Insomniac Player

Damien lay on his back in one of the guest bedrooms and listened to the distant roar of a dying monster.

The sound rose, broke into several uneven rumbles, and stopped. Three seconds later, it began again.

It was John. It was, unmistakably, always John.

Damien stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint enchantment lines woven through the plaster. Two corridors away and a solid wall of reinforced stone between them, and it still sounded as though John were sleeping on his chest.

Technically, Damien had offered him one of the guest rooms. John had entered the master bedroom while they were still talking, dropped face-first onto the enormous bed, and expanded. One arm stretched across three pillows. One leg hung over the side. The other had somehow captured most of the blanket. Removing him would have required siege equipment.

Damien had chosen retreat. It was the correct tactical decision.

He had not slept, of course. That would have been an unexpected medical miracle, and apparently those were waiting for him in Murim.

Instead, he had spent the night at the guest room desk, sorting through what his old teammates had pressed on him before they’d let him out of their sight.

Imran’s notes were the neatest of the lot: dense, careful handwriting on paper that still smelled faintly of the general’s office, restricted-zone warnings underlined twice, names circled with no explanation attached. Rahul had left a small tangle of guild contact chips, a Multiverse Platform manual thick enough to stun someone with, and a black case of equipment Damien hadn’t dared open yet, all of it apparently essential for staying anonymous. John’s contribution was simpler: a fat envelope of cash shoved into Damien’s hands with the words "don’t argue with me, boy," and, from two corridors away, a snore loud enough to double as a security system.

Damien had spread it all across the desk sometime around three in the morning and started making a second list, this one written entirely in contradictions.

Do not trust Murim merchants.

Do not insult Murim physicians.

Do not accept an unlabelled pill.

Do not refuse tea from a Sect Elder.

Do not drink tea from a Sect Elder without checking it for poison.

Do not call their cultivation magic.

Most importantly, according to Rahul, do not purchase robes without asking him first.

Damien considered the final warning the easiest to ignore.

He rose from the bed and dressed. As he passed the master bedroom, another snore rolled through the door.

Damien opened it a few inches. John lay diagonally across the mattress, his limbs spread as though he had been thrown from a tremendous height. His moustache fluttered with every breath. One massive hand had crushed a pillow beneath it, while the other rested over his stomach. There was enough space near the edge for perhaps half a person.

Damien quietly closed the door. "The legendary Dread Bastion," he murmured. "Conqueror of mattresses."

He left a short message on the kitchen display. "Gone to register. Do not destroy the house while unconscious."

John would probably be offended by the suggestion. That did not make it unnecessary.

The First Sanctuary building stood within Viremont’s central district, squeezed between towers that vanished into the clouds. Every capital city had been provided access to such a building after the latest System changes. Compared with the steel, crystal, and floating architecture surrounding it, the Sanctuary looked almost embarrassed to exist. It was only two stories tall.

Dark timber crossed pale stone walls. A steep tiled roof curved over narrow windows, and old-fashioned lanterns hung beside a pair of wooden doors. It resembled a fantasy inn that had taken a wrong turn and wandered into the most politically important city in Region 21. Damien stopped across the street and studied it.

There were no guards outside. No reception staff. No line of Players waiting to enter.

Only a small silver symbol floated above the door.

➤[FIRST SANCTUARY]

He checked the surrounding rooftops, reflective windows, and street traffic before approaching.

Imran had advised him to register under a false identity.

"A reputation is useful," the general had said. "But it’s only useful when you control what people know about you. Right now, too many factions are interested in Damien. Give yourself one identity that they cannot connect to him."

Damien pictured trying to explain to Imran afterward why he hadn’t bothered. The image alone was enough to settle the matter.

Damien pushed open the wooden door.

The world changed. The building’s exterior promised a modest entrance hall. Its interior offered something that seemed uninterested in architecture.

Silver mist drifted beneath a floor as clear as glass. Pale corridors floated at impossible angles, crossing above and below one another without visible support. Doors appeared in the distance, blurred, and disappeared when Damien tried to focus on them. The ceiling reflected a sky filled with unfamiliar stars, though sunlight shone outside.

His footsteps produced no echo. Damien looked back.

The door remained behind him, but it now stood alone in the middle of the mist.

"Small building," he said. "Naturally."

A blue panel opened in front of him.

➤[Welcome to the First Sanctuary Registration Facility.]

➤[No active registration has been detected.]

➤[Registration is required before access to the First Sanctuary and its connected servers can be granted.]

More text appeared beneath it.

Once registered, a Player could purchase an approved capsule for private use. The capsule would transport the player’s physical body into the First Sanctuary, allowing entry and exit from home instead of requiring repeated visits to the public building.

It was not a dream connection, nor was it a projection. The body itself would be transferred. The final warning appeared in red.

➤[Death within the First Sanctuary or any connected server is permanent.]

➤[Tutorial revival protections do not apply.]

Damien read the warning twice, then a third time. The Second Tutorial had trained players to treat death like an unpleasant method of recovery. Stab an injured ally, let them revive, and keep fighting. Brutal, efficient, and temporary.

No such trick existed here. No revival or second attempt.

"At least the rules are honest," Damien said.

The System displayed the registration fee.

➤[Registration Fee: 1,000 Gold Coins]

Honest did not mean reasonable. Damien ran the number against what was actually in his pocket, John’s envelope of cash, a handful of coins scraped together from a Level 20’s meager earnings, the memory of an apartment he still couldn’t afford to furnish, and came up short by a wide margin.

Fortunately, John was wealthy. Extremely wealthy.