The Mottled Leopards were a guild made entirely of students from Nanyang Technological University in Singapore. Classes and exams kept them busy, limiting their ability to compete in major game events.

  But thanks to sheer numbers and a strong university culture, they remained a force in regional PvP.

  Their base was a fortress in the northern Sand Sea. The stone walls nestled against a cluster of towering rocks, forming a tight, defensible castle.

  They’d kept the fortress for five weeks straight, two of which had been uncontested. Most guilds didn’t bother sieging it.

  The surrounding terrain offered no water source, meaning supply trips back to Sunsgate were frequent and time-consuming. The area had few valuable mobs beyond sand sharks, and the harvestable materials were easily accessible to Edgers—casual players who scraped the edges of the desert for mats—too accessible to claim them as their own.

  Larger guilds focused their efforts on the oases and wadis, where PvE rewards were richer and harvesting grounds more valuable.

  But the Leopards thrived here. Their turf straddled the most direct trade route between Sunsgate and the deeper desert. Caravans frequently passed through en route to larger fortresses, making it a paradise for raiders.

  The caravans were their prey. Dozens passed through their turf, often loaded with goods that wouldn’t fit in inventory. While players only dropped a single item on death, caravans weren’t so lucky. Kill the NPCs, down the beasts of burden, and the loot spilled into the sand like broken pi?atas.

  It was their lifeblood—a far more exciting way to fund their studies than waitering or tutoring. Proceeds from each raid were split evenly among participating members, a model that kept student morale high and coffers full.

  Inside the guild’s command chamber, MTK leaned back in his chair, scrolling through the results of the latest auction.

  LeopardLord stood by the open window, eyes scanning the distant dunes. “How are the sales?”

  “The last caravan had plenty of weapons. They’ve been fetching a pretty penny.”

  “Good.” LeopardLord nodded. “You’re not heading home for the holidays?”

  “Nah,” MTK said, shaking his head. “Not worth it. Ten hours of travel to get three days of noise and chaos? I’ll go later—maybe in January.”

  LeopardLord raised an eyebrow. “What about classes?”

  “I’ll just stream them while I’m away. Already got permission.”

  A ping echoed as they received a private message from one of the guild’s scouts.

  Tracer: “Heads up. Juicy prey just entered our territory.”

  LeopardLord straightened.

  LeopardLord: “How big?”

  Tracer: “Hundred soldiers. Two captains.”

  “A hundred soldiers? That’s a serious force,” MTK said.

  “I know. But we’ve got the whole guild on winter break, and nobody’s pushed us this siege. We can pull this off.”

  MTK gave a slow nod. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

  MTK: “Where are they headed?”

  Tracer: “Southwest.”

  LeopardLord and MTK exchanged a glance and nodded.

  LeopardLord: “We’ll intercept. Tracer, stay invisible and keep eyes on them.”

  He switched to guild-wide broadcast:

  LeopardLord: “Big caravan. High value. All hands on deck—mount and move to Ambush Point Bravo.”

  Leopards all over campus got the message. They rose from lunch tables, library corners, and cafe lounges. One by one, streaks of light sparked in the courtyard as players logged in. Mounts spawned—horses, camels, and sand crocs. The castle came alive as the team of raiders assembled.

  Mounts thundered across the sand as they rode toward the southwest border. The Leopards were on the hunt.

  *

  The desert had teeth, and they were only just beginning to bite.

  The sun had reached its zenith, and the heat grew relentless, pressing down on them like a physical weight. Even breathing felt laborious, the air hot and dry as it scraped down Jack’s throat.

  Warning: You’ve been afflicted with [Dehydrated].

  You lose 1 HP per second.

  Jack grimaced. Even with his fire resistance, the desert was taking its toll—and he wasn’t the only one feeling it.

  Grrrrr.

  Your mount’s satiation has dropped to 150.

  [Body Heat] has become inactive. Snowy loses resistances.

  Snowy is hungry and tired. Feed her or risk losing affection.

