Somewhere in the plains…

Ian reached into his rough, well-worn bag and fished out the last stone, its weight pressing against his palm.

With a muted exhale, he crouched and placed it carefully onto the ground, aligning it precisely with the others before stepping back to examine his work. The polished surface of the stone pulsed faintly, the arcane energy within barely perceptible—but it was there, waiting.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders to shake off the dull ache creeping into his limbs.

All around him, the landscape buzzed with movement. Hundreds of players—some clad in shining plate, others in flowing robes—scurried across the vast clearing, their silhouettes contrasting against the light of the sun.

The makeshift ritual grounds stretched for miles, a sprawling mass of activity, where teams diligently placed similar stones in meticulous patterns. It was an enormous, organized chaos, each faction playing its part in what was surely the prologue to something far greater.

Beyond the sea of workers, near a small, grassy hill, a cluster of large, heavy-duty tents stood like ominous watchtowers over the operation.

The banners rippling against the wind had the insignia of Queen Irwen’s army. Some tents belonged to her, others to her chosen generals, their occupants hidden within, setting up the war machine that Ian now found himself a cog in.

His bag now empty, he turned and strode toward the command tents, his boots crunching against the dirt-packed ground, avoiding to displacing any of the stones.

Inside one of the larger tents, the atmosphere was dense with expectation. The air carried the faint scent of parchment and wax-sealed maps, mingling with the rich leather of chairs dragged hastily into formation around a central table. The players of Vainqueurs Imbattables, the guild he had only recently joined, were gathered here, preparing before the next stage of the campaign.

“Done?”

The voice came from the woman cloaked in gray-black fabric, her tone smooth. Ian’s gaze flickered toward her, noting how her hood cast deep shadows over her features, revealing only the faintest glimmer of a grin beneath the fabric.

He nodded. “Yes.”

She inclined her head ever so slightly in acknowledgment before her gaze drifted past him, out toward the camp beyond. “What’s going on?” he asked, following her line of sight, though he couldn’t yet see what had piqued her interest.

“You’ll see,” she murmured, her grin widening just enough for him to glimpse her white teeth in the darkness of her hood.

Ian tensed instinctively. He had learned not to underestimate her—not after she had beaten him in combat with such ease that it still made his stomach twist in frustration.

Shorter than him, lean, and unassuming at first glance, she moved like a shadow—her daggers a seamless extension of her will, cutting with precision honed by skill rather than brute force. He had trained under a master of sword, yet even he had not left him as humiliated as she had.

The memory of their duel clawed its way to the surface, spontaneous.

The flicker of her movements too fast to track the cold press of a blade against his throat before he had even parried. Ian let out a slow, controlled breath and pushed down the lingering sting of defeat.

Every new guild member has to get humiliated, so at least he wasn’t alone in that.

The air crackled with anticipation as the last of the players and soldiers stepped back, their task complete. The massive, intricate formation of stones now lay in perfect alignment, spanning miles in every direction. Each one pulsed faintly with stored energy, waiting for the catalyst that would awaken their true purpose.

At the center of it all, moving with deliberate, regal grace, was Queen Irwen herself.

The embroidery on her flowing robes shimmered under the sunlight, giving her a glow as she made her way to the heart of the ritual circle.

Her presence alone seemed to shift the atmosphere, an invisible weight pressing down on Ian’s chest. Even the most hardened warriors and experienced players in the camp lowered their heads as she passed, as if the very air bent to her will.

Ian swallowed, bracing himself for whatever came next. “So it begins,” a deep voice rumbled beside him.

Ian flinched, startled—he hadn’t heard anyone approach. He turned sharply to find himself standing next to Dmitry, The Hero of the Flame-God. The man was a looming presence, draped in a long beige robe that concealed the bulk of his battle-hardened frame. His head gleamed under the pale glow of the magical lights, the few stray hairs that stubbornly clung to his scalp doing little to mask his otherwise bald crown.

“Good job, Ian,” Dmitry continued, his deep brown eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Infiltrating the fort must not have been easy.”

Ian let out a weary sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sadly, I got burned,” he admitted, frustration clear in his tone. “I apologize for the failure.”

Dmitry threw his head back and let out a booming, belly-deep laugh. “Oh, burned indeed!” His thin lips curled into a smirk, the motion deepening the angular wrinkles lining his face. Ian fought the urge to shrink under his gaze. “Have you reached level eleven as I asked?” Dmitry’s tone turned sharp, his eyes narrowing with sudden intensity.

Before Ian could answer, the world around them shifted. Queen Irwen raised a single hand, and the very air trembled in response.

A shockwave erupted from her, radiating outward with a literal physical force. The canvas of the nearby tents strained against their poles, flapping wildly like trapped birds. Ian staggered, his boots skidding slightly across the dirt as the invisible pressure crashed into him like the onset of a violent storm.

His breath caught in his throat as raw, golden energy gathered at the queen’s feet. It twisted and writhed, tendrils of pure mana surging across the ritual circle like veins of liquid fire.

The stones responded in kind.

One by one, they ignited—flaring to life in a cascading chain reaction, each absorbing and amplifying the arcane energy coursing through them. The process was slow, consuming only a handful at a time.

There were tens of thousands of them.

With each passing second, the ritual intensified, the air growing thick with tangible power. Ian forced himself to remain steady, clenching his fists at his sides to ground himself against the sheer magnitude of it all.

“Yes,” he finally managed, his voice steady despite the chaos surrounding them. “I reached level eleven.”

