PoV: Jurard Lasson

"Victory!" the announcer's booming voice echoed throughout the simulated arena as the virtual landscape collapsed into bright particles around Jurard.

With a wide, triumphant grin on his face, he eagerly pulled off the sleek sensory helmet, feeling a bit dizzy as he adjusted back to reality.

He turned to his left, smiling smugly at his defeated opponent.

"Good fights, man. Good fights!" Jurard said cheerfully, extending a casual hand towards his fellow Marine, who was just now removing his own helmet, scowling with obvious annoyance.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever…" Parck grumbled, getting up from the chair quickly and shoving the helmet aside.

[System: Recruit Walfri Parck has transferred 100 System Credits to you.]

"Come back anytime for a rematch!" Jurard called out with exaggerated friendliness as the booth door slid open for Parck.

Instantly, a wave of deafening noise surged into the small gaming booth, washing over Jurard in a flood of chatter, laughter, and the familiar blaring sounds of arcade games. Just beyond the door, Marines crowded shoulder-to-shoulder in the bustling arcade common area, their excited conversations blending into a chaotic roar of voices and electronic beeps.

Jurard watched as Parck was quickly swallowed by the dense stream of people flooding past the brightly lit rows of gaming booths.

The arcade was absolutely packed—it seemed like every second Marine aboard the Sovereign had decided that this was the perfect place to unwind after the brutal First Assessment.

Flashing screens, neon-colored lights, and dozens upon dozens of different gaming stations and booths filled the massive hall, creating the kind of sensory overload that Jurard absolutely lived for.

He had missed this type of place more than he'd care to admit during the long years of intense training and combat that it had taken for him to get into the UHFMC.

For Jurard, this was his natural habitat. Not the dirty, grimy trenches of the battlefields.

While he had only landed somewhere in the top 30% of the Assessment Leaderboards—respectable, but nothing truly impressive—he knew that here, in this arcade, he was unmatched. Easily in the top 0.1% of gamers aboard the Sovereign, if not even better, and definitely number one in Wildmaws, his favorite fantasy-style combat sim game.

So naturally, he'd offered a hefty System Credit reward for anyone brave—or foolish—enough to take him on, with only a tiny buy-in required to challenge him.

Recruit Parck was just his sixteenth victim today, and Jurard had no plans to slow down anytime soon.

'Even the top dogs in the Drive can't touch me here,' Jurard thought confidently, glancing at the rapidly growing stack of System Credits on his profile. 'Even Tiberius—that beast of a heavy sniper—couldn't handle my Wildmaws skills.'

He had been genuinely surprised when someone as well-known as Tiberius Soren had stepped into his booth earlier, accepting his open challenge.

Yet even with all the awards and praise Tiberius had received from the First Assessment and the very obvious skill he had displayed, it hadn't mattered one bit when it came to beating Jurard at his favorite game.

Maybe Tiberius could've won in a different game—Jurard could, of course, admit that much—but in Wildmaws, nobody aboard this ship even came close.

With the door to his Wildmaws booth still open, Jurard took the opportunity to loudly advertise for any new challengers, his voice cutting through the constant hum of noise outside.

"Open invitation to anyone brave enough to face me in Wildmaws! Hardcore Ironman Tournament rules, prize of 2,000 System Credits to whoever can beat me! Buy-in is just—"

His pitch was suddenly interrupted as someone abruptly stumbled into the booth, quickly sliding the door shut behind them.

The rush of noise from outside instantly vanished, replaced by the booth's calm silence, broken only by the muted sounds of arcade games filtering through the walls.

"Ehh… Hello there?" Jurard greeted awkwardly, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden arrival of this potential challenger.

The newcomer had draped one of the arcade's complimentary towels—provided specifically for the more intense, sweat-inducing games—over their head, completely hiding their face and hair from view.

With a heavy, clearly exhausted sigh, the person slumped into the chair to Jurard's left.

"You mentioned something about a prize?" she asked casually, leaning forward to pick up the sensory helmet from the floor, where Recruit Parck had hastily discarded it earlier.

"Oh! Right, yes! The buy-in's just 100 System Credits to challenge me, but if you win, you get a whole 2,000 System Credits from me. Honestly, it's a fantastic opportunity if you ask me!" Jurard replied with his practiced enthusiasm, quickly regaining his confidence.

