“Alright, what’s the plan for tonight’s attack?”
A girl’s voice cut through the still air, sharp yet composed. It echoed off the walls, lingering just long enough to wake him.
He stirred, the coarse texture of a worn cushion beneath him muffling his senses as he blinked into consciousness.
He opened his eyes to a canopy of dark green, the patterned stains of water damage tracing abstract shapes across the ceiling.
Sounds flooded in next, muted at first, then clearer—a soft hum of conversation, punctuated by low grumbles and tense muttering.
His vision sharpened.
A cluttered battlefield of maps, mugs, and scattered ammunition littered one of the tables.
At the head of the table sat the girl who had spoken. She was young, likely his age, her presence commanding despite her delicate frame. Her short, dark hair was tucked behind her ears, it was her stern profile.
She leaned forward, her fingers tracing lines on a map spread out before her. Her mouth moved but her voice was indistinct.
Behind her, more men stood in disciplined rows near the far wall.
Their uniforms were different, sharper somehow, and they watched with an unsettling stillness, like shadows waiting to move.
“We’ll bring another howitzer and hit them hard. Give them a proper Asian welcome!”
The man who spoke was tall and impeccably dressed, his sharp eyes glinting behind wire-rimmed glasses.
His voice carried an air of authority, but it was clear his idea wasn’t popular.
“That’s too loud, Stan.”
The girl at the desk shot back, her tone curt and commanding.
“We need to stay quiet until the battle intensifies.”
The boy on the cushion sat up, his gaze sweeping the room.
About ten people clustered around the girl, each arguing or throwing out their own suggestions for the mission.
Next to Stan stood another man, average in appearance but radiating in aggression, his brows furrowed as he murmured indistinctly with a few others.
A third man caught the boy’s attention momentarily. Outgoing, with short black hair and warm brown eyes, he stood about 5 '10". However, the boy dismissed him, more interested in the chaotic energy in the room.
“What about grenade launchers?”
Someone suggested.
“Oliver, you’re just trying to start a war among these NPCs!”
The girl snapped.
“Fine, then how about a silenced light machine gun?”
The new voice belonged a tall, slightly overweight man with a fair tan and neatly styled hair and beard.
Despite his bulk, he carried himself with a quiet confidence.
“That’s still too loud.”
The girl countered, exasperated.
“And it draws too much attention. Aren’t you bored of being our shield yet, Peter?”
“Then we’ll use rifles.”
Came a smoother, calmer suggestion.
The boy’s eyes drifted to the speaker—a shorter young man, barely 5'2", with reddish-brown hair and soft brown eyes. His demeanor was unassuming, almost gentle, compared to the rest of the people in the room.
“But that’s not quiet either, Maxwell.”
The girl said, her patience wearing thin.
“Why don’t we just rush in with shotguns?”
The aggressive man, growled, his voice rough and commanding.
The girl’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Danil, do you want me to kick your balls? I said we need to be quiet until the battle intensifies!”
Before the argument could escalate, Oliver chimed in again, his voice brimming with pride.
“Then let’s bring a tank!”
He declared, brushing back his hair dramatically, as if the suggestion were a stroke of genius.
The room froze.
Without missing a beat, the girl opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. She didn’t even glance up as she aimed low and pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
The blast echoed through the room, and Oliver’s triumphant expression immediately turned into agony. He screamed so loudly.
He collapsed onto one knee, clutching his crotch, smoke rising faintly from the shredded fabric of his pants.
“Why did you do that?!”
He screamed, tears streaming down his face as he writhed on the floor.
The girl set the shotgun on the table with a nonchalant shrug, leaning back in her chair.
“Sorry, I thought you said, We’ll bring a spank.”
She twirled a strand of her hair idly, her tone devoid of remorse.
“You really should clean your ears once in a while. And for the last time, we need a silent weapon!”
The room fell into a stunned silence, save for Oliver’s whimpers of pain. One by one, the men instinctively shielded their crotches, their gazes darting nervously between the girl and the shotgun.
“Any other loud ideas?”
She asked sweetly, her hand hovering near the weapon.
No one dared to speak.
"Hey, isn't that guy awake now?"
Except Maxwell. He pointed at the boy.
The room collectively shifted, heads turning toward the boy who had just stirred.
“Ah, you've woken up!”
The girl rose gracefully from her chair, her boots clicking softly against the floor.
Everyone instinctively took a step back as she walked past them.
She approached the boy with calm confidence, her hands clasped behind her back, a warm smile lighting up her face.
As she stopped in front of him, she gave a small bow, her dark eyes locking onto his with curious intensity.
