Players were still respawning—red-faced, half-dressed, weapons missing, and yelling every curse imaginable. Some were guild members, furious that their polished squad had lost ground. Others were randoms, wide-eyed and giddy, already turning to sprint back out of town like it was a festival, not a battlefield.
The trips from the graveyard to the Goblin Field were real.
Sweaty, desperate jogs. Adrenaline-soaked death marches. Players dying, respawning, and immediately bolting back through the streets just to rejoin the brawl and reclaim their corpses. The death penalty clock was ticking, and nobody wanted to be stuck with half stats and broken gear. Not when the fight was still going.
And if it wasn’t for the Level 10 Safe Zone rule?
They probably would’ve started brawling right there in town. Right in front of the fountain.
The air buzzed with tension. Griefers shouted. Guild players fumed. Solo players swapped stories mid-jog like war veterans on rotation.
This wasn’t just a raid anymore.
It was a looping riot with no brakes.
Ren chuckling pulled the loot out of his inventory and dropped it into the shared party trade window.
It wasn’t a mountain of riches, but for an off-the-cuff grab-and-run job, it wasn’t bad at all.
There were a few decent finds:
- A Sturdy Leather Vest – +2 defense, good for light armor classes.
- A Swiftstep Anklet – +1% movement speed, perfect for a rogue or ranger.
- Two Basic Skill Books – one for Quick Slash (a rogue ability) and one for Defensive Stance (a warrior ability).
The rest was junk—battered weapons, bent shields, and worn-out cloth gear that nobody wanted.
Ren looked around the group.
“All right, you know the rules,” he said. “Anything you can use, claim it—but you gotta pay the appraised value back into the group fund.”
Everyone nodded.
This had become the Scrap Rats’ unofficial policy now.
They were a guild-in-the-making, not a charity.
Mira immediately grabbed the Swiftstep Anklet, grinning wide.
“That’ll help me kite mobs for sure.”
Torrin took the Basic Skill Book for Defensive Stance without hesitation.
Dren quietly accepted the Sturdy Leather Vest, strapping it on without a word.
Simms claimed the Quick Slash book, which would give him a much-needed edge in future fights now that he was leveling properly.
Ren didn’t grab a single thing.
He stood just outside the auction loop near the town square, arms crossed, watching as items were sorted and credits tallied. When Simms quietly slid a small item from the shared stack into his own inventory, Ren’s eyes narrowed.
He gave him a slow, deliberate stink eye.
Yeah, the Scrap Rats were doing well. Credits were flowing. The dormitory was leveling up faster than expected. For once, things actually looked promising.
But that didn’t mean they had room for greed. Not yet.
Simms didn’t flinch. He met Ren’s glare with a casual, half-irritated look that clearly said, What?
He wasn’t denying anything.
He’d agreed to the plan—everyone played for the good of the dorm. Money first, gear second, glory never. But still… if a guy was on shift, and something shiny slid across the ledger into his reach? Who was really going to stop him?
Ren ground his teeth, then looked away.
Not worth it. Not here. Not over one item.
But he did shoot Simms one more look on the way out. The kind that said, I saw that.
And Simms, smug as ever, didn’t say a word.
Ren made quick notes of what each item would roughly fetch at the auction house based on the current beginner market:
- Anklet: 18 silver
- Vest: 15 silver
- Each Skill Book: 20 silver
Everyone paid their shares directly into the group pool. Simms portion was paid for by Ren, which made him more annoyed.
The rest—the battered junk and scrap—Ren tossed back into his personal inventory. He’d offload it at the auction house later for whatever paltry silver he could scrounge.
“All right,” Ren said once everything was squared away. “Nice and clean. Now listen up—”
He leaned in a little, lowering his voice.
“Hold onto your money.”
The whole group groaned loudly.
“You keep saying that!” Mira said, throwing her hands up. “Why?”
“Yeah,” added Simms, crossing his arms. “You’re starting to sound like my old man.”
Ren only smiled, that infuriating, knowing grin of his.
“You’ll see. Very soon.”
Even though their curiosity was practically boiling over, none of them pressed any harder.
Because by now?
The Scrap Rats trusted him.
Ren mentally tallied the growing pile of silver and copper in their group bank.
‘Not bad,’ he thought with a small grin.
‘Not bad at all.’
They were getting close.
Very close.
Back over in the battered remains of Prosperous Guild’s camp, things were… less cheerful.
Victor Drenwald, leader of Prosperous Guild, was pacing furiously in front of what was left of his officers. The fights still happing nearby.
His armor was cracked, his boots were missing—missing—and he looked like he was about one bad comment away from strangling someone.
“How the fuck,” Victor hissed, “did randoms beat us?!”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
None of the officers said a word.
Good instinct, honestly.
Victor spun around, furious, and jabbed a finger at the muddy battlefield.
“We had 1,200 people between the four guilds!”
He stabbed the air harder with each word.