He felt relieved the stranger was genuinely interested in the challenge, even if she'd entered so abruptly mid-advertisement.

"Wildmaws, huh…? Been a long while since I last played that one…" she mused quietly, turning the helmet over in her hands before asking, "When do I pay, upfront or after the match?"

Without waiting for his reply, she finally removed the towel, shaking out her dirty-blonde hair briefly before wiping down the helmet.

Jurard blinked, a nagging feeling of recognition stirring in the back of his mind.

Seeing her from the side, especially with her face intently focused on cleaning up the helmet, made it hard to clearly place her, but something about her definitely seemed somewhat familiar.

He frowned slightly, trying and failing to pinpoint where exactly he'd seen her before.

"After is just fine! Unlimited rematches are also totally okay with me," Jurard added cheerfully, trying to shake the odd feeling. "Though it'll be 100 System Credits per rematch, hope that's alright?"

The girl stopped cleaning the helmet for just a moment, making Jurard's heart skip a beat.

Had he pushed too far? Had he accidentally scared off his next victim?

But after a second of thought, the girl simply nodded to herself and kept cleaning, only asking, "That is, if I request the rematch, right? If you request it, I don't pay?"

Jurard paused at her strange question—why in the Emperor's name would he ever request a rematch? It took him a moment to process her words before responding, "Oh yeah, absolutely. Only if you request it, of course."

Starting to feel uneasy about the girl's casual attitude towards the game, Jurard asked, carefully, "You're… Aware of the rules, right? Hardcore Ironman Tournament rules? You know exactly what that means?"

She seemed far too relaxed for someone about to put 100 Credits on the line.

'There's 2,000 System Credits up for grabs here,' Jurard thought, irritated. 'Can you at least pretend to be taking this seriously…? She's not going to just run away after losing and try to get out without paying, right…?'

The girl simply hummed a quiet acknowledgment, clearly uninterested in further conversation. She quickly slipped the sensory helmet onto her head, sighing softly as she settled into the chair.

'What a weirdo… I should've asked for payment up-front, damnit,' Jurard thought to himself, shaking his head.

Shrugging off the odd exchange, he slipped his own helmet on, feeling the familiar tug as the booth's real-world interior vanished, replaced by the sandy arena he'd spent most of the morning dominating.

"Alright, then," Jurard muttered with a confident grin, cracking his knuckles inside the virtual space as he moved to select his usual set of equipment. "Time to make some quick bucks."

Moments later, Jurard stood in the familiar center of the arena, feeling the comfortable weight of his favorite dual-blades settle into his hands.

Wildmaws was a game that heavily favored aggressive playstyles, and Jurard had quickly learned that dual-blades suited him perfectly. He loved how easily they let him pressure opponents, keeping them constantly off balance.

But the blades also allowed him some room for defensive moves—he could quickly parry attacks, anchoring and deflecting blows from nearly any angle.

Few weapon styles could keep up with the speed and aggression of dual-blades, and fewer still could match his level of skill with them.

He swung the blades expertly, twirling and catching them again with practiced ease, making sure everything felt comfortable as he waited for his opponent to finish her equipment selection. He fully expected her to take her time—most of his challengers had been cautious about their setups, especially when betting their Credits.

'Makes sense, considering how much is at stake,' Jurard chuckled to himself, confidence rising. But his laughter was cut off abruptly when the girl suddenly appeared in front of him as a fully-grown Turixa—a feline-human hybrid—holding a glaive.

"Sorry for the delay," she said politely, bowing slightly, as if they were just friends meeting casually. "Had some trouble logging in for a sec there."

Jurard immediately tensed up.

Not only had this girl quickly chosen her weapon, passive abilities, armor, and even swapped races, but she'd done it all while having trouble just logging into the game?!

"No worries," he responded carefully, sizing her up again and taking note of her choices.

She wore a set of light armor all around, holding a standard tournament-issue glaive in her hands. Nothing particularly unusual about her selection at first glance—but a glaive user normally favored medium armor, to better handle the heavier, longer weapon.

Still, it wasn't exactly impossible to run a lighter set.

It just meant she likely knew exactly what she was doing, maybe even had a specific playstyle in mind.

Jurard had already assumed she had at least some familiarity with the game from her earlier comments, but the speed and certainty of her selections now made him even warier.