“Do you have a plan?”
She asked, her voice honeyed but carrying an undertone of mischief.
The boy blinked at her, trying to place the face. Then it hit him—it was the same girl he’d met in the chaos of the battlefield.
“What are you talking about?”
He muttered, his voice guarded.
“Our attack plans.”
She replied brightly, her smile widening.
“Why don’t you just mind your own business?”
The boy’s words hung in the air like a slap, his tone dripping with frustration.
“What the fuck, man? She nicely asked you, and that’s how you react?”
Danil’s voice echoed across the room.
He stepped forward, pulling a machete from inside his blazer.
The blade gleamed under the lights as he pointed it at the boy, his scowl deepening.
The boy stood abruptly, his fists clenched.
“I already said I don’t care! Besides, why the fuck did I spawn in a battlefield?”
His voice cracked with pent-up anger as he swung his arm in frustration.
Danil’s grip on the machete tightened, his expression darkening further.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Watch your tone, kid.”
He growled, raising the blade just enough to make the threat clear.
“She literally saved your ass.”
A low voice came.
It belonged to Peter, the largest guy in the room.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his tone casual but laced with judgment.
“You tripped on a rock and fell. That’s a skill issue.”
The boy whipped around to face him, glaring.
“Can’t you tell? I don’t want anything to do with this!”
The room went silent, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights.
The boy stepped back, his eyes landing between the unfazed girl and the still-scowling Danil.
His gaze landed briefly on the door.
“I’m leaving!”
He snapped, his voice firm, as he turned and strode toward the exit.
“So, you’re just going to run away after ending up in here?”
Stan’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. He pushed his bangs aside with a deliberate motion, his sharp gaze locking onto the boy.
“Yeah!”
The boy snapped, pausing mid-step and shouting back.
“And you’re fine running without even trying to fight?”
“Yes!”
The girl sighed dramatically, throwing her hands up.
“I’ve been trying to tell him…”
Stan leaned forward, incredulous.
“You’re willing to run away even if it means being reincarnated as a pig?”
“Hell yeah!”
The boy retorted, but then froze.
“Wait, what? A pig?!”
Stan smirked.
“Ha! You really thought humans and animals have different souls?”
Danil let out a scoff from across the room.
“What a dumbass.”
In the corner, a man idly fiddled with a miniature stealth fighter jet, the sleek wings glinting under the dim light.
“This guy’s hopeless.”
Without looking up, he muttered.
The boy’s eyes widened, darting to the man in disbelief.
Meanwhile, Oliver, still clutching his healing groin, limped toward the nearest wall like a war veteran retreating from the frontlines.
“It’s totally possible.”
Peter said, his deep voice adding gravity to the conversation. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“You could end up as anything—chicken, cow, even a shrimp.”
The boy’s jaw dropped.
“What? Why?”
Stan grinned slyly, leaning back with the air of someone dropping a truth bomb.
“Don’t you wonder why it’s always food animals? Coincidence? I think not.”
“What kind of twisted concept is this?!”
The boy exclaimed, throwing up his hands in exasperation.
“There’s more to it than that.”
Maxwell interjected, his calm voice cutting through the chaos.
Stan seized the moment to drive his point home.
“You’ll just get stuck in a cycle.”
Stan said quietly, his voice sounded serious.
“Live. Die. Get chopped up. Eaten. Over and over. Is that what you want?”
Danil’s laugh broke the stillness, sharp and mocking. A sly smirk crept across his face.
“So yeah, go ahead. Bow down and become the Architect’s little pet. Trade this miserable existence for eternal servitude. Sounds like a great deal, right?”
He paused, his grin twisting into something darker.
“Or better yet—why not reincarnate as a snake? Imagine that. Crawling through dirt, helpless, until pest control finds you. Whack.”
The boy flinched. His mind betrayed him, conjuring the image: a frail serpent, writhing on a cold floor, hooked and dangling as its life was torn away.
“That’s… cruel…”
The boy murmured, his voice faint.
“Exactly.”
Stan’s reply was razor-sharp. He adjusted his glasses with meticulous precision, his expression hardening into something calculating. His gaze bore into the boy, relentless and unyielding, like a predator toying with wounded prey.
“Now,”
He began, his voice softening into a whisper.
“Think. Think long and hard about why you’re here. Why this place? Why wake up here instead of somewhere warm, peaceful—or utterly void?”
The boy’s breath caught. His thoughts tangled, searching for meaning, an answer, anything.
And then Stan struck.
“You committed suicide, didn’t you?”
