Luke crouched in the shadow of a tree, still as a predator lying in wait. It had been days since he started tracking the escaped prisoner, but the target had changed. The man, cautious and worn down, hadn't met anyone directly. All he did was leave five fruits at the base of an old tree. A signal.

The next day, someone else showed up.

They met under the shroud of dawn, exchanged no names, spoke barely a word, but information passed between them. That's how Luke found the next link in the chain.

He shifted his focus. Followed the new contact. Slowly, piece by piece, he began to uncover the Renegades' network. And it was... meticulous.

Only the so-called "Messengers" were permitted to contact other camps. Each one knew just a single other contact. No more than that. A system designed to withstand torture. If a camp fell and the messenger failed their daily task—placing a single apple at the base of a tree—the entire web would shift.

A new protocol would kick in. Another contact. Another code. The system would realign itself, severing compromised links like a living organism healing around its wounds.

It was brilliant. And it worked.

Luke studied the whole thing like a surgeon dissecting a living organism. Silent, focused, patient. He understood the mechanics of smaller camps: ten members or less, total isolation. Larger outposts had looser oversight, but were still tightly watched.

Now, another red outline moved between the trees, highlighted by the glow of his [Assassin's Mark].

The camp's leader. Heading to a meeting with other leaders. A rare convergence.

This is it.

Luke waited a few minutes until the silhouette vanished completely into the forest. Then, he moved.

Dark mist flowed from the hollow of the tree like smoke given life. He activated [Wraith Form], letting the darkness devour his body.

He never got tired of the sensation: weightless, formless, completely silent. Absolute stillness. But he had learned not to let it feed his arrogance. No matter how powerful it was, the Wraith Form was never meant to last.

It consumed mana quickly. Depending on how he used it, Luke could burn through everything he had in just a few minutes. Every movement he made as mist drained mana, and even standing still required a constant flow just to keep it active. Expanding the mist only increased the cost, both to cast and to maintain it.

Using that skill in combat was a gamble. One mistake, one extra impulse, and he would be completely drained. Exposed. That was why he could only rely on that power in very specific situations. If his mana ran out, he would not just lose the Wraith Form. He would be unable to use any other skills. And that could mean his death.

I need to invest more points in Intelligence.

Still, the ability had proven its worth a hundred times over. In this form, Luke could slip through cracks, locks, and barely-there slits in walls. He could bypass guards unnoticed, phase through fortified buildings like a ghost. A thief. A spy.

An assassin.

The interesting thing was that everything he had on him turned into mist too, even things that weren't in his inventory. Whether it was a shirt or pants, even if they weren't part of the system, they changed along with him. Anything Luke was carrying dissolved into that ethereal fog. Of course, he couldn't turn large objects into mist to carry them, but simple things he was wearing always transformed with him.

Every time he used [Wraith Form], he remembered the creature he'd seen in the Forgotten Temple. That thing made of living darkness. Something ancient, fused with the abyss itself.

It reminded him how far he still had to go.

But he was getting there.

With the target well ahead, Luke dropped the form and continued on foot, silent as mist, patient as nightfall, one step at a time through the underbrush.

I just hope this meeting leads to something solid.

He needed answers. And maybe, just maybe, tonight he'd get them.

***

The meeting took place deep in the forest, near a stream veiled in the mist of dawn. Luke, in his wraith form, drifted silently through the shadows, a whisper in the fog, inching closer with every second.

Once he reached a safe distance, he began to materialize.

His body reformed, returning once again to its human shape.

Damn... still too far.

That's when he noticed it — a semi-transparent dome surrounding the group. The air around them shimmered faintly, like warped glass or water suspended in motion. No sound escaped it.

A sound isolation barrier.

Mages... of course.

Luke shifted back into [Wraith Form], circling the barrier with care. No sentries. No scouts. Just eight figures seated in a loose circle, speaking with the kind of ease that came from feeling untouchable.

He reverted to his human form and examined the barrier more closely. It didn't glow like detection fields—those usually shimmered with yellow pulses. Still, there was risk. Some advanced wards reacted to magic alone, and [Wraith Form] might trigger one.

Drawing a kukri, Luke slowly extended the blade toward the barrier.

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No resistance.

No alarm.

He pressed a hand against it—still nothing.

No flicker of energy. No reaction from the leaders inside.

Here goes.

Holding his breath, Luke stepped through.

Silence.

No magic backlash. No defensive spike.

He crouched low and crept forward, hiding behind a large moss-covered stone. From there, he could hear clearly.

The first few minutes were useless bureaucracy—camp updates, patrol movements, inventory logs.

Then something useful.

"...and how did the meeting with that person from the Haven go?"

"He cooperated fully. Thanks to his intel on Bartholomew's rotation and the Haven patrols, we were able to time the looting of the storage chests perfectly. Weeks' worth of supplies hit before they even noticed."

Another voice chimed in with a chuckle.

"That little informant's got a brain on him, I'll give him that."

An informant... so it's true. There's a traitor inside the Haven.

"Any more contact with him?"

