Ren and Simms didn’t even have time to finish surveying the field before a group of random players decided to make a move.

  It wasn’t a full assault—more like a drunken bar brawl being started by accident.

  Four fighters, a mage, and a ranger tried to rush the nearest gap in the Prosperous Guild line.

  At first, it almost looked like they’d make it.

  One fighter bashed straight into a Vanguard Dawn shield bearer, knocking him back a step.

  The mage hurled a Firebolt toward the lines.

  The ranger even managed to get an arrow off, clipping someone’s helmet.

  For a second, the whole field held its breath.

  Then the guilds retaliated.

  Hard.

  Without hesitation, the nearest ten guild members surged forward like a snapping turtle, crushing the little group in seconds.

  Spells exploded.

  Weapons flashed.

  The Firebolt caster didn’t even get off a second spell before getting flattened by a two-handed axe.

  The whole scuffle lasted maybe ten seconds.

  Their corpses shimmered and teleported back to the graveyard, punished with experience loss and dropped loot.

  After picking up the loot.

  The guild lines reformed instantly. Not a single crack remained.

  For these random players, the worst part wasn’t dying.

  It was what came after.

  Trying to recover their bodies? That was the real death sentence.

  They had 30 real-time minutes to use their ghosts, reach their corpses, and reclaim what was theirs before the system locked it out. Miss that window, and the game slapped you with the full punishment package:

  Half stats for 24 hours.

  EXP debt—10% of your current level.

  Item degradation. Sometimes even permanent loss, if the RNG gods were especially cruel.

  But none of that was the real problem.

  The real problem was the guilds—the one that had just steamrolled them and were still sitting on the corpse site like it was a throne. Big names. Fully geared. Streaming every moment. Waiting.

  Going back now would be more than reckless. It would be humiliation on demand.

  The second a ghost tried to re-enter their body, it’d be lights out—again. And again. And again, until the system buried them under stacked debuffs and extended stat penalties. Second deaths didn’t just sting—they stacked.

  Being levelled down to level 1 was a real thing.

  And that’s how it ended for most solo players.

  Not in fire. Not in glory.

  But in a greyed-out screen and a rage-quit.

  Running back wouldn’t be brave. It’d be giving the guild exactly what they wanted.

  A chance to show off.

  That’s why random players didn’t pick fights with guilds.

  Because when they did?

  They didn’t get second chances.

  Ren whistled low under his breath.

  ‘Yep,’ he thought grimly. ‘No way the randoms are getting through like this.’

  Beside him, Simms let out a low chuckle.

  “Guess diplomacy’s not happening either,” he muttered.

  Ren just smiled thinly.

  “Good,” he said. “Means they’re even more predictable.”

  Because if brute force wasn’t an option…

  They were going to need a Plan B.

  And maybe a Plan C.

  Or D.

  Preferably involving a lot of pandemonium.

  Ren looked through the crowd with Simms until he finally spotted the familiar faces of his pickup group. Not just to see who was there, but to take stock of who mattered. His pickup group. They had started jokingly calling themselves the Scrap Rats—because, as one of the warriors put it, “We’re the rats fighting over the scraps the big guilds leave behind.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Only today, it didn’t feel like a joke.

  Today it felt… a little too real.

  The guilds had surrounded the Goblin Field like it was theirs by right. Their banners were up, their streamers were live, and the area was locked down tighter than a corporate raid. Most players had backed off, forming a loose circle just outside the aggro zone.

  Silk stood a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight. Fast-talking, sharp-eyed, and somehow the most responsible guy in the crowd—even if he used to run scams between orphanage shifts. He was the kind of thief who knew how to stay alive, and more importantly, how to turn a bad situation into profit.

  Beside him was Mira Frost, hood up, but unmistakable. Red hair always had a way of catching the light. She held her staff like she didn’t trust it not to go off by accident—which was fair. Her spellcasting was suspect at best. But her appearance? Impeccable. What most of the crowd didn’t know was that she wasn’t just slumming it for fun—she was a Frost. Capital F. Old money. Real money. Still, she hadn’t ditched them yet. That counted for something.

  Standing like a stone was Halt, eyes narrowed, already tracking patrol patterns and escape routes. Gruff, quiet, and sharp as a knife. If the crowd erupted, he’d be the first one to vanish into the brush and the last one to be caught.

  Torren was muttering something about sword grips again. Probably designing imaginary armor in his head while watching the guild members show off their enchanted gear. He was eager, loud when he got excited, and forever dreaming about crafting his own set of legendary plate. He hadn’t made a single nail yet.

  Bran was the opposite—silent, sturdy, and watching the guild formation like he was already planning a counter-charge. He wasn’t flashy, and he didn’t posture. But he was always ready. That was the kind of guy Ren respected most: not the loudest voice, but the one who stood firm when things got ugly.

  They were just part of the crowd right now.

  Randoms, technically.

  But Ren wasn’t going to let that stay true for long.

  But someone was missing.

  “Where’s Ron?” Ren asked, frowning.

  Ron, the group’s other warrior—loudmouth, opportunist, and serial aggro monster (in the good way)—was nowhere to be seen.

  Mira shook her head, her flame-red hair bouncing.

  “He messaged. Said he got a better offer.”

  Ren’s jaw clenched for a half-second before he forced himself to relax.

  ‘Coward,’ he thought. ‘Or smart. Depending how this plays out.’

  He raised his voice enough for the rest of the group to hear.

  “Alright, everyone who’s actually here, ready to go?”

  He reformed the group, adding Simms.

  There was a murmur of agreement, though not exactly a thunderous one.

