Author "i don't think i can write a good mafia arc , lets postpond it"
Arthur stared at the finalized Floor 3 rules for a long moment.
Then he waved the interface away.
"No," he said calmly.
The halls dissolved into nothing.
"Up until now," Arthur continued, voice steady,
"players have survived traps, fear, and chaos—"
"But they haven't fought a real battle."
He folded his arms.
"No formations. No exhaustion. No pressure of holding ground while people scream beside you."
The old design flickered—
and vanished.
"The mafia floor?" Arthur muttered.
"Not yet."
"It's clever, but clever isn't what they need right now."
He turned back to the system.
"They need blood on their hands," he said quietly.
"Weight on their shoulders."
"I'll postpone deception," Arthur decided.
"Refine it. Sharpen it."
"When it returns," his eyes hardened,
"it'll be on a floor meant to break veterans."
The system acknowledged silently.
"Floor Three," Arthur said, raising his hand,
"will be about combat."
"Discipline."
"Fear."
A new environment formed under his hands.
Canvas.
Mud.
Firelight.
A military encampment spread out beneath a dark sky.
Arthur walked through it slowly.
"Tents," he decided.
"Smoke. Fatigue. Waiting."
A blue window appeared.
[FLOOR 3 — ENVIRONMENT DESIGN]
Arthur spoke clearly.
"Spawn condition: squads of up to five."
"No solo heroes."
Another command.
"Setting: mercenary camp."
"They're hired by a nation."
"Tomorrow, there's a battle."
Arthur raised two fingers.
"The battlefield," he said,
"will be an open field."
The land beyond the camp shifted—
wide plains, broken ground, no cover.
Screams would have nowhere to hide.
A new window unfolded.
[QUEST: SURVIVE THE BATTLE]
Arthur studied the quest window for a second.
Then he shook his head.
"Survival alone isn't enough," he said.
He tapped the interface.
"Rewards will be earned," Arthur continued calmly,
"not handed out."
New lines burned themselves into the system.
[REWARD STRUCTURE: PERFORMANCE-BASED]
Arthur spoke as if setting battlefield law.
"Each enemy killed grants XP."
"Each confirmed elimination is tracked individually."
He walked to the edge of the plains, staring at the empty field
"Killing a squad leader grants bonus rewards."
"Killing a platoon leader grants significantly higher rewards."
"And killing a company commander…"
Arthur's lips curved slightly.
"…will grant absurdly high rewards."
The system recalculated.
[HIERARCHICAL TARGET BONUS: ENABLED]
Arthur walked to the edge of the plains, staring at the empty field.
"Rank creates risk," he murmured.
"And risk," his eyes narrowed,
"should tempt greed."
"One more thing," he said softly.
"Retreat is allowed."
A new rule locked in.
[RETREAT OPTION: AVAILABLE]
[RETREATERS RECEIVE REDUCED XP]
[DESERTERS MARKED]
"If you run," Arthur continued,
"you live—but the Tower remembers."
He looked at the camp one last time.
"Some will fight for survival," he murmured.
"Some for glory."
"And some," a thin smile appeared,
"will die reaching too far."
Floor Three was ready.
Arthur paused.
Then he smiled.
"Of course," he whispered.
"A war always has a shadow."
The battlefield reshaped—subtle, almost unnoticeable.
Supply wagons appeared behind the enemy lines.
Messengers rode between units.
Signal fires waited, unlit.
Arthur spoke softly.
"This war runs on logistics."
A new layer sank beneath the system.
[HIDDEN QUEST — UNDISCLOSED]
Arthur set the rules like fate.
"If players ignore the battle and strike the supply line—"
"If food, arrows, and medicine are destroyed—"
He paused.
"The enemy morale will collapse."
No timers.
No notifications.
No markers.
"Enemy units will grow slower."
"Attacks will lose coordination."
"Commanders will retreat instead of advance."
Arthur nodded once.
"Only those who observe," he murmured,
"will realize the war is already won."
Rewards recalculated in silence.
"Victory through starvation," Arthur said.
"Not glory."
He turned his back to the field.
"Now that," he decided,
"is a hidden quest worth making."
Arthur stopped mid-step.
"One more thing," he said, almost casually.
He flicked his fingers.
A quiet detail embedded itself into the world.
"Mercenaries get paid," Arthur murmured.
"Not in promises."
The system updated—silently.
Some enemy soldiers now carried silver coins.
Officers carried gold.
Command staff carried sealed purses.
"No announcements," Arthur ordered.
"No windows."
"If players loot the bodies," he continued,
"they keep what they find."
The Tower marked the rule.
Coins taken from the battlefield would persist.
They could be carried out.
Spent.
Hoarded.
"Gold weighs more than XP," Arthur said calmly.
"And it makes people do stupid things."