"Only through our embedded contacts near Bastion. With the new curfew, chest raids are on hold for now."

Someone cleared their throat.

"Marshall's thinking of making another move. He's... considering luring a Midnight Warden into the Safe Zone."

"What? That's insane. No one survives that kind of stunt."

"Just an idea. For now. But keep your men off the border, and continue sabotaging Bartholomew's construction in the Wild Zone."

The conversation moved on—coordinates, names, future base locations.

Luke narrowed his eyes and picked one.

A man seated nearby, confident, central to every decision. The one most likely closest to Marshall himself.

He quietly activated [Assassin's Mark].

The red glow flared to life, invisible to all but him.

I've got the trail.

Now all he had to do... was follow it.

***

Luke moved in silence through the forest, the red outline of his marked target fading with each passing step. The glow shimmered faintly between the trees, dissolving into nothing as the figure slipped beyond his skill's range.

He pressed his lips together.

So there really is a traitor inside the Haven.

A breath escaped him.

But he wasn't ready to cast judgment—not yet. This betrayal might not have come from greed, hatred, or even ambition… but from something far more human: desperation. A hunger for freedom. Bartholomew was clearly delaying the activation of the mechanisms—either by choice or strategy.

What if the traitor figured that out too? What if, like me, they just want to leave this damned place?

Luke paused, watching the leaves sway beneath the silver sheen of moonlight pouring through the canopy. The cold air brushed against his face, as if the forest itself whispered the questions he didn't yet know how to answer.

I don't want to become an enemy of the Renegades.

He had one goal: clear the tutorial. Go home. He didn't care about factions or flags, politics or territory. Who ruled where, who hoarded which chests—that didn't matter.

If Marshall knows where the mechanisms are… if all he needs is the means to activate them… then maybe Bartholomew's the one standing in the way.

He glanced one last time at the empty space where his target's glowing outline had once been.

And if this is the fastest path to the exit… then that's the path I'll take.

Luke pulled his hood tighter around his head and vanished once more into the woods.

***

It was morning by the time he found a new trail.

That was the curse of switching targets: he couldn't afford to lose sight, not until he was absolutely sure the person had returned to their main base. Patience was part of the hunt.

Luke lay sprawled across a high branch, hidden among the thick leaves. Below, a small Renegade camp stirred to life—no more than twenty people milling about. From what he could tell, this was home base for the leader he'd been tailing.

He bit into a strip of jerky, pulled from the storage charm hanging around his neck, and let out a quiet sigh. His canteen was dry. Even the emergency barrel tucked away back in his stash had run out.

And to make things worse... I really need to piss.

The discomfort grew, but he wouldn't move until he was sure there was nothing else to extract.

"Any word from the Grand Group?" asked one of the guards by the fire.

"Nothing. You know how they are… they never announce when they're coming."

Luke locked that away instantly.

The Grand Group…

That was the name they used for the upper echelon—those directly connected to Marshall. According to the idle chatter, they rotated between the eight main camps, delivering supplies, coordinating routes, and reshuffling strategies as needed.

That's where the real gold is.

A light rain fell through the afternoon, enough to slick the branches and let Luke drink from the drops that rolled down the leaves. When night settled, the camp repeated its routine: roasted meat, quiet conversations, soldiers telling jokes under a war-born discipline.

There'd be nothing more to gain here—not tonight.

Luke slipped away without a sound, melting back into the trees.

He knew the camp would shift in another fifteen days. Another leaders' meeting was scheduled before that. Enough time to return to the Safe Zone and plan his next move.

For now… time to go home.

***

He descended a steep slope with silent, measured steps. In the distance, the dark line of the orc forest loomed like a jagged scar across the land. Where he stood now was still relatively safe—at least, safe compared to what lay beyond that tree line.

The true danger was lower. Deeper.

A fleeting image crossed his mind: a second fortress. A Bastion of their own.

With how organized the Renegades are... there's no way they'll let us hold something like that. Not without a war.

Especially with both Bartholomew and Marshall poised as enemies. The worst-case scenario? A quiet alliance between the two—just long enough to crush Angelica's people and claim the fortress afterward.

Luke reached a shallow stream and exhaled slowly. He pulled a canteen from the storage charm on his neck, knelt by the bank, and let the cool water wash over his hands and face.

This place has more layers than the tutorial ever warned us about.

He splashed his face again, wiping away the dirt and sweat. That was when he heard it—a sound, faint, rustling in the underbrush.

His body moved before his thoughts caught up. A kukri was already in his hand, blade low and ready to throw.

Seriously? A damn beast right now…?

He raised the weapon, eyes scanning the foliage for movement—until something emerged.

A person.

Then another.

Then ten more.

Figures slipped out of the trees, shadows peeling away from bark and underbrush. Dozens of them. In a matter of seconds, weapons were drawn and pointed in his direction. Arrows glowed with magical runes, already nocked in tense bowstrings. Mages began channeling. Warriors stood with blades drawn, poised to strike.

Holy shit!

It wasn't just a patrol.

He was staring down an entire Renegade force.

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