The wooden wheels of the caravan ground against the dirt road as they traveled further north. The damp, biting cold of the Soltaris woods was gradually replaced by a dry wind carrying the sharp, metallic scent of iron.
A large merchant caravan was steadily making its way into the high mountains, escorted by the scouting party of the 18 Undercovers acting as hired mercenaries.
Perrin sat at the back of one of the wagons, swinging his legs. He took a deep breath of the open air, a look of absolute bliss on his face. "Ah... no horse manure, no damp hay. This is freedom! I should have begged Talia to let me out ages ago."
Walking beside the wagon, Elin chuckled softly. Her sharp ranger eyes scanned the tree lines on both sides with practiced caution. "Don't celebrate just yet, Perrin. The deeper north we go, the nastier the monsters get."
"No need to worry about beasts," Finn chimed in. The young man in the deep green cloak closed his eyes, pressing his hand against the bark of a passing pine tree. His Druid instincts melded with the spirits of the forest. "The spirits tell me this route is completely clear. Not a single dangerous monster in a five-mile radius... but there are heavy tracks."
Bryn, leading the group at the front, crouched down to inspect the indentations in the dirt. "Not just footprints. These are massive wagon ruts bearing incredible weight. This is a primary ore transport route."
A few hours later, as the caravan crested the mountain pass, the sight before them made all four players widen their eyes.
The Ironclad Fortress City.
It wasn't built on a sprawling plain like Soltaris. Ironclad was a colossal metropolis carved directly into the sheer cliffs and a massive canyon. Hundreds of red-brick chimneys belched thick, gray smog into the sky. Gigantic waterwheels and massive iron gears turned with deafening, rhythmic groans, powering an endless network of mines and blast furnaces.
As the caravan rolled through the city gates, the group was surprised. The atmosphere in Ironclad was vastly different from the paranoid tension of Soltaris.
The citizens were going about their daily lives. Laughter echoed from the taverns, children ran along the stone paths, and merchants haggled loudly. The people looked well-fed and content. However, the glaring anomaly was the endless convoy of heavily armored carts—overflowing with pure iron ore and mana crystals—being escorted south by Crimson Order guards without a moment's pause.
"It looks a lot more peaceful here than I expected," Perrin whispered.
"Peaceful... as long as they meet their mining quotas," Bryn analyzed sharply. "The citizens get to live comfortably because they are the cogs in the resource machine. The black-armored guards aren't oppressing the locals here like they do in the border cities; they're treating this place as their golden goose."
That night, the caravan set up camp in a wide clearing near the mining district. Graham, the middle-aged head merchant, ordered his men to roast some meat and generously shared his wine with Finn's group as thanks for the escort.
"You lot seem like highly capable adventurers. I saw the way that young lady..." Graham pointed at Bryn, "set up a perimeter of traps in the blink of an eye. With skills like that, did you folks flee the Capital too?"
"We're just wanderers, uncle," Elin deflected with a polite smile. "What exactly happened at the Capital? We've been living deep in the woods for so long, we hardly know any news from the outside."
The old merchant let out a long, heavy sigh and set his wine cup down. "Ah... I suppose you forest folk wouldn't know why the 'Black Armored Guards' suddenly marched up here and seized the northern territories. Truth is, they used to be the 'Holy Swords' that protected the King at the Capital."
That sentence made the four players discreetly exchange glances.
"Wait, really? Then why did they abandon the Capital to come here?" Perrin asked, playing the part of a clueless youth perfectly.
"Because of the 'White Council'," Graham clicked his tongue in distaste. "The White Council and the Black Guards used to support the throne together. But suddenly, those white-robed priests claimed they heard the voice of the heavens—or more likely, they were just pulling the King's strings from the shadows. Nobody knows the full truth. All we know is they branded the Black Guards as heretics and ordered them to disarm."
"At first, it was just normal skirmishes. Swords against swords, spears against spears. Rebels fighting royalists," the old merchant continued, staring into the campfire. "But the Black Guards were heavily outnumbered. They had to break through the siege and flee north to establish a new foothold in cities like Ironclad and Soltaris. And that's when the apocalyptic, city-erasing magic you hear rumors about started being used. May the heavens have mercy... I don't even want to imagine it."
The four players sat in silence, rapidly translating the NPC lore into the brutal reality of their world.
The White Council is The Oracle... The Black Guards are the Crimson Order. They had a massive political fallout over the right to rule the NPCs, and that triggered the Guild War.
Finn tossed a branch into the fire. "What about the citizens of the Capital, uncle? Were they caught in the crossfire?"
"Scattered to the winds, my boy," Graham shook his head sadly. "It's a tragedy what happened to that great city. Back in the day, you would see beastmen with ears and tails, dwarves, and even folks with scales walking side-by-side with humans. It was a place where anyone could be anything. But when the White Council started their purges, anyone who looked different—or any mercenary group that refused to bow to them—had to pack up their families and run."
The merchant lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. "And that is exactly why we are heading further than this city... all the way to the northernmost borders. Rumor has it that the refugees, former mercenaries, and outcasts who fled the Capital have built a massive camp up there. They are forming their own army now. I don't know what they call themselves, but I do know they are starving, and they need a mountain of supplies and weapons."
Bryn, Finn, Elin, and Perrin shared a knowing look.
The puzzle was complete. The Free Guild Coalition (the Third Faction) didn't just spawn out of nowhere. It was born from the ashes of the NPCs and smaller player guilds that the two superpowers had violently kicked out of the Capital.
