The orientation was brief and brutal. A harried man with a [Logistician] tag floating above his head handed them a frayed pamphlet titled "Greenhaven Safe Zone: Rules & Allocations" and pointed to a muddy quadrant of tents. "Sector 7. Find an empty plot. One tent per registered individual. Non-human entities must be within five meters of their binder at all times. Rations are distributed at the Obelisk at 0800 and 1800. Don't cause trouble. Contribute or be evicted."
Their "plot" in Sector 7 was a patch of churned mud between two other tents. One belonged to a haggard family of four who eyed Mem and Volt with undisguised fear. The other was occupied by a lone, sharp-faced man sharpening a knife. He didn't look at them at all. His gaze was fixed somewhere far away.
"Home sweet home," Mark muttered, dropping his pack.
They had one small, mildewed tent from the quartermaster. For five beings. Lucas made a decision. "Eleanor and Mark, you take the tent. Mem, Volt, Scribbles, and I will camp outside." He saw Eleanor begin to protest. "You're the healer. You need real rest. Mark needs to recover. We," he gestured to his Thralls, "don't sleep the same way."
It wasn't entirely true—he was exhausted— but it was strategic. The Thralls were guards. And letting the two humans have the only privacy was a cheap way to buy loyalty.
As they set up, Lucas felt the weight of stares. The Safe Zone wasn't a sanctuary; it was a pressure cooker. The energy dome hummed with a constant, low-grade anxiety. People moved with purpose or despair, but rarely with hope.
He needed information. "Stay here, guard the tent," he ordered his Thralls. "I'm going to scout."
He made his way toward the only point of real organization: the base of the glowing Obelisk. It was even more impressive up close, a fifty-foot spire of crystal that seemed to drink in the strange light from the sky. Around its base, makeshift stalls and notice boards had sprung up.
This was the hub. A de facto market where people traded System-gained Credits for physical goods: a bottle of water for 2 credits, a protein bar for 5, a "guaranteed clean" pair of socks for 10. The currency of the old world was worthless. The System was the only economy now.
At a central bulletin board, postings were pinned:
"**[Builder] crew forming for wall expansion. Share of Credits and improved rations. Must be Level 2+."**
"**Seeking [Scout] for reconnaissance to downtown pharmacy. High risk, 70% loot split."**
"**WANTED: Information on [Alchemist] class or related skills. Reward in Credits."**
And then, one that made Lucas pause:
"**Guild [Iron Vanguard] recruiting combat-capable individuals with rare classes. Protection, guaranteed rations, dungeon rights. Inquire at Sector 1 Command Tent.**"
A guild. Already. Of course.
"Interesting, isn't it?" a voice said beside him.
Lucas turned. It was the sharp-faced man from the next tent over. He had approached silently. Up close, he was younger than Lucas thought, maybe late twenties, with cold, assessing eyes. His tag read: [Kai - Observer, Level 3].
"Things organize fast," Lucas said neutrally.
"Faster when you're inside a bubble that could pop at any moment," Kai said, his gaze flicking to Lucas's own tag. "[Chainlord]. That's a new one. Your pets cause quite the stir."
"They're not pets."
"Thralls, then. Bound entities. Even more interesting." Kai smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You have a valuable, if unsettling, skill set. People are talking. The [Iron Vanguard] will likely make you an offer. The [Caregiver Collective] will want your healer. And the people who are just scared… they'll want you gone."
Lucas's skin prickled. "Thanks for the warning."
"It's not a warning. It's an observation," Kai said. "I trade in information. For instance, I know the dome's energy output is dropping by 0.3% per day. I know the [Iron Vanguard] leader is a [Shield Captain] named Rourke, Level 5, and he's hoarding weapon drops. I know the woman at the gate, Sergeant Hale, reports to a council nobody sees." He leaned in slightly. "And I know that 'Apprentice' line you fed her was Grade-A bullshit. But it was clever bullshit."
Lucas kept his face still. "What do you want?"
"Right now? Just to introduce myself. To let you know that in this little fishbowl, I'm the one who knows where the rocks are. If you need to know something that isn't on the board… I might know it. For a price." He nodded toward the Obelisk. "Credits are preferred. But useful information can also be currency."
He melted back into the crowd before Lucas could respond.
Great. An information broker. Just what he needed.
Lucas was turning to leave when a commotion erupted near the ration line. A man was shouting, being dragged away by two others in mismatched armor bearing a crude fist emblem—the Iron Vanguard.
"He stole my ration ticket! That's mine!" the man yelled.
One of the Vanguard thugs punched him in the stomach. "You lost it in a fair dice game, idiot. Vanguard rules apply here. Move along."
No one intervened. The crowd just watched, eyes downcast.
Lucas saw the sharp, predatory order beneath the Safe Zone's surface. Guilds were becoming de facto governments. Rules were enforced by the strong.
He returned to Sector 7, his mind racing. They had shelter, but they were exposed. Eleanor was a target for recruitment or coercion. Mark was a liability. His Thralls were a source of fear and envy.
He crawled under the tent's awning, sitting with his back to the canvas, Mem and Volt standing silent vigil. Scribbles sat in his lap.
He had survived the open world. Now he was in a PvP zone. And his unique class meant he couldn't just blend in.
He looked at his status. Level 3. 1 empty Thrall slot. 20 Credits to his name.
The grind wasn't over. It had just become political.