The rest of the squad murmured their agreement. Some stretched and decided to take real-life breaks. Others said they were going to repair their equipment or hand in a few of the miscellaneous quests they’d picked up earlier.
With a quick wave, Ren and Simms logged out and returned to the sweaty, cramped reality of their dormitory.
The second Ren pulled the gaming helmet off his head, he gagged a little.
“Ugh,” he muttered, wiping his forehead. “Smells like someone’s gym socks got married to a dead fish in there.”
Simms yanked off his own helmet and gave it a quick sniff, immediately recoiling. “Dude, what the hell. Is this snell even legal?”
“Not unless you consider biological warfare legal,” Ren said dryly.
He grabbed a battered spray bottle filled with cheap cleaning solution, gave both helmets a quick spray, and wiped them down with the communal rag—dubiously clean, but at least slightly better than nothing.
In the corner of the dormitory, their next player was already bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting eagerly.
Davon Braden was the kind of guy who looked like he hadn’t slept in three days and liked it that way. Wiry, jittery, with perpetually messy hair and thick glasses that were always sliding down his nose, he moved like a gremlin with a caffeine addiction and a mission. He had the energy of someone who ran entirely on instant noodles, pocket jerky, and pure, undiluted stubbornness.
He wasn’t like Simms, not exactly. Simms was quiet, deliberate, and approached the body trade like it was a business—cold, efficient, and transactional. Davon, on the other hand, treated it like science. Like he was doing the world a favor by figuring out how many things you could take out of a person before they stopped being useful.
While Simms made connections, arranged deliveries, and knew when to keep things quiet, Davon was the one who got elbow-deep in the work. He wasn’t squeamish. If anything, he got too into it. He once kept a preserved spinal column on a shelf in their hideout just to see how long it would take to rot.
Still, the two of them worked well together. Davon handled the mess. Simms handled the business. And together, they’d helped supply more than one rogue butcher and back-alley alchemist with “voluntary” parts—most of which had, technically, come from corpses. Usually.
Right now, Davon was practically vibrating with excitement.
“Are we doing this?” he asked, already halfway through his inventory, rearranging vials, knives, and weirdly moist cloths. “Because I’m ready. Like, ready-ready. Let’s crack some things open.”
Ren raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”
Davon just grinned, wild-eyed. “I was born for this.”
Davon’s main profession was going to be a Mage.
But his secondary profession?
Baker.
Not chef—Baker.
Which, in Towerbound, meant something very specific.
While chefs made heavy meals that gave long-term buffs, bakers specialized in pastries.
Pastries gave shorter buffs than full meals, but the buffs were way more intense during the short time they lasted.
Ren passed over the helmet like it was a holy artifact.
“Here,” he said. “Freshly sanitized. Well, sanitized-ish.”
Davon snatched the helmet out of his hands without hesitation.
“Finally!” Davon said. “Time to bake my way to the top.”
Simms blinked at him. “You’re gonna… bake your way to victory?”
“Pastries, man!” Davon grinned like a man possessed. “Enchanted cupcakes! Buffed éclairs! Croissants of power!”
Ren started laughing.
“You sure you don’t want to be a warrior instead?” Simms asked. “You’re gonna die waving a baguette around.”
Davon shoved the helmet on his head. “Better to die delicious than boring.”
Simms shook his head, smiling wide.Simms knew his partner better than anyone.
Most people assumed he and Davon were cut from the same cloth—cold-blooded, creepy, the kind of guys who grinned while holding a still-beating heart in their hands. And yeah, sure, from the outside, they looked the part. Quiet Simms with his deadpan stare, twitchy Davon with his surgical curiosity. They worked for rogue butchers, harvested organs, and knew more about the human body than any street doc with a license.
But the truth?
They weren’t in it because they liked it.
They were in it because it had been the best available job that didn’t involve dying in a gutter or begging for scraps. It paid. It kept them fed. And it turned out—they were good at it.
Simms had the instincts. Davon had the nerves.
