I Don't Need To Log Out

So, this was the worst-case scenario.

No backup.

No Arlon.

No June.

Just the seven of them, surrounded in a pit of endless Keldars, fighting what was quickly becoming an impossible battle.

They were strong. They had trained for this. But this—this wasn't a raid. This wasn't a dungeon boss.

This was war.

And they were deep in enemy territory, with no way out.

For a moment, silence settled between the clashes of steel and the screeches of dying Keldars.

Then Carole's voice broke through it.

"Don't worry," she said, her tone steady. "We'll win today."

At first, it sounded like bravado. Empty hope. Something someone said when they had nothing else to offer.

The others heard her, but none responded.

They were too focused. Too aware of how slim their chances were.

But Carole's words weren't empty.

She wasn't just trying to raise morale.

She believed it.

Because she wasn't just a healer.

Among them, she was the closest thing they had to a true mage.

And while the average priest's offensive spells were nothing compared to a real mage's arsenal, Carole had never been average.

She had spent months honing her skills, not only perfecting her healing but also pushing the offensive capabilities of her class to their limit.

And now, as the circle of Gamers stood holding the center of the pit, she became their anchor.

She kept them standing.

Wave after wave of Keldars came crashing down, but she repelled them with holy shockwaves and bursts of radiant light.

Every time someone took a hit, she was there, mending the wound before the next blow could land.

She was holding the formation together with sheer will—and magic that didn't let up.

Zack was the first to realize it.

At first, he'd been holding back, conserving his stamina, avoiding risky moves to protect himself.

But then he saw the glint of light on his armor. The shimmer of healing wrapping around the shallow cuts he hadn't even noticed.

And he looked back.

Carole was still there. Still chanting. Still glowing.

She hadn't faltered once.

So, he made a choice.

He shifted his stance.

Stopped playing it safe.

And started playing for real.

Each swing of his dual swords grew sharper, faster. He stopped counting how many hits he could take and started counting how many Keldars he could cut down before the next one reached him.

He trusted her.

And that trust spread.

Lei noticed next, then Pierre.

One by one, the others understood what needed to be done.

They had been training not just as players, but as people. Learning to tap into strength that wasn't bound by the limits of the system.

Not everything they had was tied to skills or cooldowns.

Some of it—they'd earned through effort. Through blood and time and sheer stubbornness.

And now was the time to use it.

Carole didn't stop.

Her voice was low, her chanting constant, holy magic rippling out in controlled bursts—pushing back the encroaching flood of Keldars.

But that wasn't all she meant when she said they would win.

There was something else.

A trump card.

She hadn't used it yet—not because she was saving it for a dramatic finish but because it had a cost. A high one.

If she had to, she'd use it.

If things got worse—truly worse—she would burn everything she had to protect them.

But for now, this was enough.

The line was holding.

The center was holding.

And for the first time since the fight began, there was a flicker of something more than desperation.

Hope.

---

Arlon was cutting through Keldars like wind slicing through dry grass.

Each swing was clean. Precise. Unstoppable.

But there was no end to them.

He could feel it—not just in the number of enemies falling around him, but in the way the mana in the air thickened, like the city itself was breathing out more and more monsters.

They were being sent from somewhere.

Pushed toward him like waves crashing against a cliff.

He knew what it meant.

More and more Keldars were being redirected to this place. Vlora had made his move. The others were facing the real pressure now.

But Arlon didn't move.

He didn't turn his head. Didn't tense. Didn't hesitate.

He knew what was waiting there.

He had been there in his last life.

He remembered that place.

The day he had slaughtered more Keldars than he would in the rest of his life combined.

It hadn't been a battle. It had been a graveyard—one he dug himself.

So, no.

He wasn't going back there.

This time, he had decided to trust them.

The Gamers.

If they died… they'd wake up on Earth.

This was the last battle for them either way.

Even if they killed Vlora, there would be nothing left for them to fight.

But there was still a difference.

If they won, they'd finish the game at a higher level.

And that mattered.

A lot.

Not for him—but for them.

So Arlon pushed the thought from his mind and kept fighting, one step at a time, his blade dragging lines of light through the air.

He was using a random sword from his inventory. he wouldn't bring out his real sword against them.

Then—

He noticed June.

She was a few meters away, wiping a streak of blood from her cheek, her staff already raised for the next cast.

But something in her expression was different.

Like she was about to ask him something.

Her brows furrowed. Her lips parted slightly. Her eyes flicked toward him—then away. Then back again.

He knew that look.

It was the "I'm thinking about saying something but I might not" look.

And frankly, he was getting a little tired of it.

They had been alone together so many times, and yet the tension never went away. Not completely. Always hovering around them like a summoned ghost they didn't want to acknowledge.

So he decided—screw it.

Time to cut through something other than monsters.

"When we get back to Earth..." he said suddenly, loud enough for her to hear over the distant shrieks.

June flinched slightly, eyes snapping to him. "What?"

Her voice was more startled than confused.

He didn't turn toward her—he was still slicing a Keldar's arm off mid-sentence.

"When we get back… do you want to meet up and talk? I mean when we are on Earth."

A pause.

On Earth. This could only mean one thing for Arlon. After everything was over.

His timing was awful, he knew that.

This wasn't the moment for it—not in the middle of a battlefield, not surrounded by endless enemies, not while time was against them.

But it was the moment.

The best he could offer.

He didn't have time now, and he couldn't possibly waste time on anything else other than defeating Asef.

He felt, more than saw, her reaction.

A soft inhale.

A smile.

Relieved.

As if she'd been holding her breath for weeks without realizing.

"Okay," June said simply. "Let's do that."

Then, in a moment of entirely accidental coordination, both of them lunged forward at the same time—Arlon cutting down a Keldar on the left, June blasting another on the right.

Their hands brushed for a second.

Just barely.

They pulled back immediately, as if burned.

June didn't say anything.

But she was definitely blushing.

Arlon pretended not to notice.

He focused on the next Keldar, letting the strange warmth in his chest fold into the rhythm of battle.

With luck, the next time they spoke wouldn't be with monsters clawing at their heels.

And with even more luck—

It wouldn't be awkward anymore.