The next few days blurred together. The seven fighters pushed themselves hard, clearing the remaining dungeons with brutal efficiency. Their teamwork was still rough, full of frayed edges, but it was improving.

The dungeons themselves no longer felt like death sentences—but that didn’t make them easy.

They had expected answers about their families. About how to navigate this world, survive, thrive. But as each dungeon fell, all they found were more monsters, more loot, more levels—and no answers.

No one said it aloud. But the silence spoke volumes.

Then, on the morning after their third dungeon run, a new objective flashed across Matt’s screen. Of course the system showed Matt. Why not?

A raid is coming. Three enemy factions from other worlds will attempt to seize your territory.

* Success: Unlock the land and establish your own faction.

* Failure (or retreat): Lose the territory to the invaders.

Time until attack: 7 days.

Matt exhaled sharply, his stomach knotting.

Jared, who had been securing a wooden barricade, saw the look on his face and asked, “What is it?”

Matt read the objective aloud. Silence. It stretched, heavy, pressing down on them.

Someone swallowed audibly. A slow, creeping weight settled over the camp.

Jared exhaled, rubbing his temples. He looked around at the camp, the half-finished barricades, the people still catching their breath from the last dungeon.

“Seven days.” He forced the words out, like he was convincing himself. “That’s a long time to prepare.”

Matt nodded, his mind shifting into full strategy mode. “Agreed. We are going to need walls. It’s good you’ve already started on shelter. It can double as a place to bunker during the attack.”

There was no time for panic. One week. They had one week to prepare. The camp was a beehive of motion for the next seven days. Everyone helped, even the fighters.

By day seven they had built a respectable barricade of cut logs with a large cabin for shelter that all 40 campers shared. It was the best they could manage. It was also fitted with three towers for Richard and the other to archers to fire from safety.

Richard complained the entire time. “We should be leveling, not stacking logs like goddamn lumberjacks. You wanna play settler? Fine. Just don’t come crying when XP matters more than a fence.”

Matt had about had enough. “Richard. We all agreed levels aren’t guaranteed. Defenses are. If you are so worried about it then go.”

Matt and Richard had butted heads several times just like this. Richard complained, Matt ignored. On and on it went. Several times, Richard had packed his things, walked to the edge of camp, looked at the trees… and stopped.

Why? He had no damn idea.

He told himself he didn’t need them. But if that was true, then why was he still here?

Time marched on. The barricades stood. The towers were ready. The camp held its breath.

In seven days, the enemy would come.

-

Exactly seven days later to the second the raid came.

Just outside the camp, the air rippled and twisted, like heat rising off sun-scorched pavement.

Then—they stepped through.

Fifty or more bipedal lizard-warriors emerged from the portal, clad in ill-fitting leather armor. Their weapons were crude—jagged clubs, rusted pitchforks, and makeshift spears—but their numbers alone made them a serious threat.

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At their head, a larger lizard, draped in dyed animal hides, barked guttural orders. Its yellow eyes gleamed, scanning the camp.

The air thickened with tension. In the tower, Richard swallowed hard. His palms were damp against his bowstring.

They didn’t look particularly strong. Richard didn’t want to wait. He loosed the first arrow.

The leading lizard shrieked and crumpled. For a second, the enemy forces froze, stunned.

Then—they charged.

“Here they come!” Matt bellowed.

Arrows zipped from the towers, striking deep into the raiders.

The wooden barricades slowed their advance, forcing them to funnel through the narrow entrance—exactly where Matt stood with Alex and one other.

Shield up. Sword ready. The first lizard crashed into him, club swinging.

Matt braced. The impact rattled his bones. A second attacker lunged. He twisted—caught the strike on his shield—countered with a brutal thrust to the gut.

The lizard choked, eyes wide, before collapsing onto the dirt. More of them piled in, their guttural shrieks filling the night air.

In the tower, Richard gritted his teeth. He nocked another arrow.

Survive. Level up. Take what’s yours. He pulled the string taut—and fired.

The lizard spasmed and dropped. More surged forward, scrambling over their fallen kin.

From the tower, Richard was rhythmic. Arrow, draw, fire, repeat. He tracked one of the pitchfork-wielding raiders, exhaled, and let the shot fly. A sharp whistle through the air—then a wet thud as the arrow buried itself deep into the creature’s throat.

Dead before it hit the ground.

Below, Matt fought like a storm. His shield absorbed another heavy blow—too heavy. The enemy was using a skill. The impact sent him stumbling, his boots dragging in the dirt, but he recovered fast, adjusting his grip. He roared and lunged, his sword carving a path through another lizard’s ribs.

“Elise!” he barked. He was hurt. Not bad, but enough.

A surge of warmth coursed through him as Elise’s magic took hold, his wounds knitting shut even as he moved to intercept the next attacker.

“Try and take out the pitchforks!” Matt shouted up to the towers. “They’ve got more range!”

Richard gritted his teeth. Just another order from Matt.

But even as resentment flared, his hands moved on instinct. His next arrow tore through the gut of another pitchfork-wielding raider. Fast. Efficient. Deadly.

More deadly than Matt. But do they notice?

The battle pressed on, but the tide had shifted. Their archers cut the enemy numbers down. Matt—still in the thick of it—held the line. His movements were relentless, shield catching blows, sword striking true. Jared and Elise pulled the wounded back, leaving only Matt and the towers.

And that’s when Richard saw it. The way the others watched Matt. How their eyes followed him—not Richard.

Not the one who had landed more kills than anyone. Not the one whose arrows had done the most work.

Just Matt. Matt the leader. Matt the hero. Matt the one everyone admired. Even the damn system chose MATT.

Richard’s fingers twitched against the bowstring. Matt was tired. His stance lagging just enough to be noticed.

He could let it happen. Just wait. Maybe he would slip up? He would already be dead if it wasn’t for me.

Then—an idea. One so dark it sent a shiver up his spine….

"Could he really do it? A single mistake. Easily explained.

That’s all it would take to create a world where Matt wasn’t in the way.

A world where they finally saw Richard for what he was.

A leader. A survivor. A hunter.

Richard hesitated. Then, he inhaled and drew his bow again. His next shot would be devastating. He lined it up with the last raider still fighting Matt—his arrowhead gleaming in the firelight.

A shot aimed at the enemy. But destined for something else.

Matt blocked a strike, his sword driving into the raider’s chest. He took a step forward, boots scraping the bloodied dirt—

Richard loosed the arrow.

It jumped off the string like a missile, easily piercing the raider’s back– punching straight through.

Matt’s body jerked as if yanked by an invisible string. His breath hitched—sharp and ragged.

The pain came a second later, burning through his stomach.

He staggered. Blood seeped between his fingers.

"What…?” The raiders didn’t have bows.

His gaze snapped upward.

The tower.

Richard.

Their eyes locked. Matt’s was filled with confusion. Why?

Richard widened his eyes, his expression practiced—feigned shock. Slowly, he lowered his bow, like he was just now realizing what happened.

Matt’s shield slipped. His knees faltered.

The final raider, still barely alive, saw the opening.

It raised its club. And smashed it into Matt’s skull.