The words dropped like stones, shattering the fragile silence. The room grew colder, the air heavier. Even the flickering overhead light seemed to dim, as if recoiling from the weight of the accusation.
The boy froze, his chest tightening.
“Do you know what happens to people like you?”
Stan asked, his voice honeyed but laced with venom. He tilted his head slightly, watching the boy with a quiet cruelty.
“They don’t get peace. Not ever. They’re thrown back into the cycle. Reincarnated. First, maybe a stray cat. Then a rat. An ant. And again, and again. Each life snuffed out before it even began. No progress. No purpose. Just death on repeat.”
The boy’s trembling hands curled into fists, but the strength in his resolve faltered.
“But you got lucky,”
Stan continued, leaning closer. His shadow loomed over the boy, swallowing him whole.
“Instead of eternal torment, you ended up here. In this... limbo.”
The boy’s eyes darted around the room, desperate to find some escape.
But every face he met offered no comfort, only cold, empty stares that pinned him down.
“And what do you want to do with this chance?”
Stan pressed, his words a low snarl.
“Waste it? Run? Pathetic.”
The boy’s breath hitched. His thoughts raced, colliding into one another, but no clear answer came.
Meanwhile, the other people in the room were whispering and gossiping about the new boy, making fun of him behind his back.
Oliver winced in pain as his injuries almost finished healing.
“Enough already!”
The girl’s voice cut through the tension, calm yet commanding.
“Don’t be so cruel and tear him down like that. He’s new here and knows nothing about this world.”
Her gaze lingered on Stan before sweeping over the rest of the group. With a slight shake of her head, she exhaled.
“Let’s focus on our plans for tonight’s battle. We’ll bring—”
“Machine guns!”
Danil interjected, puffing up with misplaced pride, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.
The girl smiled lightly, accepting the advice.
“Yeah, we’ll take the Mac—”
BANG!
The blast of her sawed-off shotgun echoed in the room. Danil crumpled to his knees, screaming in agony, his groin torn apart.
His cries filled the silence as everyone immediately shielded their own nether regions.
The girl casually blew the smoke off the barrel of her shotgun and returned it to the table.
Her expression didn’t waver.
“I’m vetoing that. We’ll stick to normal guns, with marksmen guarding from behind.”
She said nonchalantly, as if she’d just decided on a dinner menu.
The boy gawked in silent disbelief, his mind racing to process the chaos he’d been thrust into.
The girl turned back to him, her voice softening.
“Anyway, while you’re here, you’re safe to do whatever you want. Did you even realize that when you woke up?”
“How was I supposed to?”
He snapped.
“The second I opened the door, a damn bomb blew me out the window!”
The group burst into laughter, though the boy clearly didn’t find the situation funny.
“Besides.”
He continued, narrowing his eyes at them.
“You guys keep saying there’s life after death. That’s just a joke, right?”
“It’s no joke. It’s a fact.”
The girl answered him.
“How could you prove it? Has anyone actually seen it?”
The boy countered, his voice tinged with both skepticism and desperation.
Danil, still cradling his obliterated groin, managed to glare at him through his pain.
“Are you stupid? You’re literally here right now!”
The girl sighed, her patience seemingly infinite.
“Didn’t you listen to what we’ve been saying?”
She gestured to the others.
“The proof’s all around you—even in your old life. Why are people born rich and poor? Ugly and beautiful? Disabled and healthy? Why do animals live? Do they exist just for us to hunt, eat, and use?”
The boy frowned, clearly unconvinced.
“But... I still don’t get it.”
The girl’s tone softened, though her words carried an edge of finality.
“Think logically. We’re born into this world based on what we did in the past. Call it karma, call it fate, whatever you like. Reject it if you want—it doesn’t really matter.”
She leaned forward a little.
“Because here, in this world, none of that applies anymore. You are what you are, and you can become what you’re not. The only thing that matters is surviving and fighting the Architect. There’s no sin, no virtue—just survival and freedom.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication, as the boy tried to process the surreal logic of this new world.
“But what do you guys want to accomplish in this world?”
The boy asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and skepticism.
“To destroy the Architect.”
The girl replied matter-of-factly,
“And to take down the opposing team we fought in the building last night. We call them Retribution.”
“Why, though?”
He pressed, furrowing his brow.
The girl studied him for a moment before responding.
“I assume you’re still new here. You’ll figure it out as time passes. The key is to adapt.”
“So... we fight against the Architect?”
“Yes.”
She confirmed, her tone firm.
“And Retribution.”
She stepped closer and extended her hand towards him, her eyes steady and inviting.