  Snowy let out a long, exasperated groan. Around her, the other sloths echoed the sound—low, rumbling complaints rippling through the caravan. Even the soldiers looked worn down, armor dulled by sweat and sand, horses tossing their heads restlessly.

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  Captain Apollos raised his hand. “We halt here,” he ordered. “Water the horses. Let them cool down. Everyone else, recover what strength you can.”

  The caravan slowed to a stop. Soldiers moved efficiently, retrieving waterskins and buckets. Jack moved quickly, gathering supplies and prepping a quick meal.

  Catching sight of his father standing in a half-daze, Jack walked over. “Drink,” he said, already pressing a flask into his hand. “You’re going to dry up like a raisin.”

  José chuckled weakly but didn’t argue. As the weakest member of the party, he needed to drink every ten minutes just to survive this heat.

  “Snowy,” Jack said.

  The sloth rumbled and shifted position, lumbering a few steps to place herself between José and the sun. Her broad body cast a welcome patch of shade over him.

  José sighed in relief. “Thank you, doggy,” he said, patting her side.

  His teammates were also wiping sweat off their brows and gulping down water desperately. They all knew that this heat was imaginary, the product of virtual reality, but that didn’t make it any more comfortable.

  Jack kindled a fire and set a pot for stew. It came together fast—record time, really. With how brutal the heat was, he suspected it would have boiled even without the flames.

  Congratulations! You’ve crafted [Survival Stew].

  +500XP in [Bushcraft]

  Survival Stew (Common)

  A nutritious, tasty meal made from ingredients gathered in the wild.

  Crafting grade: C

  Ingredients: [Arenadraco Meat], [Arenadraco Meat], [Arenadraco Meat]

  Item effects:

  +1 stamina per second for five minutes;

  +1 HP per second for five minutes.

  [Sandy Screen]: +5 fire resistance for 30 minutes.

  [Lizard Skin]: +250 HP and +250 stamina for 30 minutes.

  The buffs helped ease the worst of the heat. The stew smelled delicious, too.

  He then pulled out a bundle of straw and a bucket of water for Snowy. She drank in heavy gulps, her whole body sagging with relief.

  “Thanks!” Amari said, accepting a bowl from him.

  The team gathered close, all trying to squeeze into the narrow patch of shade the sloths cast on the sand. They sat as far from the fire as they could, but still within range to benefit from its buffs.

  Jack poured himself a bowl of stew, and just as he was about to join the others, a hand swiped it from his grasp.

  “This smells delicious.”

  Jack looked up. It was General Hannibal.

  The general gulped down the stew, some of it running down his salt-and-pepper beard.

  Even though Jack was a little annoyed at the general’s manners, he forced a smile.

  “There’s still more in the pot if you want, sir.”

  “This will suffice, thank you,” the general said, turning and walking off with the bowl in hand.

  He groaned softly, then turned back to the fire. He poured himself another serving and headed over to the shade to join the others.

  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye—and there was the general again, this time carrying the entire pot under one arm, already walking away.

  He sighed. It will suffice. Yeah, right.

  “It’s simply chicken,” Horace said, spooning another bite into his mouth.

  “No, no. Not quite,” José countered. “This tastes more like a mix of duck and swordfish.”

  “I beg to differ, sir. This tastes like chicken. Chicken breast, to be precise.”

  José squinted at him. “Where are you even from, young man, for your chicken to taste like this?”

  “South Africa.”

  Jack chuckled, watching them go back and forth over what sand shark meat actually tasted like.

  The sloths shifted, and horses around them began snorting uneasily.

  YAAAAAAAAA!

  The shout cut through the air like a whipcrack. Jack jumped. “What was that?”

  Amari pointed, his voice tight. “Over there!”

  Jack followed his hand. Up the dune, a line of figures crested the slope—then charged. A full group of raiders thundered down the sand, more than fifty strong. From their gear alone, Jack could tell: they were all over level 40.