And together, they’d found a kind of rhythm that let them survive in a world that didn’t have much mercy left for guys like them.
People could think what they wanted. Let them whisper. Let them flinch when Davon got too excited or Simms stayed too quiet. They weren’t monsters.
“Godspeed, Pastry King,” he said. “Godspeed.”
And with that, Davon logged in, ready to begin his reign of buttery, magical terror.
Shift Five had officially begun.
Ren introduced everyone to Davon with a quick wave.
“This is Davon. He’s a mage… and a baker,” Ren said, deadpan.
“Hey all!” Davon said. “I’m a mage first. Pastries second.”
The group laughed, the tension from earlier fading fast.
They didn’t waste time. After a short gear check, they started heading toward their third target area: the swamp where the final herb, Bitterspore Mushrooms, grew.
The Bitterspore Mushrooms were exactly as annoying as Ren remembered.
They grew in the fetid, soggy corners of the swamp—and they were guarded by the worst monsters Towerbound could throw at newbies: crocodile mutants called Cyclopiles.
Slow-moving, thick-skinned beasts with one giant eye glaring out of their lumpy heads.
They were heavy, ugly, and absolutely terrible news for anyone who fought with physical weapons.
Backstabs? Useless.
Arrows? Might as well throw pebbles.
The only ones who could reliably kill Cyclopiles were mages, and even then it took serious firepower.
Luckily, between Davon and Mira, they had a decent magical front.
Mira was already nearing Level 4, and Davon …well he had his starter spells.
But moving with just two mages into Cyclopile territory would have been suicide.
So they picked up two more.
New mages eager to tag along, drawn like moths to the blazing Wolf-Bane titles floating above the Scrap Rats’ heads.
Their names were Cade and Marlow.
Cade was tall and wiry with a constantly bored expression, while Marlow was a stocky guy who looked like he’d rather be hauling crates in a dockyard than tossing magic.
Neither of them seemed like traitorous bastards—which was a huge plus after their last experience with a backstabber.
It had been surprisingly easy to recruit them, too.
Having the Wolf Bane title above your head in Towerbound wasn’t just for bragging rights.
It was like walking around with a neon sign that screamed, “We Win. Join Us.”
People trusted winners.
And right now?
The Scrap Rats looked like the safest bet for anyone who wanted to survive the swamp… and maybe get a piece of that sweet, sweet success along the way.
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The swamp hit them immediately with a wall of humid, stinking air.
Every step into the muck made an awful squelching sound, and half the time, someone was swatting at invisible insects buzzing around their heads.
“God, it smells like a rotting sock,” Davon muttered, trying to wave the stench away.
“Welcome to Towerbound’s five-star swamp experience,” Ren said dryly, hopping over a puddle that was suspiciously bubbling.
Ahead of them, the landscape turned even uglier.
Sludge pits, broken dead trees, weird vines crawling across the muck… and lurking shapes.
Big, heavy, one-eyed shapes.
The Cyclopiles were already prowling.
Slow-moving, dragging themselves through the swamp—but you better believe, if they saw you, they could launch forward faster than you’d ever expect from something that looked like it weighed half a ton.
“Alright,” Ren said, pulling everyone to a stop.
“Same plan as we discussed. Warriors keep an eye out for anything sneaking up on the sides. Mages, you’re on nuking duty. We’re gonna treat this like we’re hunting bears with fireballs.”
“Finally,” Mira said, grinning as she started gathering mana.
Davon, Cade, and Marlow did the same, forming a tight little square behind the warriors.
The two new mages were Level 3. They luckily hadn't died in the goblin fields, because when they had hit level 3, they had unlocked their new spell: Lightning Spark.
It wasn’t much—just a quick bolt of electricity that could chain between two enemies.
In most fights, it was perfect for crowd control.
Against Cyclopiles, though?
Pretty useless.
These heavy beasts rarely traveled in pairs, much less groups.
Still, the extra single-target zap helped soften up the monsters before the real firepower hit.
