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"That's the basic situation," Quinn said to her teammates after sending away someone who had come to inquire about buying food.
One teammate asked, "Lillian, how much food do we have left?"
Lillian looked around, then cautiously peeked inside their supplies. Her expression went grim.
"Not much. Only enough for our squad for three or four days."
The only food available here was fruit. A few varieties, all unfamiliar, all growing in abundance on the trees that lined this underground prison. But abundance meant nothing when you'd been eating nothing else for days. Weeks. The people who'd been trapped longest were sick of the taste—desperately, viscerally sick of it. They would have traded almost anything for real food.
Quinn had realized this immediately. When people came to exchange supplies, she refused all of them.
They might need those rations later.
Fortunately, society hadn't collapsed yet. No one had resorted to violence. No one had tried to take by force.
Everyone still held onto hope.
The source of that hope came from a member of the Cloudweave Adventure Group—the very first group to be trapped here. One of their members possessed a rare magical Bloodline: the ability to sense the physical condition of his blood relatives no matter the distance. Even across planes.
His father knew he was alive.
Quinn had seen the quest posted at the Needlewood Town Adventurer's Guild: "Find the Cloudweave Adventure Group." The quest giver was the father himself. Now it seemed the Bloodline ability was real.
But that was all it could do—confirm life. Not location. Not communication.
If only they could contact the outside world.
"Sigh, if only I had brought my console from home," someone nearby muttered. "I thought it was too much trouble to carry around, and it's inconvenient to use without a table..."
Quinn's ears perked up.
"If I had a console," the voice continued, "I could send messages to my classmates for help."
Quinn's heart jolted.
Wait.
Her hand moved before her mind caught up, fumbling inside her clothing. Her fingers found it—a familiar rectangular shape, cool and solid against her palm.
She pulled it out.
A long, narrow runestone. Buttons etched along the sides. A dark screen that would come alive with magic.
The handheld console she'd bought on credit just days ago.
From Caelan himself.
A junior teammate saw her holding it and sighed. "Senior Sister Quinn, at a time like this, you still have the mood to play games..."
Then she stopped.
Her eyes went wide.
"Senior Sister Quinn... this, this—spacetime communication?"
Lillian nearly jumped out of her skin. "That's right! We have a handheld console! We can contact the outside world!"
The surrounding teammates looked over. Then the nearby strangers. The phrase "contact the outside world" spread like wildfire through the gathered Adventurers. Suddenly seventy pairs of eyes were fixed on Quinn and the small device in her hands.
"Handheld console? What handheld console?"
Quinn's teammates didn't hide anything. They quickly explained—the device, its functions, how it connected to the same network as the regular consoles without needing a table or the bulk.
Excitement rippled through the crowd.
People pressed closer, craning to watch Quinn operate the device. Even those who had no idea what it was held their questions, sensing that something important was happening.
Quinn poured magic into the runestone.
The screen flickered to life.
She opened the spacetime communication function and immediately checked her friends list.
Empty.
Not a single person online.
For a moment, Quinn wanted to scream. She regretted adding so few friends. She should have added the Illusionist himself when she bought the handheld—why hadn't she thought of that? Why—
No use dwelling on it now.
She composed a message and sent it to everyone on her list:
"SOS!!! This is Quinn. I and over seventy Adventurers are currently trapped in a strange place. I need your help. Please contact me immediately after coming online."
"Now we just have to wait for them to come online and reply," Quinn said. Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.
The crowd murmured. Those who didn't understand asked questions. Those who did explained patiently.
"I never thought such a thing would appear now. Illusionists are quite useful."
"Of course they're useful! The Adventurers' Guild, the Mercenary Guild—all the large factions have Illusionists managing their information systems."
"If only I had Illusionary Arts talent."
"Didn't you used to mock people with Illusionary Arts talent, you brat?"
"I also have an Elite Edition console at home. I regret not bringing it. After all, it's a bit big, not easy to carry everywhere..." The speaker shook his head. "In the future, every team should prepare one. For situations exactly like this."
"What is this console for anyway?"
"Playing games."
"..."
Lillian leaned close to Quinn's ear. "Quinn, why don't you try posting a distress message on the Game Forum?"
Quinn's eyes widened.
Of course.
Why wait for friends to come online? The Forum was public. Anyone could see it.
She navigated to the Forum and composed a new post:
"Help! Over seventy of us are trapped in a strange place in Eastern Needlewood."
She detailed their experiences. The earthquake. The vines. The underground prison. The magic suppression. She begged anyone who saw it to contact the Adventurer's Guild.
She hit post.
The message appeared on the Forum.
And immediately began to sink.
People were posting constantly—game questions, strategies, complaints, bragging. Quinn's desperate plea was just another drop in an endless ocean. The view count trickled upward: three, five, eight. Those few probably hadn't even read it carefully before clicking away.
Damn it.
Each account could only post once per hour. But there was no limit on replies.
Quinn began replying to her own post. Again and again. Bumping it up so others might see.
The waiting was agony.
But they had hope now. Real hope. After so many days trapped in the dark, what was a little more time?
Over seventy people sat together in silence, watching Quinn operate the handheld console.
Reply. Wait. Reply. Wait.
Her fingers moved mechanically.
Then—a notification.
Someone had replied.
Quinn's heart leaped. She tapped the message.
Enchanting Brother: "Do you know how to play Balrog? If so, teach me, and I'll help you call people."
Quinn blinked.
She quickly typed back: "Hello, please help notify others. There are over seventy Adventurers trapped in a magic array here."
Enchanting Brother: "What does that have to do with me? Do you know how to play Balrog?"
Quinn stared at the screen.
Was this person serious?
"I do, I do!" she typed desperately. "I know every character in Street Fighter. As long as you help me notify the Adventurers' Guild, I'll teach you everything when I get out."
Enchanting Brother: "No. You teach me first."
Quinn's blood boiled.
Behind her, teammates who could see the exchange started cursing out loud. The news spread through the crowd. Within seconds, seventy-plus people had mentally filed away the name "Enchanting Brother" in their personal notebooks of grudges.
If they ever found this person, they would educate him thoroughly.
In desperation, Quinn prepared to actually try teaching this selfish idiot how to play Balrog through text. Just as she was pondering how to even begin explaining fighting game mechanics to someone underground through a tiny screen—
Ding.
A spacetime communication notification.
Quinn's spirits surged. She tapped it open immediately.
"Illusionist has added you as a friend."
Quinn froze.
Illusionist.
Caelan.
The Game City owner. The creator of everything—the consoles, the games, the entire network that made this communication possible.
She knew that adding friends normally required confirmation. But given who he was—the architect of this entire system—adding her directly would be trivial.
She had just been regretting not adding him as a friend.
And now here he was.
She tapped his avatar with trembling fingers. His message appeared:
"Quinn, I saw your message. What's your situation now?"
Quinn exhaled.
For the first time since waking up in this underground prison, she felt something other than fear.
She felt saved.