The rhythmic clash of steel echoed through the training grounds as members of The Chosen sparred in pairs, their blades colliding in bursts of light and energy. The air crackled with tension and determination, bodies moving in synchronized patterns as they executed the combat drills Mars had assigned. Sweat dripped from their brows, staining the earth beneath their feet, yet not a single warrior wavered. Every block, dodge, and counterstrike carried a sense of urgency, a necessity honed by the growing pressure from their adversaries.
Mars stood with his arms crossed, eyes sharp as he assessed their progress. His guild had come a long way since its inception. What had once been a loose collection of like-minded individuals now bore the semblance of a disciplined force. But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
"Focus on your positioning!" Mars barked, his voice cutting through the battlefield noise. "You're leaving gaps open—again!" He pointed toward two fighters struggling against an aggressive opponent. "You get caught like that in real combat, you won't have a second chance. Read your enemy's movement before they make their strike. Anticipate, don't just react."
The two fighters exchanged quick nods before adjusting their stances, trying to internalize his lesson. Nearby, another duel came to an abrupt end as a warrior named Dorian hit the ground hard, his weapon skidding across the dirt. His opponent, a burly axeman named Bren Callow, lowered his weapon with a smirk.
"You're swinging too wide, Dorian," Bren said, offering a hand. "Monolith players will punish you for that."
Dorian scowled but accepted the help, wiping the sweat from his face. "I know. Just—give me another go."
Mars moved between them, watching Dorian carefully. "Take a breath first. There's no shame in failing here. Just don't repeat your mistakes." He turned to Bren. "Again, but this time, pace it. Push him, but don't overwhelm him. He needs to learn how to counter, not just defend."
Bren nodded, stepping back into position. Dorian exhaled sharply, then raised his blade. The spar resumed, this time with greater precision.
Mars turned as Alycia approached, her expression unreadable. Dressed in her usual light armor, she carried the air of a woman who had seen her fair share of battles. "They're improving fast," she remarked, scanning the training grounds. "Faster than I expected."
"They have to," Mars replied, his gaze never wavering from his guild mates. "Monolith isn't slowing down, and if we don't match their pace, we'll be trampled."
Alycia sighed, arms crossing over her chest. "Other guilds have started noticing us. Some out of curiosity, others out of fear. Monolith? They see us as a direct threat. We've been hearing whispers—raids on independent players are getting worse. Monolith's recruiters are becoming more aggressive."
Mars clenched his jaw. He had seen it coming. A guild as powerful as Monolith didn't tolerate competition. "How bad?"
"Some of their squads are gatekeeping dungeons. Others are buying out local markets to control gear and supplies. Solo players are being harassed, forced into submission, or driven out entirely. If someone doesn't join willingly, Monolith makes sure they regret it."
Mars's fingers curled into fists. He had been there before—helpless, under Monolith's thumb, forced into a system designed to break anyone who opposed them. He had no intention of watching history repeat itself.
Alycia studied his face, then gave a small, knowing smirk. "I take it you already have something in mind?"
Mars nodded. "We give them another choice. If Monolith wants to force people into submission, we'll show them there's another path. One where they don't have to bend the knee."
Alycia arched a brow. "You're thinking recruitment?"
"Not just recruitment," Mars said. "A statement."
Word of the event spread faster than Mars had anticipated. It started as a whisper in independent circles, passed between players who had grown tired of Monolith's suffocating grip. Within a day, it had become a firestorm across the forums and chat channels.
"The Chosen is opening its ranks."
For solo players and small guilds, the promise was enticing. No rigid contracts. No exploitation. Just a chance to fight on their own terms. But with the promise came a challenge—Mars had chosen Greythorn Arena as the venue. A symbolic move. The arena had long been a place where the strong proved their worth, a battleground where skill mattered more than reputation.
As the day arrived, players flooded the area. Some came openly, their weapons polished, armor gleaming in the morning light. Others lurked in the shadows, watching, uncertain. There were those who still feared retaliation from Monolith, knowing that attending this event was an act of defiance in itself.
Mars stood atop a raised platform, scanning the gathered crowd. The energy in the air was palpable. He let it build for a moment before speaking.
"No contracts," he began, voice steady, carrying across the arena. "No forced obligations. No corporate guild controlling your every move. If you want a place where you fight for yourself, where your effort determines your future, not your wallet—you've found it."
A murmur rippled through the audience. Players exchanged glances. The tension was thick, charged with expectation.
A lone figure stepped forward. A swordsman, his armor mismatched, bearing the signs of a player who had fought too many battles alone. "And what happens when Monolith decides they don't like what you're doing? They've crushed other guilds before. What makes The Chosen different?"
Mars met his gaze. "Because we don't fight to dominate," he answered. "We fight to stand. We fight so no one has to kneel again. We win not through control, but through strength—and strength comes from those willing to rise, no matter how many times they fall."
The murmurs grew louder, turning into something closer to agreement. Understanding. Hope.
"We don't demand blind loyalty," Mars continued. "We don't promise an easy road. We promise a fight worth taking. If that's what you want, then step forward."
For a long moment, silence.
Then, the swordsman moved. He stepped onto the platform, unsheathing his blade. "Then let's fight."
One by one, others followed. Some bold, some hesitant—but all choosing. The arena floor became a proving ground, a test of strength and will. Matches were held, skills measured, bonds forged through combat. And by the end of the day, The Chosen had grown. Not just in numbers, but in purpose.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Mars stood amid his newfound warriors. Monolith would not take this lightly. But for the first time in a long time, the independents had a rallying point.
The war for freedom had truly begun.