“They didn’t even have a real guild! No guild halls, no organization, no proper chain of command!”
He whirled back, eyes bloodshot.
“They had nothing!”
One of the mages risked a cautious cough.
“Sir… they had more people than us.”
Victor’s glare could have boiled water.
“They had randoms!” he roared. “You think that’s an excuse?! We were supposed to be the first. The strongest. The example!”
He started pacing again, muttering darkly under his breath.
From somewhere nearby, a goblin sapper squeaked in terror and ran for cover.
Victor didn’t even notice.
He was already hearing the whispers starting on the forums.
Prosperous Guild loses to a pickup mob!
Biggest early wipe in Towerbound history!
Four guilds can’t even beat randoms!
No.
No way in hell.
Victor ground his teeth until it sounded like rocks grinding together.
“We’re going to find out who started that riot,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
“And when we do—” he cracked his knuckles one by one, the sound sharp as gunshots,
“—they’re going to wish they never logged into this game.”
His officers exchanged silent, miserable glances.
Because if there was one thing everyone knew about Victor Drenwald?
He didn’t forgive.
He didn’t forget.
And once he picked a target?
He didn’t stop.
While Victor Drenwald was busy frothing at the mouth and promising blood oaths of vengeance, back in Greenwild Cross, the Scrap Rats were laughing it up at the inn.
Ren kicked back in his chair, nursing a cheap ale, and grinned at the others.
“Alright,” he said, setting his mug down with a clunk, “break’s over. We had to cause that riot to clear the field. But we can’t sit around too long, or the goblin sappers will start respawning.”
He stood up, stretching.
“We still need those Frostpetal Blooms. That’s why we did all this in the first place.”
Mira wiped foam from her mouth and nodded. “Right. The field should be mostly empty now.”
Torren slammed his mug down, already pumped. “Let’s go! Before those little bastards pop back!”
Halt, adjusting his gear, laughed. “Never thought I’d say it, but causing a mini war might’ve actually been the smart move.”
Ren shrugged, grinning mischievously.
‘Desperate times, desperate plans,’ he thought.
He motioned to the group, and they all started filing out of the inn.
Time was ticking, and those delicate Frostpetal Blooms weren’t going to pick themselves.
And somewhere far behind them, Victor Drenwald’s rage echoed uselessly into the night.
The group spread out across the battered goblin field, but only Ren moved toward the shimmering Frostpetal Blooms.
The massive fight had eventually petered out, not because anyone had won, but because people finally realized there was no point in just randomly killing each other.
Now, the field was mostly quiet.
The gear from killed players? Long gone.
Boots, belts, weapons—anything not soulbound had been scooped up and vanished faster than a rat in a bakery. Some lucky bastard—no one could say who—had apparently crouched through the mayhem like a loot ninja, vacuuming up dropped gear while everyone else was too busy flinging firebolts, screaming, and pointing fingers at each other.
Helmets? Gone.
Gloves? Gone.
Someone’s +1 wand of slightly-better-zapping? Yep—gone.
By the time the dust settled, the only thing left on the field was the faint shame of being pantsless in a crowd and the growing realization that, yeah, maybe charging into a guild line wasn’t the smartest plan.
But damn if it hadn’t been worth it.
Guild players stood in tight, armored clumps, glaring daggers at anyone who so much as looked their way. Their banners still shimmered, but their authority had taken a hit.
Across from them, the crowd of battered, bruised, half-armored solo players didn’t look the least bit sorry. Some were limping. Some still had damage ticks flashing over their heads. A few were down a level or two from death penalties.
But they were laughing.
Quietly at first—private jokes, shoulder nudges, shared grins. Then openly. Boldly. Telling exaggerated stories, waving their hands to describe near-misses, lucky kills, accidental teamwork that somehow worked.
They’d survived the slaughterhouse.
And they enjoyed it.
The field that had just been a swirling mess of blood, fire, and wild panic had gone still. No smoke. No corpses. The game’s system had already cleared the bodies and spell debris, like it always did. If you looked at it now, you’d never know what had happened.
But the players remembered.
And the balance of power had just shifted—even if the guilds didn’t realize it yet.
The Scrap Rats kept their distance.
They already knew better.
Before they’d even left the inn, Ren had made it crystal clear:
Don’t touch the blooms.
“Trust me,” he’d said, “you’ll just destroy them if you try.”
Frostpetal Blooms weren’t like thistle roses or wild grasses.
These were fragile, Tier 2 herbs, and trying to grab one without the proper technique—or without the Herbalism Skill Book—would just crush the delicate petals into useless powder.
Most newbies wouldn’t even see a successful harvest unless they bought the basic gathering skill.
And even then, at starter skill level, they had something like a 30% success rate at best.
But Ren?
He didn’t need a skill book.
He was playing in freeplay mode, and his past life as an obsessive alchemist meant the system had already flagged him for basic harvesting proficiency.
No book.
No fees.
