Ex rank talent Awakening: 100% Dodge rate

"Eric, what did you see?" Bravo asked, his voice laced with unease. He had grown accustomed to Eric's prideful demeanor—always composed, always sure of himself. For someone like him to fall to his knees and beg? Something had gone terribly wrong.

Eric slowly turned to face him. His eyes—bloodshot and trembling—radiated fury. He looked at Bravo as if the man had murdered his family in cold blood.

"It's all your fault, Bravo! We're all going to die because of you!" Eric screamed, his voice hoarse and breaking, the strain of panic and desperation wearing down his throat.

"What did you bloody see, Eric?!" Bravo barked, frustration mounting as the tension swelled around them.

"They're coming! A lot of them! Shadow slaves! We're doomed!" Eric shouted, the words crashing into the group like thunder.

Everyone fell into stunned silence. Faces paled. Breaths caught. The weight of impending death hung in the air like a heavy fog.

"What... what did you say?" Bravo stammered, each syllable slow and uncertain, as though the words would shatter his reality. His heart pounded as the truth took root. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't.

"Eric... you're joking, right?" Bravo said, his voice a trembling whisper. But even as he spoke, his eyes drifted toward Greg, seated lazily atop the tree. The sight made his stomach churn.

Eric followed his gaze. "I'm not joking. Why would I lie about something like this?" he muttered bitterly, then turned back to Greg, his earlier pleading resuming like a broken prayer.

Greg remained unfazed. He watched them with a casual detachment, like a bored spectator at a mediocre play.

Eric, desperate, stepped forward, attempting to climb the tree.

"Move even one more step, and I promise to turn you into a porcupine," Greg said coldly. In response, several ethereal arrows shimmered into existence behind him, floating like executioners awaiting command.

Eric froze mid-step. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. Then he slowly backed away, eyes wide with terror.

"What do you think you're doing sitting there like a king on a throne?! Our lives are in danger!" Bravo exploded, his voice cracking under the weight of rising panic.

Daemon stared at him in disbelief, as did the rest of the team. How could Bravo still have the nerve to bark orders in a moment like this? Was he truly blind to the danger—or just delusional?

Regret rippled through the group. One by one, they began to realize that following Bravo's lead might have been a grave mistake.

"Say one more word, and I'll kill you before the shadow slaves do," Greg warned. His voice was icy, final, and it sliced through the air like a guillotine.

"Tsk." Bravo clicked his tongue, then addressed the others. "Everyone, I guess we'll have to take our lives into our own hands!" he declared. His voice lacked its earlier confidence—it sounded hollow now.

"We need to run in separate directions. If we scatter, they won't catch us all. It's better than dying together in one place!"

But just as he prepared to bolt, Greg's voice came again, cold and precise.

"I might consider helping you all... if he's dead."

Greg pointed directly at Bravo.

The group went still. Their eyes turned—slowly, one by one—to Bravo.

He felt the shift immediately. The weight of every gaze.

"You can't seriously be buying into that nonsense!" he cried, backing away, panic flaring in his voice.

"This is all your fault," one of the players muttered. "You should be the one to suffer, not us."

Others nodded grimly in agreement. Their loyalty had evaporated like mist in the morning sun.

Bravo's instincts screamed at him to run, and he obeyed. He turned and sprinted—straight toward Greg's tree, seeking refuge near Eric.

"Tell them to let me go! Please!" he begged, panting, his pride long abandoned.

A sudden jolt of pain struck him.

"Urgh!" Bravo groaned, his hand flying to his side. He looked down and saw an arrow buried in his abdomen—its shaft vibrating with fresh impact.

"Eric... what the hell are you doing?!" Bravo gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief.

But Eric wasn't done. With a maddened look in his eyes, he drew a dagger and stabbed it into Bravo's side.

"You traitor!" Bravo screamed, and with a roar of fury, he punched Eric backward, sending him sprawling across the dirt.

Greg watched the chaos unfold with amusement, reclining on his tree branch as if enjoying an open-air theatre. The corners of his lips twitched upward. The only thing missing was popcorn.

"I was right. He's a devil," Daemon thought, his spine chilled, heart pounding. That old fear—the one he'd buried years ago—resurfaced like a corpse floating to the surface.

"We've done it! We've killed Bravo! Save us now!" Eric pleaded, standing over the fallen body, desperation pouring from every pore.

Player corpses no longer disintegrated into pixels. Bravo's body remained there, unmoving—a stark reminder that this was no longer a game.

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Hmm. I see that. How nice of you all. You fought so well I had a change of heart," he said sarcastically. "Your cooperation was solid. I believe you all can defeat the shadow slaves. Good luck with that."

He lay back, shutting his eyes.

"Shield. Attack Reflection. Shock Absorb," he chanted in the Dragon Tongue, buffing the tree with powerful enchantments.

The players' panic morphed into desperation. In a last-ditch effort, some launched attacks at the tree—but their efforts fizzled against the barrier, the glowing dome absorbing everything they threw at it.

Far ahead, the horizon darkened. The shadow slaves had arrived—hundreds of them.

"You're not going to help them?" Daemon asked, summoning all his courage to speak. He couldn't just stand by and watch his teammates die.

"Nope," Greg said without hesitation. "They don't deserve my help. I'm not some hero who saves ingrates and walks away smiling. Either show gratitude, or shut up. Antagonizing me? That's not a smart move."

An apple materialized in his hand—another casual abuse of the Dragon Tongue. He bit into it, crunching lazily.

With no way to fight Greg, or bypass his magic, the remaining players fled—splitting up and running in every direction, hoping for a miracle.

Greg chuckled softly, shaking his head.

Daemon blinked. Confused. "Why are you laughing?"

"They won't escape," Greg said, voice low. "The shadow slaves have encircled the area. Every exit is blocked. Someone's controlling them. And if I'm right..."

He took another bite of the apple, his golden eyes flashing with eerie certainty.

"...then running is just wishful thinking."