  “I don’t think there’ll be much chance,” Mira muttered, looking downcast.

  Ren didn’t blame her.

  This was supposed to be their quest.

  Their victory.

  Their second Alpha kill.

  And now?

  It felt like it had been stolen, spread out like gossip on the wind until the whole damn server had showed up with their hands out.

  Ren let the silence hang for a beat longer, then smiled.

  Not a big smile.

  Not a fake smile.

  Just a sharp, determined grin.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re not walking away from this empty-handed.”

  He jerked his thumb toward the goblin fields, where the Prosperous Guild was still tightening their iron-fisted grip.

  “We’re Scrap Rats, right?”

  The group perked up a little at that.

  “So let’s act like it.”

  After introducing Simms to the group—awkward nods all around and a brief explanation that yes, he was the kind of guy who harvested eyeballs for fun—they headed back into town.

  There were things to buy. Things they needed.

  Ren, for one, had already burned through a painful chunk of his precious copper at the general store. He wasn’t proud of how light his coin pouch felt, but it had been necessary.

  Smoke bombs.

  Gloomsprite Dust.

  The smoke bombs were obvious—cheap crowd control, perfect for escape tactics or turning a clean skirmish into chaos. But the Gloomsprite Dust? That was different.

  It was the kind of item most players ignored. Cheap stuff. Obscure. Sold in little wax paper packets like it was dried glitter. But Ren knew better. Most players laughed at it.

  Ren had plans for it.

  Besides being used for hygienic cleaning spells and general sanitation magic, it basically just glittered uselessly in the air—and that was it.

  Perfect for the stunt he had in mind.

  He handed out two smoke bombs and two packets of Gloomsprite Dust to each member of the group.

  “Where’s Kanuka?”, asked Mira.

  “Kanuka couldn’t make it,” Ren said. “He’s at work.”

  He glanced at the others. “We’re Scrap Rats. Name comes from the dorm—real glamorous place. Ceiling leaks, old cots, and exactly two helmets to share between ten of us.”

  A few of them blinked. Mira winced.

  “Yeah,” Ren went on, “we rotate. Two on at a time, the rest working jobs or sleeping when they can. Can’t afford more helmets, and real life doesn’t pause just because there’s a game to play.”

  He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Still, we’ve got ten locked in. Already ten. Some fight, some craft, some hustle. Every shift, someone’s making progress.”

  “In a perfect world, we’d all be online together. But we make it work. We don’t waste time.”

  Mira tilted her head. “That’s kinda sad,” she said softly.

  Ren gave a small, lazy shrug. “Maybe. But we’re still gonna win.”

  And anyone really listening could tell—this wasn’t just a slum crew scraping by.

  “Yeah, kind of sucks but we’ve got work to do.”

  He looked around at the small group—their little band of underdogs—and grinned.

  “Alright, here’s the plan,” he said.

  And then he laid it out.

  It was the kind of plan so ballsy, so brazen, so flat-out dumb it circled back around to being brilliant.

  Simms listened, his face slowly shifting from confusion to horror to resignation.

  “You want me to be sacrificial bait?” Simms said, incredulous.

  Ren clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  Simms let out a heavy sigh.

  “I get it. Seems like whoever teams up with you is doomed to be bait.”

  Torren, the broad-shouldered warrior, immediately raised his hand,

  “Not it.”

  Halt, the ranger, just laughed and started checking his arrows.

  No need for a vote.

  They were all in.

  “Alright,” Ren said, rubbing his hands together. “Here’s what you gotta do, Simms. First—leave the group.”

  Simms grumbled but clicked the menu and dropped out of the Scrap Rats.

  “Turn your settings down too,” Ren added.

  “Pain down?”

  “Pain down, realism down. Everything. Make sure you can survive getting stomped a few times without hating your life.”

  Simms nodded, adjusting his settings.

  This was starting to become a very familiar maneuver when dealing with Ren.

  “Okay,” Ren continued. “You’re gonna sneak closer to the front of the crowd. When I give you the signal—” he tapped two fingers against his leg “—you’re gonna start yelling.”

  “‘LOOK, THE BOSS IS SPAWNING!’”

  Simms blinked.

  “That’s it?”

  Ren nodded.

  “The rest of us? We’re going to split up and melt into the crowd. When you yell, we all chuck our Gloomsprite Dust and smoke bombs right into the middle of the goblin herd. Make it look like something crazy is happening.”

  “And while everyone’s confused,” Mira added, catching on quickly, “we attack from behind?”

  “Exactly,” Ren said, grinning wide. “When the guilds attack the smoke bomb area, we hit ’em with everything we’ve got.”

  Torren flexed his gauntleted hands eagerly.

  Halt knocked an arrow with a savage little smirk.

  Even Dren, the normally silent warrior, gave a tiny approving nod.

  Simms, meanwhile, was still looking deeply betrayed.

  “But why kick me out of the group?” he asked.

  Ren gave him a lopsided smile.

  “Because someone’s gotta lead the mob,” he said. “You’re gonna be our brave soul. The rogue hero who refuses to be bullied by the guilds. The rallying cry for all the random players.”

  Simms groaned.

  “So I’m basically a dumb Braveheart.”

  “Yep,” Ren said, patting his back. “That’s literally the name of the play. Operation: Dumb Braveheart.”

  Simms gave a martyred sigh.

  “Man, my mom told me not to hang out with bad influences.”

  “You’re about to make her real proud,” Ren said, already turning toward the goblin fields.

  The Scrap Rats split up, disappearing into the buzzing crowd.

  And the stage was set.