The glowing notification hovered in Evan’s vision, the bold timer a relentless reminder:
“You have 5 minutes to log out of the game. Missed recruitment chances will be available once you return. Your progress will be saved. See you soon!”
Five minutes. Not nearly enough time to ensure the Harmonious Enclave’s safety. Turning to his gathered companions, Evan drew a steadying breath and spoke with all the authority he could muster.
“I’ll be gone until the evening of the fourth day,” he announced. “Focus on the priorities we’ve set: food production, resource refinement, and keeping the mana well secure. Alarion, you’re in charge.”
The swordsman nodded solemnly. “You can count on me, Lord Evan.”
Evan’s gaze swept over Elandra, Tharien, Cyrion, and the newest recruits. Their expressions—resolute, expectant—steadied him as the timer ticked closer to zero. He could leave knowing they wouldn’t falter.
“I’ll be back soon. Don’t let up.”
He whispered the logout command, the vibrant world of Aethel dissolving into a cascade of light.
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The soft chime of a system notification echoed in the dim chamber.
“You have 5 minutes to log out of the game. Missed recruitment chances will be available once you return.”
Luke’s crimson eyes narrowed as he scanned the message. Five minutes. More than enough to set his team in motion.
Standing from his throne, Luke addressed the core members of his Malefic Vale faction, their figures cast in sharp relief by flickering torchlight. “I’ll be gone until the evening of the fourth day. Follow the directives I’ve given.”
His gaze fell on Malakath, the Shadowblade warrior. “Secure the eastern border. Double the patrols and station archers strategically.”
Malakath inclined his head. “As you command.”
Luke’s attention shifted to Seloria. “ Continue expanding eastward. Use the Pillar of Lust to claim choke points.”
Her sultry smirk deepened. “They won’t know what hit them, my Lord.”
The timer chimed again: Log out now. Satisfied, Luke flicked his wrist, confirming the logout. The glow of Malefic Vale faded, replaced by the muted light of his cramped apartment.
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The notification appeared without preamble, its message clear:
“You have five minutes to log out of the game. Missed recruitment chances will be available once you return.”
Myron grimaced. Five minutes wasn’t ideal, but it was enough. He turned to Kaela, who watched him expectantly near the Moonlit Den.
“Keep things moving,” he said sharply. “If trouble brews, handle it.”
Kaela smirked. “And if Fenris gets rowdy?”
“Then remind him who’s in charge,” Myron replied with a grin. His golden eyes swept over Ragnar. “Keep the pack together. I trust you.”
Ragnar nodded. “We’ll be ready when you return.”
Satisfied, Myron tapped the logout command. The vibrant energy of Aethel dissolved, replaced by the sterile quiet of his high-rise apartment.
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Evan blinked as his bedroom came into view, the headset heavy in his lap. Around him, the stale scent of takeout lingered, a stark contrast to the mana-infused air of Aethel. He hurried through his morning routine, the thought of school pulling him reluctantly back to reality.
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Luke tugged off his headset, setting it aside as the peeling wallpaper of his apartment came into focus. His mom’s voice called from the kitchen. “Don’t forget breakfast, Luke.”
He muttered a vague acknowledgment, his mind already spinning with strategies for Malefic Vale.
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Myron leaned back in his chair, the sleek hum of his VR rig fading. His mother barely looked up as he strode through their apartment, already dressed in his pristine uniform. “Late night?” she asked.
“Just work,” he replied, adjusting his tie.
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The morning bell echoed through the crowded hallways of East Ridge Academy. Students hurried between lockers, the din of conversation rising above the metallic clang of slamming doors.
Evan reached his locker first, fumbling with the worn combination lock as he caught snippets of passing conversations. His mind lingered on the Enclave’s defenses. Would Alarion hold the line? Would the mana well be safe?
Further down the hall, Luke stood near the edge of the crowd, his crimson backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes scanned the throng, his expression unreadable. He moved with calculated precision, slipping past knots of students without engaging. The eastern border of Malefic Vale had to hold. If Seloria succeeded, they’d gain a significant advantage.
At the opposite end of the hallway, Myron strolled with his usual calm authority, the gleaming insignia on his blazer marking him as a senior prefect. His polished shoes clicked softly against the tiled floor as he greeted passing students with a polite nod. Yet his thoughts were elsewhere. Ragnar wouldn’t fail. The Moonlit Den would be thriving when he returned.