No wasted attempts.
‘One good thing about being an alchemy nerd,’ Ren thought dryly.
Kneeling carefully, he slid his starter herbalist shears underneath the first bloom.
Tiny crystals of frost flaked off as he clipped it perfectly.
+1 Frostpetal Bloom (Fresh)
The system pinged softly.
He grinned and moved on.
Meanwhile, his teammates busied themselves scanning the battlefield, keeping a lookout for any surviving goblins—or worse, guild patrols.
That’s when the traitor warriorslithered up.
Sauntering casually, like nothing had ever happened.
He stopped just a few paces away from Ren and said, loudly enough for half the team to hear,
“So, uh… where’s that goblin alpha you promised?”
Ren didn’t even look up from his work.
He finished harvesting another frostpetal, wiped his shears clean, and straightened up slowly.
“I don’t know,” Ren said, giving a lazy shrug. “Quest said there might be an alpha.”
The warrior squinted, suspicious.
“Might be?”
Ren gave him his best dumb newbie smile.
“You know how these early quests are. Super vague. Real cryptic. Wouldn’t be Towerbound without some bullshit riddles, right?”
He even gave a little laugh.
“I’d show you the quest log if I could, but it’s locked by the system. Unlucky.”
It wasn’t locked.
Not even a little.
But no one else needed to know that.
‘Heh heh,’ Ren thought, keeping his expression bland.
The warrior stood there for a second, obviously trying to figure out if he was being played.
Finally, he said,
“So… can I rejoin you guys?”
“Nope,” Ren said instantly.
“What? Come on—!”
Ren shifted, letting his staff rest across his shoulders in a way that made his meaning crystal clear.
“You sold us out to the guilds,” he said, flat and final. “You’re done.”
The words hit like a slap.
Ron’s face twisted, running through the full emotional circuit—shock, then anger, then disbelief, a flicker of desperation, and finally something heavier. Not guilt exactly. Just that slow, creeping realization that he’d screwed up.
Ren didn’t flinch.
Ron had never lived in the dorm. He wasn’t one of the original Scrap Rats. Just a pickup. One of the six they’d grabbed when things got chaotic—like Mira, like Bran. He wasn’t bad. Just greedy. And dumb. The kind of guy who saw a coin purse and forgot to check for strings attached.
Loud, cocky, built like a wrecking ball. He charged first, shouted second, and usually skipped step three entirely. But for a while? He’d fit.
He’d laughed with them. Fought beside them. Even yanked Mira out of a mob rush when she mistimed a cast.
There’d been something real forming. Messy, unspoken, but solid. The kind of bond solo players didn’t get often, and didn’t let go of easy.
And that’s what made it worse.
If Ron had known what this group was becoming—what it could become—he might’ve stayed. But Prosperous had waved a few silvers, maybe a whisper of a real invite, and he’d folded. Passed on details. Locations. Names.
Now he’d been caught.
And there was no my bad for that.
Ren didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. He just stood there, calm as stone, and let the silence speak for him.
Ron looked around the square, scanning faces for someone—anyone—to back him up. No one moved. No one spoke.
He opened his mouth like he wanted to explain. Maybe lie. Maybe beg.
Then closed it.
‘There’s no turning back time when you realize the silver wasn’t worth what you gave up.’
Ren watched, unreadable, as Ron finally turned and stomped away, muttering curses under his breath like it would change something.
He didn’t follow. Didn’t speak. Just shook his head once and bent back down to his work.
‘Traitors don’t get second chances,’ he thought coldly.
‘Not in the slums. Not here either.’
Quietly, he returned to harvesting Frostpetal Blooms, his inventory slowly filling with precious herbs while the rest of the world still reeled from the storm they’d unleashed.
The trip back to Greenwild Cross was slow but satisfying.
Everyone was in a good mood.
They’d picked up a nice haul, pulled off a full-on crowd riot, snagged valuable herbs, and hadn’t lost a single level doing it.
That was a major win in Towerbound’s brutal early game.
As they walked down the beaten dirt trail, Mira yawned and stretched overhead.
“Feels weird not getting ganked on the way back,” she said, half-laughing.
Torrin grunted. “Probably ’cause half the guild players are still respawning.”
Dren just nodded, quiet as ever.
Ren stayed silent, watching the familiar gates of Greenwild Cross come into view.
His fourth shift was almost over.
And just because they were near town didn’t mean they could relax completely.
In Towerbound, PvP was always theoretically possible—except inside safe zones for players between Levels 1 to 10.
Inside towns like Greenwild Cross, if you were Level 1 through Level 10, you couldn’t be attacked directly.
The guards were there mostly for cosmetic show—because the system enforced protection.
But the second you hit Level 11?
No more free pass.
And Ren was thinking ahead to that.
Still, for now, with most players stuck between Levels 3 and 5 after the Great Goblin Disaster, they were safe enough jogging the last stretch into town.
They hit the town square without issue.