“This world is harsh, but you’re not alone in it.”
The boy hesitated, his hand hovering mid-air as doubt flickered across his face.
He glanced around at the others, their eyes fixed on him.
Slowly, he raised his hand to meet hers. As their fingers came within an inch of touching, he paused, looking up at her.
She met his gaze with unwavering confidence, her grip firm but not overbearing.
Certainly! Here's a refined version of the scene with subtle humor that stays grounded in the context:
---
“Welcome to the fight,” she said with a small, encouraging smile.
The tension in the room seemed to ease, the onlookers exchanging relieved glances, some even nodding in quiet approval. For a brief moment, the atmosphere felt almost warm.
But just as their hands were about to meet, the office door flew open inwards.
“Not so fast!”
A man stormed in, shotgun in hand.
He pumped the shotgun, aiming it squarely at the boy.
“Car—”
Whatever warning he intended to give, the door exploded faster than that.
He flew straight through the same shattered window the boy had been thrown out of earlier.
His body flailed like a 3D model T-posing, the remnants of the shotgun clattering uselessly to the ground.
“—riiiiaaaaahhhhhh!”
The entire room froze.
From his spot by the wall, Oliver let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head.
“What an idiot…”
Everyone rushed to the window, peering out as the man’s limp form hit the river below.
“He got blown up by his own bomb…”
The girl didn’t even flinch. She turned back to the group.
“To enter this place, you’ll need to say the code. This is our only headquarters, where we can roast anyone—or anything—without consequences.”
She glanced briefly at the window, her expression neutral.
“Well, except for that guy. Turns out he had consequences.”
A few chuckles rippled through the group.
“Thanks to his little stunt.”
She continued, nodding toward the boy.
“You might want to reconsider your decision. Because if you don’t want to end up like that, you’ll have to start taking this fight seriously.”
The boy stood frozen by the window, his gaze fixed on the floor.
His breathing slowed as his thoughts filled his senses, drowning out the creak of the shattered door and the distant echo of splashing water outside.
Finally, he broke the silence.
“Would you mind giving me some time?”
“Sure,”
The girl replied without missing a beat.
“Five seconds.”
His shoulders sagged, and he dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath.
All eyes rested on him, but no one dared to break the moment.
He inhaled deeply, let it out slowly, and finally straightened up.
“If it means I get to see that guy eat shit again, count me in.”
He said, voice steady.
A flicker of amusement crossed the girl’s face, her smile sharpening.
The atmosphere shifted.
The group seemed to exhale as one, their earlier tension dissolving into relief. A few stepped forward, clapping the boy on the shoulder or murmuring quiet words of encouragement.
“Welcome to the fight.”
The girl said, her tone soft yet strict.
“Password: ‘Only one God exists.’”
The girl clasped the boy’s hand firmly, her voice steady.
“I’m Carina.”
The boy simply nodded, unsure of how to respond. His hand remained in hers for a beat too long before she finally released it.
Carina gestured to the lively guy standing nearby.
“That’s Oliver. Outgoing, ridiculous, and occasionally reliable—very occasionally.”
Oliver beamed as he stepped forward, gripping the boy’s hand.
“Welcome to the team!”
Then, without missing a beat, he spun toward Carina with an exaggerated pout.
“But wait—you forgot to tell him I’m also your ragdoll half the time! Where’s my proper introduction?”
Carina ignored him, moving on.
“The big guy over there is Peter. He’s our tanker and intelligence specialist. Think of him as our walking body armor. We’d be toast without him.”
Peter, a tall, solidly built man with a neatly trimmed beard, stepped forward with a warm smile.
“Nice to meet you.”
He shook the boy’s hand with surprising gentleness.
Meanwhile, Oliver continued his rant in the background.
“No respect! I’m practically the heart and soul of this group, and this is how I’m treated?!”
Carina didn’t so much as glance his way.
She pointed to a shorter young man with reddish-brown hair and soft brown eyes.
“That’s Maxwell. Don’t let his size fool you. He can handle a .50 cal sniper rifle like it’s a BB gun—and yes, while standing.”
Maxwell offered a small, polite smile as he extended his hand.
“Welcome to The Resistance.”
The boy shook it cautiously, still processing everything.
Carina continued, this time pointing toward a tall, impeccably dressed man standing stiffly in the corner.
“That’s Stan. Talks like a scholar, acts like a genius, but don’t be fooled—he’s actually an idiot. That threat he gave you just now was actually my words to him when he was new.”
“Heh?!”
Ezra immediately looked at Carina.
Stan adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his expression unflinching.
“Welcome.”