He watched carefully as she jumped lightly up and down, stretched her shoulders, and swung her glaive around gracefully, testing her agility with simple, smooth movements.

After a brief warm-up, the Turixa nodded once to herself, signaling that she was ready to begin. The arena's interface confirmed her readiness for the first round.

'Okay then,' Jurard thought seriously. 'Definitely don't underestimate her. Play it safe first and see exactly what she's made of.'

He signaled his own readiness, and they were both instantly teleported to their starting positions—placed a few meters apart, a clear six-meter gap between them.

"Get ready for the first round!" the arena announcer's voice echoed excitedly through the digital stadium, while the virtual crowd erupted into loud, enthusiastic cheers.

"Today's bout will be between our reigning champion, JuraSillion, and our newest challenger to step into the arena…" The announcer paused dramatically, letting tension build among the roaring spectators. "MissyMoonlightMayhem! Will this challenger be the one to finally dethrone the champion?"

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Jurard kept his eyes locked firmly on the Turixa across from him, but as the announcer called out his opponent's username, a strange chill ran through him.

'MissyMoonlightMayhem…? Why does that sound so fucking familiar…?'

But before Jurard could piece together where he'd heard it before, glowing numbers appeared between the two of them, counting down rapidly:

3… 2… 1…

"START!"

The moment the countdown hit zero, the girl launched herself forward with terrifying power, kicking off the ground so hard the sand beneath her feet exploded outward, leaving a small-sized crater behind.

Jurard's eyes widened as the Turixa-blur shot toward him—her glaive spinning into a brutal diagonal slash that would've bisected most unprepared players on the spot.

He reacted on instinct, his dual-blades crossing just in time to block the blow, the sheer power of it making him skid across the sand.

The second her glaive clashed against his weapons, she twisted her grip and slammed the weapon's shaft down hard, dragging the rest of her body with the motion in a fluid spin. The glaive's long handle whipped around like a flail, and she kicked it mid-spin—hard—adding even more momentum to the follow-up strike.

Jurard barely managed to backstep in time, the second blow screaming past his chest and shaving a clean strip of metal off his left shoulder plate.

'What the fuck—?!' his thoughts shouted, sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

He didn't get time to regroup.

She came at him again, her movements a fluid sequence of perfect form and unrelenting pressure.

The glaive's head danced in towards him again and again, but it was the way she used the shaft that sent him spiraling.

She didn't just swing the weapon and try to slice him—she manipulated its angles like a martial artist with a bo staff, using it for leverage, blocking his attempts to counterattack, then transitioning into spinning strikes that redirected his own parries into openings.

It was like the entire length of the weapon was the danger, rather than just the head.

Jurard tried to fall back, hoping to buy some breathing room. But she didn't let him.

She flipped the glaive once, planting the blunt end into the ground like a pivot and using it to fling herself into the air, twisting midair to come down on him in a diagonal arc that nearly shattered his block.

'She's not fucking playing around—this isn't just someone good at the game, this is an Emperor-damned pro…!' he realized in pure unadulterated horror, adrenaline now flooding his system as he scrambled to reposition again.

He caught another strike, the impact jarring his arms, then ducked the shaft as it swung in low from the other side.

She flowed around him like water, turning a missed sweep into a backward vault, spinning the glaive behind her back, then planting it with both hands to launch herself forward towards him again. He never had a single second to just breathe and think about a strategy.

Jurard flinched and rolled—barely avoiding yet another follow-up stab that drove deep into the sand beside his face, before the blunt-end of the glaive crashed into his chest once more, sending him stumbling backwards.

'What is this insane pace?! I can't even get a hit in—I can't even fucking breathe…!'

He was already sweating buckets inside the helmet, his breathing shallow and panicked, yet it hadn't even been a full minute of combat.

The moment Jurard stumbled back to evade another strike sent his way, sand flying up beneath his boots, the Turixa surged forward again—relentless. No pause, no hesitation.

Her glaive spun like a living creature, each movement more exaggerated, more precise than the last. She wasn't just attacking now—she was putting on a damn show.

She twisted her body, letting the glaive arc in a low, sweeping slash that Jurard ducked by pure instinct—only for the shaft to whip around the opposite way mid-spin and crack across his wrist with pinpoint force.

His right-hand blade went flying.

"Fuck—!" he choked out, but there was no time to recover.

