."
The boy with glasses didn't move, but the fear in his eyes was unmistakable. He wasn't a fighter. None of them were.
I stopped just short of the group. My shadow fell long and jagged across the sand. But the rogues didn't notice me at first. They were too focused on their prey. Until the girl with the daggers saw me, and her eyes widened, flicking between me and the rogues. The fear that plagued her expression only seconds ago was replaced by confusion.
"Leave them alone," I said.
My voice cut through the tension like the edge of my sickle. Slow, and controlled.
Thorne turned, his smirk faltering for half a second before he saw me. His eyes narrowed, taking in my ragged clothes, and my unassuming stance.
His confidence returned in an instant.
"And who the hell are you?" he barked, loud enough for his lackeys to stop what they were doing and turn toward me.
I didn't answer. There was no point. Instead, I stepped closer, lifting the sickle so its rusted blade caught the light. It wasn't much, but it didn't have to be.
"You have two choices," I said, my voice low and steady. "Walk away, or I'll make you."
Thorne's smirk twisted into a snarl. "You've got guts, old man. I'll give you that. But you're about to learn what happens to noobs who overstep."
Noob.
The word struck me harder than I expected, but I didn't flinch. Let him think I was just another casual player. Let him underestimate me.
It would make what came next all the sweeter.
Thorne's laughter echoed again, louder and exaggerated, as he twirled his mismatched blade in one hand. His lackeys followed suit, of course, their weapons gleaming as they fanned out in a loose formation, cutting off any escape route for the newcomers. I couldn't help but notice they moved like predators cornering prey, practiced and confident.
"You've got a death wish, noobie," Thorne sneered, mockingly. "You think that rusty gardening tool's going to scare me? I've dealt with bigger threats than you. Hell, I've killed bosses tougher than you'll ever face."
I said nothing, keeping my eyes locked on him. I didn't need words. Words wouldn't stop him.
The girl with the daggers glanced at me again, fear returning to her face. "What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You're going to get yourself killed."
She wasn't wrong. By all accounts, I should have turned and walked away. The players had strength in numbers, and their weapons were leagues ahead of anything I could hope to match. But they didn't know. They didn't see what I saw. They couldn't.
The world felt… quiet. Too quiet. Not even the breeze stirred the grass now. Time itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for me to act. A single moment later, I felt my hands tightening on the sickle, and I took another step forward, closing the distance between us in the same deliberate way the sprite wolves taunted their prey.
"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Thorne said, his smirk fading. "But guts won't save you. Take him down."
The order came quick, and so did his lackeys. The scimitar-wielder lunged first. His blade arched in a wide, vicious swing meant to cut me down in one strike. But it was slow. Telegraphed. I didn't move.
To everyones surprise, he stopped mid-swing, his expression faltering. He tried to pull his weapon back, but something held it in place. The air around the blade shimmered faintly, as though the space itself had been warped.
"What the—" he started, but his words were cut short as I shifted slightly, just enough for him to see what I'd done.
The scimitar's arc hadn't been stopped by my sickle. No. It was stopped by the air itself, a faint, almost imperceptible ripple hanging between us.
I had carved the air.
The others froze, their confidence cracking as they stared at the distortion. The ripple shimmered, invisible to most but clear as day to me. It hung in the space between us like a coiled spring, vibrating softly, waiting.
"What is that?" Thorne demanded, his voice sharp with anger, though I caught the edge of uncertainty creeping in.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. I had learned long ago that words were wasted on people like him.
Instead, I turned my attention back to the ripple. Then, with a slow, practiced motion, I raised my sickle again, carving a second line into the air parallel to the first. The ripple expanded, the distortion growing stronger, and I felt its weight pressing against my own senses, begging to be unleashed.
"What are you doing?" Thorne growled and for the first time, he stumbled backward. "Stop screwing around!"
I wasn't. My voice was calm, quiet, barely audible over the growing hum of the distortion. "You had your chance."
The air rippled one final time, a shudder that ran through the ground beneath us. The so called Noob Hunters flinched, their bravado shattered as the ripple began to bend inward, folding on itself like a bowstring being pulled taut.
And then, just as the tension reached its peak...
"FWOOOOM!"