Ren, of course, stayed back, way back.
He knew his role in this fight: cowardly cheerleader and occasional healer.
‘No shame in surviving,’ Ren thought, inching a few more steps behind the group.
The first Cyclopile saw them and gave a low, gurgling growl.
It slithered forward through the swamp, one massive eye glaring hatefully at them.
Mira was first to fire.
Her Firebolt slammed into its side with a sizzle, and the creature jerked.
Then Cade hit it.
Then Davon with his puny level 1 firebolt.
Then Marlow.
Four firebolts in quick succession. Some doing more damage than others.
The Cyclopile staggered, gave a final miserable bellow, and collapsed face-first into the sludge.
It barely had time to twitch before it dissolved into loot particles.
Everyone let out a breath.
“That… was easier than I thought,” Davon said.
Ren laughed.
“Yeah, that was the first one. You think the rest are gonna be that polite?”
They weren’t. Cycopiles were still orange named.
As they pushed deeper into the swamp, the fights got nastier.
Some Cyclopiles traveled in pairs.
Some hid beneath the muck and ambushed them with massive snapping jaws.
Twice, they had to sprint back behind cover while the mages regrouped and rained fire from a distance.
Still, their method was working.
Slow, steady, and burning everything that moved.
The field had devolved into a multitude of fights—spells flying, weapons clashing, and Cyclopiles screeching like someone had stepped on their giant fungal toes.
Up front, the warriors were braced shoulder to shoulder, shields locked, weapons swinging. Torren was shouting something about honor while wildly hammering away with his blade. Bran looked like he was holding the line through sheer willpower and neck tension.
Behind them, the mages were lighting up the battlefield like a rave gone wrong. Mira was blasting firebolts left and right, her hair whipping dramatically behind her like she was starring in her own magical shampoo commercial. Meanwhile, Marlowe—quiet, deadly Marlowe… was in the middle of calmly calling out target priorities while electrocuting Cyclopiles with their newly unlocked lightning spell like it was just another Tuesday.
And then there was Ren.
Firmly in the back. Possibly in the very back. Okay—definitely in the back.
He wasn’t running, exactly. He was… tactically repositioning. In a crouch. Behind a boulder. Under someone’s shield. One moment, he was ducking behind a mage, the next behind a rock, then crouching low like the world’s least committed battlefield medic.
“Go team!” he shouted helpfully from behind a rock.
Another firebolt whizzed past his head. “Fantastic form, Mira! Great arc on that one!”
A Cyclopile lunged a little too close and Ren shrieked, flailed, and fell over. Luckily the Cyclopile’s aggro was grabbed by one the warriors.
“I’m helping!” Ren declared proudly when he got off his butt, then promptly ducked again as Bran slammed a sword down and sent fungal teeth flying.
It only did 1 point damage, because Cyclopile’s had huge physical resistance.
Somewhere in the fight, Silk yelled, “Ren, if you’re gonna hide, at least heal us!”
“I am healing!” Ren shouted back. “Emotionally!”
Another explosion rocked the field. Lightning lit the sky. Cyclopiles shrieked. Spells sizzled. Warriors roared.
And Ren?
Ren kept low, muttering prayers under his breath and occasionally tossing out the world’s weakest heals like someone trying to save a dam with paper towels.
But hey—no one had died yet.
And that meant he was doing his job.
Between fights, Ren carefully picked the Bitterspore Mushrooms growing along the crumbled swamp rocks.
It wasn’t easy.
The mushrooms were delicate—one wrong pluck and they would crumble to useless powder.
Luckily, Ren’s freeplay harvesting skills kicked in, letting him carefully collect each one.
And while he was at it, he also harvested:
- Swampmint – Used in low-grade stamina potions.
- Mireleaf – A key ingredient for anti-poison brews.
- Rotbulbs – Technically edible… if you hated yourself. Mostly used for crafting swamp bombs.
After about two hours, they had a small but respectable pile of Bitterspore Mushrooms and assorted swamp herbs.
