04 The Rules of the Game

Isolation is a familiar state. I’m used to it.

The auditorium has split cleanly into two factions. On one side, the five veterans and the four other rookies, huddled in a loose, strategic circle. On the other side, me. Kiera Vance. Alone by the windows.

They think I’m dead weight. A liability with a useless Class Ability. Let them.

Their quiet dismissal is a background hum. My real focus is the fire in my chest, a cold, focused burn. The game threw me in here naked. No Ability, no points, no tools. It marked me for deletion the moment I spawned. Fine. I don’t need its gifts. I just need to understand its rules before it kills me.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, the campus is a slaughterhouse. Those rabbit-headed monsters move with a jerky, predatory grace. They chase down screaming students, dragging them into the manicured hedges. The sounds are too real—the wet rips, the choked-off gurgles.

A group of students spots our sanctuary. They sprint for the auditorium doors, pounding on the thick wood. When it doesn’t budge, they scramble to the windows, palms slapping against the glass. Their mouths are wide O’s of terror. *Let us in. Please.*

They’re just NPCs. Code and script. But the fear in their eyes is a masterclass in rendering.

I watch, detached. A boy with glasses, his face pale with panic, presses against the pane. A shadow falls over him. A monster’s paw hooks around his shoulder. It yanks him back, and its maw closes on his throat.

There’s no blood. Not really. The boy’s body dissolves into a puff of gray static, like bad reception, and winks out.

At the same moment, the numbers on my personal display shift.

The display has been hovering in my peripheral vision since I arrived. My player ID, the fake name I entered, and two key lines:

Survival Days: 1, (7)

Faculty/Student Survivors: 1898 / 2000

The top number just ticked down. 1899 became 1898.

Coincidence? I don’t believe in those.

My eyes dart to the public roster at the bottom of my screen. Ten player names, each with a long, green health bar and a numerical Life Point value. A minute ago, we all had different totals, all hovering around 1990. Now, every single one of us has lost exactly one point.

A connection snaps into place, cold and logical.

The NPC count is our collective health pool. Every student or teacher those monsters kill drains one Life Point from every player in the instance.

We can’t just hide. If the NPCs die, we die with them.

“We have to let them in!” The voice is young, strained. It’s Jax, the wiry rookie with the ‘Mirage’ Ability. He’s staring at a girl clawing at the glass. “We can’t just watch them die. It’s not right.”

His idealism hangs in the air for a second before Luna ‘Spark’ Chen crosses the space and slaps him, hard. The crack echoes.

“You moron!” she snarls. “They’re set dressing. Let them in and you let the threat in. You want to die playing hero?”

Jax stumbles back, hand to his cheek, humiliation warring with anger. “You didn’t have to… and they’re not just set dressing! Can’t you see the numbers—”

“I see a rookie who needs to shut his mouth if he wants veteran protection,” Luna spits, cutting him off. She glances at Marcus Stone, who watches with folded arms, saying nothing. His silence is permission. “You got a problem? Go stand with the other useless one.”

She jerks her chin toward me, a smirk twisting her pierced lip.

The other rookies shuffle away from Jax, their faces carefully blank. No one wants to catch Luna’s wrath. Marcus just gives a slight, weary shake of his head. Jax’s ‘Mirage’ Ability isn’t combat-grade. He’s expendable.

Jax’s jaw works. He shoots a last, furious look at Luna, then turns and stalks away from the group, planting himself against a far wall. Alone.

I note the change on the public roster. The moment Luna’s hand connected, Jax’s Life Points dipped by another single digit.

Another rule. Player-on-player damage counts. The system doesn’t care who inflicts the wound.

The numbers on the survivor counter are ticking down again. 1897… 1896… The monsters are efficient. Our shared life is bleeding out second by second. Panic is a quiet vibration in the room now. The veterans see it too. Their low, urgent conversation has a new edge.

“We have to protect the NPCs?” one of the other vets, a guy with a tactical vest, snaps. “That’s impossible. There are hundreds of them, scattered everywhere. We’d have to clear the campus.”

“Maybe there’s another way,” Marcus rumbles, but he sounds like he’s brainstorming, not believing.

I stop listening. A hypothesis is forming, dark and terrible. The game is a puzzle. It gave me one piece: NPC deaths hurt us. But what’s the other side of that equation?

I don’t think. I just move.

In three strides, I’m at the main door. I throw the heavy bolt. Before anyone can shout, I yank the door open just wide enough, reach into the chaos, and grab the wrist of the nearest fleeing student—a lanky guy in a hoodie. I pull him inside and slam the door shut, re-engaging the bolt.

The sudden silence is profound.

“What the hell are you doing?” Luna shrieks, electricity crackling at her fingertips. “You’ll get us all killed!”

I ignore her. The student NPC is panting, bent over with his hands on his knees. He looks up at me, eyes wide with shock and dawning gratitude. “Oh my god, thank you! I thought I was—”

“Don’t thank me,” I say softly.

My smile feels foreign on my face. I pick up a metal-legged chair from the nearest row. It’s light in my hands.

The NPC’s smile falters. “W-what?”

I don’t answer. I swing.

The impact is a sickening, solid *thunk*. He drops without a sound, his form glitching for a split second before dissolving into that same gray static. Gone.

A gasp ripples through the auditorium. Horror. Revulsion. I keep my eyes locked on my display.

My Life Point counter doesn’t decrease.

It increases by one.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across my lips. It feels like cracking ice. The final piece of the puzzle clicks into place, revealing a picture far more vicious than simple survival.

“Oh,” I whisper to the empty air where the student stood. “It’s a farming game.”