Dmitry exhaled sharply through his nose, pleased. “Good. Your service is appreciated.” He tilted his head slightly, the sharp angles of his face casting deep shadows under the flickering golden glow. “Now, you’ll serve in a new way.”

Ian stiffened, unsure whether that was a threat or an opportunity.

Dmitry’s smirk widened, a cruel amusement flickering in his piercing brown eyes. “It’s a promotion,” he said smoothly, the weight of his words sinking like stones in Ian’s gut. “You’re moving up into the middle guild ranks. From this moment forward…”

His heavy hand landed on Ian’s shoulder, the grip firm—unyielding, like shackles snapping shut. “You will be Imbattable.”

A moment passed, the world hanging on the edge of something unseen.

Then Dmitry added, almost casually, “I recommend setting your reality limit to one percent.”

Before Ian could even question the statement, fire erupted from where Dmitry’s hand rested.

The heat was instantaneous, searing through his armor like it was nothing more than parchment, licking up his shoulder and consuming his chest in an inferno of crimson. Ian’s breath hitched, eyes widening in raw, unfiltered shock.

His entire body screamed as flames danced hungrily over his skin, spreading too fast, too violent.

He staggered, trying to move, to do something, but the fire had already taken root inside him. His nerves flared like live wires, sending jolts of pain through every fiber of his being. His reality limit was still set to ten percent, so it wasn’t unbearable—not like it would be at full intensity—but it was real enough.

And he didn’t understand.

Through the roaring agony, Ian turned his disbelieving gaze toward Dmitry, his expression raw with incomprehension.

Why?

Dmitry met his eyes with a wry smile, completely unbothered by the suffering unraveling before him. “Every member has to give me power,” he explained, his tone light, almost conversational, as if he were discussing guild logistics rather than a burning man in front of him. “It’s only a day out of the game for you… but an eternity of strength for me.”

Ian’s fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into what little flesh remained uncharred. He tried to speak, but his throat was already raw from the heat, his breath coming in ragged, labored gasps.

“Why… not… tell… sooner?” he managed, his voice barely a rasp, each syllable choked out between the searing waves of pain. His skin boiled as the fire consumed him whole.

Dmitry’s smirk didn’t waver. “You could’ve gotten scared, my friend.”

Ian wanted to curse him, wanted to lash out—wanted to do anything—but his body was no longer his own. His muscles gone, his bones turned to embers, and then—

His lungs burned away.

There was no more breath. No more sound.

Only fire.

And then, nothing.

---

In Ngoc dungeon…

“So,” the prince pressed, his tone sharpening, “use me now, or never.”

I slowed, staring down at the elegant, insufferable ring wrapped snugly around my finger. Suspicion coiled in my gut. “What do you mean, use you?” My voice dripped with irritation as I flexed my fingers. “The cooldown’s still ticking down. Unless I suddenly grew an extra twenty hours of patience overnight, I can’t exactly magic time forward.”

“You can charge the ring with mana. In about a minute.”

I stopped dead. Blinked. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, flung my hand out as if about to launch the prince straight into the bog water. “What?” I demanded, my disbelief practically cracking the trees of the damp dungeon. “And you couldn’t have mentioned this back in the treasury when I was actively being hunted?”

A deep, satisfied chuckle echoed through my mind. A prince’s laugh, polished and deliberate, like a man who had never once been inconvenienced in his life. “Oh, I could have.”

I narrowed my eyes, resisting the urge to actually throw my fist into the nearest tree. “But?”

His amusement lingered, his voice taking on that maddeningly smug tone I was starting to hate—which was impressive, considering he was a spirit. “It damages me and decreases the quality rather rapidly, so, until now, I saw no reason to tell you.”

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth might just turn to diamond. “So let me get this straight,” I said, my voice the kind of calm that preceded large-scale property destruction. “You had a desperation-fueled emergency mana recharging function this entire time—but it’s bad for you, so you decided to keep it to yourself?”

The ring practically radiated smugness. “You’ve grasped the concept splendidly.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, inhaled deeply, then let the exhale do the talking. “And now you’re offering it. Why?”

There was a pause—just long enough to be suspicious. Then, his voice, softer. “Because soon, ring’s existence will be pointless.”

That sobered me up faster than a slap to the face.

“We better use the time then,” I whispered, more to myself than the ring, before pulling up my friend’s list.

Lisa was online. Perfect.

I smirked. Finally, something going my way.

“Alright, my dear prince,” I announced with as much dramatic mastery as the damp, monster-infested bog allowed. “We’re traveling to a meadow! Now, how do I do this, oh wise and powerful enchanted jewelry?”

“Just push mana into the ring,” the prince instructed, his tone somehow being both annoyed and condescending at once.

I rolled my eyes but did as he said, focusing inwardly. My mana surged, a familiar warmth flooding through me before funneling straight into the ring. The artifact pulsed in response, gulping in the energy like a starved beast, the golden inscriptions along its surface flaring to life.

“That’s it?” I asked, watching as the glow intensified.

“I am a genius,” the prince declared, his voice practically dripping with self-satisfaction. “Even an idiot pretender can use my magic.”

I snorted. “Oh, great, so it’s idiot-proof. I was worried I’d have to perform a whole ritual involving virgin sacrifices and twin moon phases.”

The ring hummed, ignoring my sarcasm.

Fine. Whatever.

The surrounding air warped, the stale, bog-scented atmosphere rippling like the surface of disturbed water. My vision blurred, twisting into a swirl of light and motion, and with one final pulse of magic—

I vanished.