The Turixa stepped into the opening with the smooth grace of someone who had rehearsed this a thousand times. Her leg shot out, heel slamming into the center of the glaive's shaft mid-twirl to speed up the transition and supercharge the follow-up strike.

The blade howled upward in a vicious arc, whistling through the air and catching Jurard dead-center from hip to shoulder.

There was no time to scream. No time to even process the pain.

A flash of white, then red, then nothing.

The virtual arena shattered around his vision as his body was split clean in two—dissolving into the familiar digitized haze of the death animation. The arena buzzer blared triumphantly.

"Unbelievable…! MissyMoonlightMayhem wins Round One against the champion! What a spectacle," the announcer blared.

Jurard reappeared back at the spawn zone, blinking in stunned disbelief, heart thundering in his ears.

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

He had been dismantled—absolutely, utterly dismantled.

And the absolute worst part? The Turixa hadn't even broken a sweat.

Jurard hadn't landed a single clean hit—not one. And worse still, he hadn't learned anything useful about her style. No patterns. No bad habits. Nothing to exploit.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…!" he muttered under his breath as he frantically scrolled through the limited alterations available to him between rounds.

His fingers were twitchy, frantic, barely keeping pace with his thoughts.

The Ironman portion of the ruleset didn't allow much in the way of changes—just a few pre-selected options from a side-deck he'd built beforehand. Some passive swaps, maybe a different equipment loadout. But the core of his setup was locked in.

Of course, the Hardcore rules meant that she wasn't going to be changed or reset in any way. Not that she needed to be.

Jurard sat frozen in the dim light of the equipment screen, surrounded by virtual readouts and a faint echo of arena crowd noise coming from beyond the prep room's walls. Panic gnawed at the edge of his thoughts. He couldn't make sense of what just happened—of how someone like her was even here, on the Sovereign.

'Thirty seconds until the next round,' he repeated to himself, eyes flicking to the countdown. 'Just who is this girl…?'

The name had pinged something in the back of his head the moment it had been announced—but in the heat of the fight, he hadn't been able to chase the thought.

Now, with sweat still slick in his gloves and adrenaline roaring in his chest, he stared at the replay playing across the loadout wall, hoping for even a sliver of insight.

There it was—the final moment. His body coming apart in a clean arc, dissolving into data particles. And she—the Turixa—slamming the butt of her glaive into the sand and throwing back her head with that high-pitched, ridiculous, unmistakable victory-shout of: "Hiyaaarr!"

Jurard froze.

That scream. That exact victory call.

It couldn't be.

There was only one person in the entire Wildmaws playerbase, with this level of skill, that used that stupid, absurdly recognizable victory call. That deliberately selected audio-passive, sacrificing a bona fide Passive-type Ability just to show off—the one everyone else either laughed at or muted because it was so over-the-top and stupid.

His voice cracked as he whispered it aloud, heart pounding in his ears.

"MissyMoonlightMayhem…"

And then it hit him like an orbital strike.

"MissyMoonlightMayhem… MMM… No fucking way. She's here? In the UHFMC? On this ship? In this drive?!"

A name blinked through his memory like a blinking cursor—MMM. Triple M.

One of the most feared and respected players in all of Wildmaws.

A legend on the leaderboards for the past ten-or-so years.

She hadn't even used glaives back then—she was known for dual-blades, daggers, sometimes a one-and-a-half-hander just for flair.

But the moment she'd won a fight?

That same ridiculous scream, every single time.

No one called her by her full name. They didn't need to. MMM was all anyone ever said.

The leaderboard had always only displayed the shorthand by default—just a few letters. And unless you were the kind of nerd to click through and read the full username, you wouldn't even know what it stood for.

But he had clicked it, once. Years ago. Out of sheer curiosity.

MissyMoonlightMayhem.

It had faded from his memory over time. Buried under years of game updates and seasonal patches. But that scream?

That scream had burned itself into his brain.

"Oh, fuck me sideways with a chainsword…" he whispered, eyes going wide as his heart dropped into his stomach. "It's her."

And worst of all?

He had just challenged her—a literal Top 10 Galactic Contender—to a best-of-seven Hardcore Ironman match… with 2,000 of his own, hard-earned System Credits riding on it.

