The subterranean agreement was struck in the dark, but the currency was paid across the surface of the sect in an instant, turning the battlefield into a chamber of pure, unmitigated horror.
Up until this very heartbeat, the gamers had fought with the detached, reckless swagger of men who knew death was nothing more than an interface reset.
When a spear pierced their lungs, it had registered as a dull, localized vibration, a red vignette around their peripheral vision, and a brief countdown screen before they were spat out of a resurrection pillar with a fresh canteen of water and unbroken bones.
They had treated the severed limbs of their comrades like dropped gear, laughing through the carnage, hurling taunts at the descendants of imperial bloodlines because the concept of mortality was a joke told in an alien language.
Then, before they realized it, the parameters were forcibly rewritten.