He said in a formal tone, nodding as if addressing royalty.
Finally, Carina motioned to a man with a machete slung casually into his blazer, his aggressive energy practically radiating off him.
“And that’s Franklin—though some of us call him Danil. He’s... spirited.”
Franklin scowled, tilting his head to the side as he slid the machete out just far enough to gleam.
“Remember to call me Franklin, you insolent brat!”
“I’m not insolent…”
The boy muttered.
“Also, that guy with the shotgun who just flew out of the window is Joshua,”
Carina said, barely pausing before moving on.
“And the reserved guy over there, the one holding a fighter jet like it’s a teddy bear, is Fransisco.”
The boy blinked, his gaze trailing to where Carina pointed.
Fransisco stood in the corner, cradling a miniature fighter jet with unnerving calmness, as if he’d been doing it his whole life.
Carina’s finger shifted again.
“And this guy right here is Dika.”
The boy turned, only to squint in surprise.
Dika’s back had been blending so seamlessly into the wall paint with his boilersuit before he turned around.
Wires and cables snaked out from his many pockets, some looping around his arms, others trailing down to a switch panel on his chest.
His posture was relaxed, almost casual.
“He’s our bombardier.”
Carina said, her tone brimming with pride.
“The best explosive operator you’ll ever meet.”
Dika offered a warm, disarming smile.
“Funny thing is, I didn’t know anything about explosive engineering when I was alive.”
The boy raised an eyebrow.
“What were you before?”
“Jobless.”
Dika replied, as if that explained everything.
The boy opened his mouth to ask more but thought better of it. Clearly, this group wasn’t bound by conventional logic.
“Come to think of it, what’s your name?”
Carina asked, tilting her head slightly as her sharp eyes studied him.
“My name? Uh… Ez… Ezra…”
The boy stammered, the syllables rolling out uncertainly.
Carina’s gaze narrowed.
“That your real name?”
Ezra hesitated, looking down at the floor.
“I… I couldn’t remember.”
Oliver suddenly clapped him on the shoulder, making him flinch.
“Man, that’s classic amnesia,”
He said with a grin.
“Makes sense since you’ve died three times in three days this week.”
Ezra’s jaw dropped.
“You counted it?!”
“Of course I did.”
Oliver shot back.
“Somebody’s gotta keep track of your score.”
Carina, arms crossed, stepped closer.
“Wait. Did you remember your name when you were in the computer room?”
Ezra frowned, trying to piece together the fragments of his memories.
“I… I didn’t really pay attention to it.”
He admitted.
Oliver let out an exaggerated groan, throwing his hands in the air.
“Damn, this is gonna be troublesome to fix. Now we gotta start calling you ‘That Guy’ or something.”
Carina then added.
“Look, if your name really was Ezra, it’ll come back to you eventually. Just don’t stress about it. Names aren’t as important as what you do here.”
“I see.”
Ezra murmured, his voice thoughtful.
He glanced toward the far end of the room, where a group of men in uniform stood eerily still, their expressions blank.
“By the way, who are those guys?”
Carina followed his gaze and smirked faintly.
“Oh, them? Those are bot soldiers.”
“Bot… soldiers?”
Ezra’s brow furrowed.
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
Oliver chimed in, leaning against a nearby wall.
“They’re basically puppets. Do whatever you command them to, no questions asked.”
Carina nodded.
“They’re useful for missions where we need extra hands—or cannon fodder. Just don’t expect much personality. They’re… rather lifeless.”
Carina explained.
“Though some are capable of processing emotions. We just don't need them.”
Ezra stared at the soldiers.
“I see…”
One of the bot soldiers suddenly turned its head slightly, its blank eyes locking onto Ezra.
He flinched.
Oliver snickered.
“Relax, they’re harmless. Well, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Ezra repeated, his voice pitching upward.
Carina shot Oliver a warning look before turning back to Ezra.
“Don’t worry. They only act up if someone messes with their programming. Just don’t try to get too friendly with them.”
“Hey, shouldn't you give him his gears and a uniform?”
Peter asked Carina.
“Oh, yeah! I've forgotten about that.”
Carina immediately walked to the nearest wardrobe and pulled a set of new uniforms out.
“By the way, why is my clothes different from you guys?”
Ezra asked, checking his uniform that was just a black shirt with long sleeves with trousers, then comparing it with the others.
“You are dressed in a burial garment. That's the default clothing when you are here. Nothing is wrong with being like that.”
Carina placed the white shirt and dark navy blue trousers at her desk, while opening the blazer of the same color as the trousers to Ezra.