  For a split second, no one moved. They were frozen like deer caught in headlights, caught between disbelief and fear. What could they even do against a group this large?

  Jack looked to Captain Apollos for orders, but he just kept sitting stoically as he munched on a piece of dry meat. Captain Diana was taking a nap, unperturbed. The rest of the soldiers were either chatting or tending to their horses.

  What was the matter with them? Why weren’t they reacting?!

  Then they saw him.

  Standing between them and the caravan was one man, a pot of stew under one arm, a halberd in the other.

  *

  This wasn’t the Mottled Leopards’ first rodeo.

  They had looped around from the south, even if it meant an extra hour of travel. The sun’s glare off the dunes masked their approach. They lay low along the slope of a tall dune, half-buried in sand and tension.

  Excited glances passed between guildmates. For university students, there was something unmistakably fun about slipping into the role of desert bandits. Seventy players, average level 52. It had been a long time since so many of them had logged in together for a proper hunt.

  Everyone except the highest-level rogue stayed behind the ridge. Tracer lay flat near the crest, glassing the caravan through a scope.

  Tracer’s message popped into the guild chat:

  Tracer: “They’ve stopped to rest and have a meal. It’s the perfect opportunity.”

  LeopardLord adjusted his grip on his sword, his palms slick inside his gauntlets. Across from him, MTK gave a silent nod. They exchanged one final look. Then came the signal.

  LeopardLord raised his blade as he crested the dune and let out his war cry. The guild surged after him, shouting and raising their weapons as they thundered downhill, sand flaring in their wake. Knights mounted up and activated charge skills at the top of the slope, while the others sprinted forward, spells readied.

  The caravan came into view: a hundred soldiers, several beasts of burden, and a line of hulking ground sloths. One of them was an eremotherium. LeopardLord’s pulse kicked up a notch. That alone promised absurd loot.

  But as he scanned the convoy, something felt wrong.

  The soldiers didn’t move. One poured water over a rag and wiped his face. Another chewed on rations. A few sat in the shade of their horses, helmets off, chatting casually. No one drew weapons. No one looked up.

  They were far too calm.

  This wasn’t how soldiers reacted to a raid. By now they should have been scrambling—forming ranks, shouting orders, bracing for impact. Instead, they lounged in the sand like nothing was happening.

  LeopardLord frowned. Could this be a glitch? Were the NPCs bugged?

  Then he noticed the old man.

  One soldier had stepped forward from the line, the only one standing to face them. He moved without urgency, with the calm of someone who had seen this play out before.

  LeopardLord’s gaze fixed on him. He couldn’t look away. The man seemed to fill his entire field of view.

  In one hand, he carried a cooking pot with streaks of dried stew on its sides. In the other, a halberd.

  LeopardLord’s thoughts churned. Was this their captain? Why was he holding a pot of stew?

  Captains were always trouble—level 60 elites capable of turning a fight on their own. They usually meant casualties, but even so, taking one down was worth the losses. With seventy players, they could handle it.

  Then the old man raised his weapon.

  The halberd lifted slowly, deliberately. As it rose, sunlight caught on his arm, revealing plate armor. That alone gave LeopardLord pause. No one wore plate in the desert.

  The weapon began to glow. The light wasn’t warm or golden. It was sharp, blindingly bright, and cold. Just looking at it made LeopardLord’s skin crawl.

  His instincts screamed.

  “Stop—!”

  But it was too late.

  The halberd came down.

  The sound that followed was like a giant blade being dragged across a mountain—deafening, metallic, and endless. Then came the light. It wasn’t just bright. It was consuming, as if the sun had split open the desert and poured itself out.

  When the light faded, LeopardLord was no longer in the desert. He stood in the gray-washed cemetery of Sunsgate.

  Guildmates flickered into view around him, respawning one by one in stunned silence.

  He opened the guild chat and stared. Death notifications scrolled past too fast to read, a torrent of names.

  Could it be?

  Had that old man really wiped out their entire force in a single strike?