Rhys raised his hand, eyes wary as the group approached.
A three-player party—the classic Warrior-Mage-Cleric trinity.
Their gear suggested they'd completed starter quests, acquiring basic adventurer kits before venturing out.
"No hostility here,"
the lead Warrior called out, palms open. "Here to grind levels too? Party up?"
Rhys scanned them, then shook his head.
Outside sanctuaries in The Epoch of Endings, PvP was always active—no opt-out, no warnings. These three could stab him in the back anytime.
Though most players remained civil at launch, trust was folly. Rhys needed no party to hunt.
The Warrior merely scratched his head, unfazed. "Won't keep you then."
He stepped aside, granting passage. Rhys nodded curtly, brushing past him.
Dangerously close range for a Mage—yet Rhys tracked all three peripherally. Any aggression, and he'd counter-kill instantly.
To their credit, they made no move. As Rhys retreated, he paused, voice low: "These Slimes aren't pushovers like in other games."
"The cost of death… isn't something you shrug off."
...
Once Rhys vanished, the Cleric stuck out her tongue. "Jack, that guy reeked of arrogance!"
"'Slimes aren't pushovers'? He one-shot them as a naked Mage! How strong could they be?"
"We've got a Mage too—plus three people! Are we weaker?"
Jack, the Warrior, offered an awkward smile. But their Mage cut in:
"And that 'cost of death' crap? So we lose half our lifespan—it's not like they'll deduct our IRL lives!"
The Cleric giggled, thoroughly unconcerned.
"Still, this game's crazy immersive! It'll blow up for sure. Let's grind fast—maybe we'll become big-shots!"
Jack nodded silently, cautiously edging forward to pull a single Slime toward his teammates.
"Jack, what's the deal? It's just one Slime—why the caution?"
The Mage gripped his staff, irritation plain.
Warrior Jack offered a sheepish grin. "It's launch day. Better scout the mobs first—dying's a hassle."
"We'll pull more if it's weak."
Grumbling, the Mage still acted fast. His staff swung—
Whoosh! A fireball slammed into the Slime.
[You deal 10 Fire damage to Slime.]
The notification flashed before him.
With 50 HP, the Slime lost only a fifth—far from death. Instead, it raged.
Its azure body flushed crimson. It lunged—arc high—crashing toward Jack.
No taunt skill needed. Low-tier Fiends attacked the nearest threat.
"Bring it!"
Jack braced his buckler. The Slime moved slowly—he could block—
Thud!
The impact reverberated. All three watched Jack's HP plummet.
[Slime deals 70 Physical damage to you.]
70!
The number froze their blood.
Jack had 8 Constitution—80 max HP. One blow left him at 10 HP!
Only his class bonus and damage-reducing shield saved him. Anyone else? Instant death.
"Impossible!"
The thought screamed through their minds. A common field mob with this damage?
Then how had that lone Mage slaughtered packs so effortlessly?
Now they understood: Rhys's warning wasn't arrogance—it was mercy.
Too late.
The Cleric's basic heal restored 10 HP—a drop in an ocean of damage.
The Mage's next three fireballs chipped the Slime to 20 HP, but Jack—cornered—couldn't dodge.
[Slime deals 70 Physical damage to you.]
[You have died!]
The second strike dropped Jack into negative HP. His death doomed the party. Neither Mage nor Cleric had the agility to evade.
The Mage and Cleric fell in quick succession. Obsidian orbs erupted from their corpses, dissolving into the victorious Slime. It bounced twice in satisfaction before gurgling back to its nest.
...
Reborn at the respawn point, the trio emerged pale-faced. A tangible weakness clung to them—as if death had siphoned something vital from their cores.
The Cleric whispered in horror, "If that guy was right about the Slimes... does that mean the death penalty... really..."
Her unspoken conclusion hung heavy.
They exchanged stricken glances—regret crystalizing. After audible gulps, all three simultaneously logged off, abandoning this death game.
...
Rhys reentered Riverwood.
Warning that trio had been mere goodwill. Their ignorance mattered little; his conscience was clear. Others' survival wasn't his burden.
He opened his inventory. Front and center: twenty-three obsidian orbs—loot from his Slime kills.
The Epoch of Endings followed simple loot rules: winner takes all. Regardless of prior damage, only the killer claimed the prize—these dark orbs.
Tradable, yes—but crushing them unlocked their contents.
Rhys had no intent to sell. Summoning one, he crushed it.
[Obtained: Chronocoin x3]
First drop: basic Chronocoin. Every Fiend's guaranteed loot—the game's "lifespan" currency.
One Chronocoin traded for one real day of life. But lifespan couldn't be converted back to coins. Everything consumed time here—making Chronocoins priceless.
Rhys cracked open more orbs.
[Obtained: Chronocoin x4]
[Obtained: Chronocoin x3]
...
Twenty orbs yielded nothing special—just 2-4 Chronocoins each. Rhys remained unfazed; low-tier Fiends had abysmal drop rates.
At the twenty-first orb—
The notification changed.
Rhys's eyes sharpened.
"Here it is!"