"Alright, we move out at dawn," Graham slapped his knees and stood up. "From here on out, there won't be any Black Guard patrols to keep the roads safe. It's lawless territory. You four need to keep your eyes peeled."
"Don't worry, uncle," Finn smiled faintly, pulling his hood down to shadow his face. "We will escort this caravan safely to the front gates of that refugee camp. You have our word."
At dawn the next morning, the caravan arrived at the Northern Gate of Ironclad.
The morning air was bone-chillingly cold. Thick, dark gray smog from the foundries hung low, blocking out the sun and leaving a permanent taste of iron and ash in the air. The colossal steel gates were shut tight, acting as an impenetrable wall cutting off the rest of the world.
As Graham's caravan slowly approached the checkpoint, the relaxed atmosphere from the campfire vanished entirely.
Over thirty Crimson Order guards manned the gate. Their armor was polished, their weapons sharp, but their eyes lacked the arrogant pride of standard sentries. Instead, they looked severely stressed, paranoid, and vicious—like cornered wolves ready to snap at anyone who looked suspicious.
The four players of the 18 Undercovers immediately sensed the danger.
"Hoods down. Suppress your mana auras as deep as they go," Bryn whispered, barely moving her lips. "Do not make eye contact."
Perrin swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. Fortunately, they had planned ahead. There was no need to worry about concealing weapons on their bodies; Perrin's high-tier long spear, Elin's enchanted bow, Finn's druidic staff, and Bryn's deadly traps were all securely buried deep inside the merchant wagons, hidden beneath layers of mundane grain and cheap textiles.
"Halt!! Where are you taking these wagons?!"
A Crimson Order Lieutenant stomped forward. Two guards crossed their heavy polearms with a loud clack, blocking the path. The Lieutenant's eyes swept suspiciously over the cargo before locking onto Bryn and Perrin at the back of the group.
The tension skyrocketed. Elin flexed her hands under her cloak. Bryn's eyes darted around, calculating the optimal escape route. If these guards decided to dig too deep into the cargo and uncovered their Level 100 gear, a bloodbath would be unavoidable.
"There are no royal cities up north! Just dead men waiting to happen and savages!" The Lieutenant barked, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Pull the covers off all the wagons! And who are those four in the back? They don't look familiar!"
Just as the guards stepped forward to tear into the cargo, Graham leaped down from the lead wagon. He threw himself in front of the Lieutenant with a fawning, overly friendly, and blissfully ignorant smile.
"Oh, my lord! Please, don't look so fierce!" Graham laughed nervously, bowing deeply. "Don't you recognize me, sir? It's Graham! The merchant who always brings the premium wine and fresh rations to your company!"
The Lieutenant paused. His deeply furrowed brow slowly relaxed as he recognized the familiar face of the regular supplier. "Old Graham... I remember you. But what about those four?"
"Oh! Them? I've known them for ages!" Graham waved a hand dismissively, letting out an exasperated sigh. "They're just locals from Soltaris, sir. When they heard I was heading north, they begged to tag along so they could visit their relatives up in the border towns. Just ordinary folks, please don't mind them... But my word, why are the inspections so incredibly strict today, my lord?"
Hearing that they were from 'Soltaris'—a city already under Crimson Order control—and having a trusted, regular NPC merchant vouch for them caused the Lieutenant's paranoia to plummet. The Black Guards rarely cared about the mundane travels of ordinary citizens.
The Lieutenant let out a long, exhausted sigh, dropping his hand from his sword.
"Orders from the top. The rumors about the refugees and rebels gathering at the Ruined Fortress of Havengard up north are getting louder every day," the Lieutenant grumbled. "And Commander Warran is in a foul mood. He ordered us to monitor every caravan heading that way. Whether you're trading or visiting relatives, watch your necks, old man. The people up north aren't just villagers anymore. They're desperate."
"Thank you for the warning, my lord! We will be quick about our business," Graham bowed again.
"Wait..." The Lieutenant pointed a gauntleted finger at Graham. "You're a merchant who travels everywhere. When you get to Havengard, keep your ears open. Bring me back 'news' on this so-called free alliance. How high are their walls? How much food do they have? What are they buying? The more intel you bring me, the heavier I'll line your pockets. Understood?"
"Absolutely, sir! I will keep my eyes and ears wide open and bring the news straight to you!" Graham promised enthusiastically.
Satisfied, the Lieutenant turned and shouted to his men. "Clear the path! Let the wagons through!"
The massive iron gears groaned loudly as the colossal steel gates were slowly raised, revealing the misty, pine-covered road leading into the wild north.
Graham's caravan slowly rolled past the line of heavily armed Crimson guards. Bryn, Finn, Elin, and Perrin kept their heads down, walking silently behind the wagons until the heavy steel gates slammed shut behind them with a deafening boom.
Once they were completely out of sight of Ironclad's walls, all four players let out a massive, synchronized breath.
"Dammit... I forgot to breathe for a solid minute," Perrin slumped against the back of the wagon, his hands shaking slightly. "The 'visiting relatives' excuse is a classic, but I can't believe it actually worked."
"It worked because he's an NPC merchant they see every month. They didn't view him as a threat," Elin sighed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. "That was way too close. If they had searched the wagons and found our gear..."
Bryn looked ahead at the foggy, untamed road. A thrilling, dangerous smile crept onto the Trapper's face.
"Well, you heard the guard..." Bryn looked back at her team. "Our destination is Havengard. Gear up, everyone. We're about to go knock on the front door of the Third Faction."