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The three found themselves in the same classroom by second period, their desks scattered across the room.
Evan slouched near the window, the weight of the real world pressing on him. He doodled absentmindedly in the margins of his notebook—sketches of the mana well, plans for fortifications. His mind drifted back to Aethel, worry gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
Luke sat two rows behind, his posture straight, his expression cool. His notebook was filled with neatly organized strategies, bullet points of calculated moves. The real world was a distraction, but one he endured with unflinching focus.
Myron sat at the front, his notes meticulous, his attention divided between the lecture and his mental checklist for the day. Every action in Aethel had been deliberate, and he expected nothing less from his pack while he was gone.
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As the class continued, Evan’s gaze flicked back, catching Luke’s sharp profile. For a fleeting moment, he considered striking up a conversation—they’d shared a project once, hadn’t they?—but Luke’s intensity kept him silent.
Luke, sensing the glance, glanced up briefly. His eyes locked with Evan’s before shifting to Myron, who was jotting something in his notebook. Luke’s lips twitched in a smirk. Perfectly composed as always, Myron.
Myron, feeling the weight of Luke’s gaze, didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He knew they were all aware of one another, and in their silent acknowledgment, a strange thread connected them.
Three boys. Three worlds. All teetering on the edge of something greater.
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The final bell echoed through East Ridge Academy, signaling the end of another school day. The bustling hallways swarmed with students eager to escape the monotony of their routines. Among them, three figures moved with deliberate strides, each absorbed in their own thoughts.
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Evan slung his worn backpack over his shoulder, his footsteps heavy as he navigated the crowded hall. The weight of both worlds pressed on him—the unfinished assignments here, the unfinished defenses in Aethel. His gaze flicked downward as he rounded the corner near the main entrance.
That’s when he nearly collided with someone.
“Watch it,” came a sharp voice, controlled but cold.
Evan looked up to find Luke staring at him, crimson eyes—wait, no, just contacts—narrowed in faint annoyance. His backpack was slung casually over one shoulder, his uniform pristine in a way that made Evan painfully aware of the frayed hem of his own blazer.
“Sorry,” Evan muttered, stepping aside.
Luke studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugged. “No harm done.”
Before Evan could say more, another voice chimed in from nearby.
“You two look like you’re plotting something.”
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Myron stepped forward with a confident stride, his blazer immaculate despite the day’s wear. He leaned casually against the lockers, his golden eyes flicking between Evan and Luke. A faint smirk played on his lips, as though he’d been watching the exchange with mild amusement.
“Let me guess,” he said, “Evan here is trying to apologize, and Luke’s debating whether to accept or just keep looking like a villain.”
Evan blinked, caught off guard. “I’m not—I mean, I already did.”
Luke’s expression darkened, his voice cool as ever. “And you always have to insert yourself into conversations, don’t you, Myron?”
“Only when they’re this entertaining.” Myron grinned, his tone light but sharp. He turned to Evan, holding out a hand. “Don’t take it personally. Luke’s allergic to fun.”
Evan hesitated before shaking it, his grip awkward. “Uh, thanks?”
Luke rolled his eyes. “If you’re done playing mediator, Myron, I’m leaving.”
“By all means, don’t let me stop you.” Myron stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish.
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As Luke disappeared into the crowd, Myron turned back to Evan, his sharp gaze tinged with curiosity. “You’re more interesting than you let on, you know.”
Evan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Myron shrugged, his smirk returning. “Just an observation.” Without waiting for a response, he strode off, leaving Evan standing alone in the hallway, confusion and curiosity swirling in equal measure.
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Outside the school, Luke leaned against a lamppost, scrolling idly through his phone. Myron joined him a moment later, his polished shoes clicking softly against the pavement.
“You’re curious about him too,” Myron said casually, his tone more serious now.
Luke didn’t look up. “Curious isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Whatever you say.” Myron gave him a knowing look, then glanced back toward the doors. A moment later, Evan emerged, his gaze distant as usual.
“Three of us,” Myron mused, more to himself than to Luke. “A little too coincidental, don’t you think?”
Luke finally pocketed his phone, his crimson gaze following Evan as he walked away. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”