Everyone was filthy, tired, and soaked to the knees in swamp sludge.
But the mission?
The mission was a success.
No big boss. No horde of mobs. Just dealing with constant stinking swamp bugs.
***
The way back to Greenwild Cross had been going pretty good.
Pretty good, that was, until they ran into Prosperous Guild blocking off the main road into town.
Sure, they could have gone around, but Ren figured they probably had toll booths set up in front of every possible entrance by now.
The town guards wouldn’t come this far out to make sure people could get into town safely.
If you wanted real protection, you had to stay within the walls.
Out here?
It was the wilds.
The “toll booth” had about ten Prosperous Guild players standing shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed, looking real proud of themselves.
When they got closer, one of the Prosperous warriors, a beefy guy at level 4, stepped forward and stuck out a hand.
This guy was… Gareth Ironwall.
Ren knew him well—he was the tank who’d set him up for the so-called “guild sacrifice” that had started this whole mess.
He wasn’t the massively overpowered wall of steel he’d eventually become later in the game, but Gareth had been the main tank for Prosperous Guild across multiple games. That wasn’t going to change in Towerbound.
Ren had the urge to shout the order—attack, now. But he bit it back. Barely.
The desire for revenge bubbled up in his brain like an angry little demon demanding a blood sacrifice—whispering promises of vengeance, justice, and restored pride. His fingers itched, his heart pounded, and every part of him wanted to point at Gareth Ironwall and scream, “That one. Drop him!”
But he didn’t.
He kept his head cool.
Because charging now, screaming for glory and payback, wouldn’t just be stupid—it would be exactly what Gareth wanted. And if there was one thing Ren refused to give him, it was satisfaction.
“That’s gonna be one copper each if you wanna get through,” Gareth said, grinning like an idiot.
Everyone in Prosperous Guild loved running the Tollbooth.
It wasn’t just a chore—it was a perk. A reward. A twisted rite of passage where you got to stand in the middle of a high-traffic area, throw your weight around, and act like your guild affiliation made you royalty.
Because in Towerbound, controlling movement meant controlling access. And the Tollbooth? That was control with a capital C.
You got to set the fees, enforce the rules, and—best of all—mock the randoms.
Every desperate solo player, every hopeful small guild, every wide-eyed newbie just trying to pass through the zone had to come face-to-face with someone from Prosperous leaning casually on a shield, looking down like they were reviewing a tax return.
Gareth Ironwall was built for it.
He thrived on the power. The stink-eyes? The muttered threats? The “this is unfair” protests from low-level players? That was fuel. He collected them like badges.
So when a scrappy little group—Wolf Bane Adventurers, apparently—approached the checkpoint, Gareth stood tall, grinning like a man who’d already won.
He caught Ren’s glare and filed it under the usual: some salty cleric who didn’t want to pay the crossing fee. He didn’t recognize the face. Didn’t know the history. Didn’t see the quiet fury behind Ren’s calm.
He just flashed his best smug smirk and tapped the laminated rate sign.
“Standard toll,” he said cheerfully. “Unless you wanna whine about it. Then it’s double.”
Behind him, two other Prosperous players chuckled. One pretended to stretch. The other mockingly waved.
This was the best part of the job.
They had the power, the zone, and the smuggest job in Towerbound.
The guilds had taken a pounding earlier during the massive brawl.
This was Prosperous Guild’s chance to scrape back some dignity—and some money.
Also a chance to show those uppity random players why being in a massive guild mattered.
Ren stopped in front of the toll booth.
He looked at the guild members.
Then looked at his group.
Then back at the warrior again.
“I’m not paying that,” Ren said bluntly.
Gareth’s smile widened into a nasty grin.
“Well then,” he said, sliding a heavy iron sword off his back, “you’re gonna die.”
“Fuck,” muttered Ren, looking around.
He caught his group’s eyes.
They looked at him, waiting.
The unspoken question was clear:
What now, boss?