The glow of the forge flickered low, casting shifting shadows on the metal walls of the vault. Ethan crouched near a slab of obsidian, his back to the heat, assembling the pieces of his next device with quiet, efficient precision.
Steel shards. Forged resin. Inscribed wires. The Ashen Core pulsed inside his toolbelt, feeding energy into the rig with a low hum. He worked without the crafting interface—manual control meant no noise, no alerts, no skill checks.
Just instinct.
Crafting Complete: Corebound Stalker Drone x1.New Device Added to Inventory.
He flicked his wrist and watched the drone unfold like a spider made of chrome and bone. It clicked once—ready to be placed. He stored it for later.
Above him, the world had started to move. He could feel it in the tremors of the stone. In the flicker of motion-activated notifications from the VibeNet feed.
[Ashforge Ruins — Population: +9][New Parties Entered: RedSpecter, Manticore88, VoidGuild (Scout)][Trackable Activity: Trap Avoidance Patterns Detected.]
People were coming.
Ethan tapped the side of his interface and pulled up the live feed. His view was still streaming, masked, filtered, running through four layers of proxy, but the numbers had climbed far beyond the casual surge.
[Concurrent Viewers: 81,442][New Follower Surge: +36,000 (Last Hour)][Anonymous Tip Received: "There's a $1,000 bounty on your head. Thought you should know."]
He ignored the message. Pulled the map up instead.
One of the groups—RedSpecter—was moving fast. Too fast. Their formation was tight, and their route looked too deliberate to be random.
He knew that pattern. Corporate-sponsored PvP crew. A streamer guild. The same types who had turned on him years ago. Masked arrogance in cheap charisma.
They weren't here for the zone.
They were here for him.
He moved fast, laying new traps behind walls, under collapsed bridges, inside broken stairwells. Half of them were old-fashioned: rope snares, noise lures, scrap spikes. The rest were high-end: linked proximity mines, pressure sensor chains, and a new toy he'd just finished—a device that mimicked player footsteps and lured AI mobs away from his true path.
By the time RedSpecter reached the forge, he was long gone—perched in the rafters of a broken tower on the southern edge of the map, a scoped lens dialed into their movements from 200 meters out.
They broke into his bunker without resistance.
That was the point.
[RedSpecter Party Leader: RellikTV]"Yo, chat. Looks like the ghost's offline. We're taking his vault. Guy was probably just a one-night wonder."
[Chat][DEEPSKIN]: Get the core! Break that sh*t![FIREWOLF23]: LMFAO he's camping his stream, scared.[CLOAKED_GOD]: Nah, it's bait. Nobody clears Ashforge solo and bails.
Rellik's team looted fast. The moment they touched the supply chest, Ethan triggered a manual override.
Vault Lock Engaged.Ashen Minefield Active.Vault Overload Timer Initiated (30 Seconds).
The forge lit up behind them.
Sparks. Pressure bursts. Every step they took triggered a new chain reaction—one he'd designed specifically for show.
[RedSpecter's Vault Raid has Failed.][You have killed 4 players.][Killstreak Bonus Applied. Toolbelt Level Up: 3 → 4][You have earned Passive Upgrade: "Ashen Signature" — Traps are now cloaked for 5 seconds after placement.]
The screen exploded in reaction. The kill feed trended globally within minutes. But Ethan had already turned off notifications. He didn't need noise. He needed proof.
He clipped the feed.
Edited only what he needed.
A single 15-second slow motion sequence—RedSpecter's team celebrating. The trap click. The explosion. Silence.
He exported it. Named the file: "Trash Burn Easy."
Then uploaded it to four viral forums with zero credits attached.
By the time Rellik respawned in the base zone with all gear lost and his team publicly shamed, Ethan was gone from Ashforge.
It was early morning in the real world.
The NeuroDive hissed open, steaming faintly. Ethan sat up, bones creaking, vision slow to adjust. His body ached from the tension of full-dive sessions without stims or nutrition, but he preferred it that way. Pain grounded him.
He stepped out of the pod, shirtless, barefoot, and walked to the sink. Drank straight from the tap. Then dropped to the floor and began his usual drill.
Knuckles to wood. No padding. Elbows tight. Breathing through pain.
He did fifty push-ups. Then a hundred squats. Then held a plank until his arms trembled.
Pain was proof of movement.
The dull ache in his shoulders matched the friction in his brain. That familiar edge—razor-sharp and emotionless.
[INCOMING MESSAGE — VibeNet Internal Notification]
He opened it with one hand, not stopping the next set of leg raises.
Sender: UnknownMessage:"We know who you are. You're not the only one with a past. Watch the stream logs. We'll be watching yours."
Attached: a still frame from his clip—paused at 0:13—zoomed in, filtered.
Someone had caught the faintest trace of his real reflex pattern. Not a name. Not a face.
But someone was trying to connect the dots.
He stared at the message, then closed it without responding.
Then he went back to training.
The sweat on his skin was a small price to pay for silence.