Final Life Online

If I waited even a second longer… if I didn't act before she did, the opportunity to steal the kill might vanish for good.

So I stepped forward.

Not too fast—just enough to match the rhythm of the advancing frontlines. Each step was measured, practiced, like someone used to being here. Someone who belonged.

And that was the trick.

The moment nearby players caught sight of my gear—the full, glowing Magic Swordsman Set—the whispers began.

"Wait, isn't that the complete set?"

"No way a random has that… That's real-money gear, right?"

Perfect. Let them believe that. Let them think I was just another rich casual flexing with a flashy set.

And they did. I even felt the spells begin to pour in from the rear-line support teams.

Blessing of Might.

Speed Chant.

Reinforced Armor.

My stats spiked—strengthened by buffs and chants from players who thought I was worth backing. Power flooded my limbs, each breath coming easier, faster, stronger. But none of them saw the smirk hidden beneath my Obsidian Raven Mask—an uncommon thief-type facegear. Nothing special, right?

Except it did two things remarkably well:

—It hid my nameplate.

—And it blocked low-level Appraisal skills.

To them, I wasn't [Blade].

I was just some rich guy. A mystery player in rare gear. Probably from a secretive guild that hadn't made its name yet.

Even the whales—the big shots leading squads of fifty or more—nodded in my direction, their gazes sizing me up with respect. I returned their nods with calm, practiced composure. I let them see what they expected to see.

Then she approached—the woman in full Holy Knight gear, radiating power like a living beacon of divine authority. Her steps were confident, her eyes sharp and curious.

"What kind of skills do you have?" she asked, analyzing me closely.

It was a fair question. After all, none of us officially had classes yet. Most players wouldn't until they left the Novice Village—unless, of course, they were like me.

A rulebreaker.

But to her, I was just another well-equipped beginner.

"Light magic. Some sword techniques," I answered simply, my voice steady.

She nodded slowly. "So you're like me, then. Too bad you don't have the full Holy Knight Set—it would've matched your build. That set's given directly by the Holy Light Guild. What guild are you in?"

I smiled slightly under the mask and gave a casual shrug. "Let's just say… if I get the Hidden Class, I'd rather keep my name off the broadcast for now."

A few nearby players laughed—half-joking, half-envying.

But one voice cut through the crowd like a blunt axe.

"Tch. That just means you're from some low-tier nobody guild and too embarrassed to say."

Of course—it was Moneyking. Standing tall in his gaudy Epic armor, practically glowing with overkill. Arms folded, smirk wide, dripping with smugness.

I turned slightly toward him. No reaction. No insult. Just a long, quiet glance.

That seemed to annoy him more than any reply would've. He snorted and turned away like I wasn't worth his time.

Perfect.

Let him think that.

Let them all think that.

While they flexed and boasted, I was watching. Calculating. Choosing my moment.

The battlefield was chaos, barely held together by sheer numbers. The Dire Werewolf Alpha—a Level 50 Field Boss—stood deep in the clearing, surrounded by his strongest warriors. His presence alone made the other wolves more aggressive, their strikes more brutal.

He wanted to fight. I could see it in his posture—he wanted to tear through the crowd of players. But the swarm held him back. There were too many spells, too many bodies. He waited.

Watching. Holding back. Not out of fear—but because his instincts told him: if he moved now, his forces would fall apart without him.

And he was right.

His elite pack—Dire Wolves ranging from level 30 to 45—was formidable, but without his aura to guide them, they were slowly being picked apart.

Over ten thousand players were pressing forward like a wall. Mages rained destruction across the trees. Tanks absorbed every charge. Priests and support classes healed, buffed, and covered every flank.

It was working—but barely.

Every minute, someone screamed. A player caught a fatal crit, or walked into the wrong magic zone, or lagged just a second too long. Corpses fell. Gear shattered. Lives were lost.

But still the wave pushed forward.

The boss's hold on the battle weakened, inch by inch.

And he knew it.

He let out a snarl—deep, guttural, shaking the branches overhead—and stepped forward. The earth split beneath his claws.

Another step…

Still, he didn't move in.

His elite pack was being thinned—one by one. Magic spells carved craters in the dirt. Swords bit deep. Arrows turned wolves into pincushions. The howls of pain were loud and constant.

Yet the Alpha didn't flinch.

His eyes—burning red like twin coals—locked onto the approaching adventurers. The field was littered with blood and corpses, wolf and human alike. But he stood unmoved. Still. Coiled.

Not out of hesitation.

Not out of fear.

He was waiting.

Because this boss wasn't panicking.

No—he was building up.

His aura swirled with rising intensity. The cursed mist thickened around his claws and jaw. And beneath him, a ring of dark runes flared into view—flickering, hissing, burning like molten ash.

He wasn't retreating.

He was preparing.

Anchoring his power.

And that's when I realized—

The Dire Werewolf Alpha was the one who cast the Dark Barrier.

That dome of cursed energy, thick with dread and shadows, wasn't protecting him from us.

It was protecting us from him.

Under its shield, his elite wolves had battled furiously, resisting the tide of players. The barrier had absorbed thousands of attacks. Elemental spells, arrows, ultimate skills—it had held them all back.

It had prevented this fight from becoming a massacre.

For us.

But now…

Crack.

A thin fracture of light split across the dome, like a fault line in glass.

Crack. Crack.

More followed.

The Dark Barrier was weakening.

And when it shattered?

That's when the real battle would begin.