Before he could spiral any further, the prep room vanished from around him, fading into nothing as the game placed him back into the center of the arena. Sunlight flickered overhead, the warm breeze of the artificial environment brushing over him as the Turixa reappeared across the sand, her stance as relaxed and unreadable as before.

The countdown numbers flashed between them again, glowing bright in the air.

3… 2… 1…

"By the Emperor's golden asscheeks," Jurard muttered, tightening his grip on his blades, "why am I so fucking unlucky…?"

He didn't even finish the thought before the buzzer sounded.

And the nightmare continued…

The virtual world dissolved into nothingness as Jurard leaned back in his seat, hands trembling slightly as he removed the sensory helmet from his head. He sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling of the booth, his fingers slack around the edges of the helmet.

He felt… hollow.

He had lost every single round.

All four of them.

Back-to-back-to-back-to-back.

And not just lost—obliterated.

He hadn't landed a single hit. Not one.

No chip damage, no lucky graze, nothing. Every tactic, every trick, every emergency build-switch he'd tried—shot down without hesitation. Even his so-called "panic build," the all-or-nothing setup that usually guaranteed at least a mutual knockout?

Shut down. Dismantled.

Like she'd seen it coming ten steps in advance.

He had been played like a goddamn tutorial enemy.

His head turned slowly to the side, eyes locking on the girl seated next to him as she pulled off her own helmet. A mess of sweat-damp, dirty-blonde hair tumbled out with the motion, falling in waves past her shoulders.

"Whoaaaa, that was so much fun!" she chirped, grinning as she carefully wiped down the helmet with the arcade-issued towel before turning to face him. "Thanks for the match!"

Jurard didn't speak at first.

Something about looking directly into her eyes sent a chill crawling up his spine—It felt utterly wrong.

He couldn't place it at first, that uncanny sense of wrongness slinking across his brain like static.

Her irises shimmered faintly from the strange, supernatural self-illumination—Cyan.

'She's a fucking Cyan…' his mind stammered, recoiling like he'd touched something live and dangerous. He shook his head once—hard—trying to banish the creeping instinctive dread.

"Ahh—no worries," he managed to mutter, forcing a smile as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Didn't exactly expect to meet the MMM here today, I'll admit…"

It felt weird, talking to a Cyan. Too close. Too intense. But also…

He was sitting next to Triple M. One of the Wildmaws greatest of all time. A literal Living Legend.

The awe easily drowned out the unease.

"I, uh… I'm actually kind of a big fan," he admitted, his voice stumbling halfway through the sentence. "You're… Incredible."

She chuckled, relaxed and genuine. "Ha, thanks! I'm super rusty, honestly, but I think I started to get back in the groove by the end there. Thanks again for—"

The booth door slammed open with a bang, cutting her off mid-sentence as the tremendous volume of the arcade's common room filtered in.

Jurard's head snapped toward it just in time to see a towering woman stomping into view, boots clanking loudly as she reached inside like a claw crane and grabbed the girl beside him by the scruff of her shirt.

"Fucking finally found you!" the woman barked, voice booming like a gunshot in the small space.

"Aahhh! Let me go, Ela! I have rights! You can't just carry me around like I'm cargo! I only got to do one match!" the girl screeched as she squirmed and flailed in vain against the vice-like grip.

The larger woman—Ela, apparently—ignored her. "Witch! Gag this fucking rat before she makes an even bigger scene! And keep an eye on her before she scurries off again!"

Another figure appeared at the door, calm as anything.

"Sorry, Thea," she said softly, before flicking her fingers—and a splash of crimson liquid erupted from her hand, splattering across Triple M's face. The red fluid morphed and twisted midair before instantly congealing into a tight, clearly well-practiced gag.

"Mhhmm! HHHMMM!" came the muffled protests as the girl was slung unceremoniously over Ela's shoulder like a sack of produce, flailing all the while but without much success.

Then, without another word, the group turned and exited the booth, leaving a stunned Jurard behind in an awkward, suffocating silence.

The door hissed shut.

The arcade outside continued buzzing with noise, music, and the endless sound of gaming cabinets. But inside the booth?

Jurard just blinked.

"What in the Emperor's name just happened…?" he muttered, eyes wide.

A moment later, his brain finally processed all the images, all the faces, all the people he had just seen.

"Wait…! Was that fucking Alpha Squad just now…?!"

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