"Listen up, maggots."
A sharp voice cut through the air like a blade. The speaker was a tall, imposing woman with piercing eyes and a presence that could suffocate the weak-willed.
"I am The Witch."
She let that sink in for a mont, her lips curling into a smirk.
"I earned this title by climbing to the level of Harvester."
She scanned the group, her gaze cold and unforgiving.
"Let warn you now—there’s a ninety percent mortality rate associated with this path. That’s higher than the other two paths combined. So I’ll give you one last chance to switch."
Silence followed. A heavy, crushing silence.
The recruits stood motionless, faces tense. The seeds of conquest were deciding their fate in real-ti.
"Good. Since nobody’s moving—let’s get going."
With a flick of her wrist, she tapped a few buttons on her wrist token.
A shimr of blue light engulfed them.
The next mont, they were back in the Citadel.
The upper levels of the Citadel stretched before them, far beyond the halls they were familiar with. This was where the real ga began.
"Welco to the Hubs."
The Witch strode ahead, her boots clicking against the tal floor.
"The Hubs are where factions gather to build influence. No matter your path, you’re free to interact with any Hub—but your primary allegiance will always be to your Path’s Hub."
She stopped in front of a massive holographic display showing conquest zones, resources, and mission reports in real-ti.
"Now, let repeat this one more ti—the Harvester path has the highest mortality rate."
Her voice grew sharper, more intense.
"We take the most dangerous roles. We are the ones in the middle of the action. We are the elite that turns the tide of battle. As compensation? We make the most money. The pay is directly proportional to the risk."
The recruits exchanged glances. So with excitent. Others with barely concealed fear.
"You’ll soon learn that Conquerors rarely operate alone. The danger out there is beyond anything you can imagine. You’ll be collaborating with teams from other paths—Pathfinders and Wardens—to cover all angles. But make no mistake..."
Her smirk returned.
"The success of any expedition depends on Harvesters."
She gestured towards the holographic display.
"Our job? Resource acquisition. Conquest is hungry for materials—biocores, weapons, and even basic supplies like food. Sotis, an entire territory is invaded just to give a Harvester ti to track down a rare biocore."
She turned back to them, her expression deadly serious.
"That’s why this path is so dangerous. My first piece of advice? Never trust Pathfinder or Warden intel blindly. Those morons wouldn’t know the difference between a chanical Jaw and a Tyrant Jaw if you laid them both in front of them."
A few chuckles scattered through the group, but The Witch wasn’t smiling.
"Your survival depends on accurate intel and proper preparation. If you go in blind, you die. Simple as that."
Her eyes burned as she drove her next point ho.
"The better your preparation, the better your chances of survival. Don’t skimp on information. Don’t be cheap. If you want to last in this business—treat knowledge like gold."
She waved her hand, and multiple data screens flickered to life.
"Everything has value. Everything can be sold. Pay attention to your wallet."
She turned away, walking toward the exit.
"There are introductory lessons and videos on Harvester roles. Read them or don’t—I don’t care. But starting now, your worth will be tied to your revenue. Not your strength. Not your years of experience. Just your profit."
Her voice echoed through the hall.
"The more you make, the higher your status as a Conqueror. Your rank increases when you cross financial thresholds. Harvesters rise through the ranks faster than anyone else—but only if they live long enough."
The Witch paused at the doorway, her gaze sharp as a knife.
"Any questions?"
Akron stepped forward, arms crossed.
"Why do we even need Harvesters? Wouldn’t it be better to just conquer the whole Cradle Zone?"
The Witch’s eyes narrowed. Instead of answering, she swept her gaze across the recruits.
"Can soone answer?"
A voice rose from the crowd.
"There are Cradle Zones you can’t just conquer outright," Althea explained, her tone steady. "The sheer logistics of invading and maintaining control over a Cradle Zone aren’t worth the struggle. Hit-and-dip missions make more financial sense."
A slow smirk spread across The Witch’s face.
"Now that we’ve cleared that up—welco to the Harvester Hub!"
The Harvester Hub was a chaotic blend of futuristic tech and old-world saloon energy.
The entrance was marked by a massive holographic sign flickering with neon letters, casting eerie glows across the polished steel floor. Inside, rows of wooden booths sat beneath floating lanterns, each table equipped with built-in hologram projectors displaying mission bounties and resource prices in real ti.
The bar at the far end was a monstrous fusion of glass and tal, lined with glowing bottles of exotic liquors from conquered worlds. Conquerors, rcenaries, and traders crowded the space, their voices overlapping into a low hum of negotiations, laughter, and the occasional fight.
A towering screen above the bar displayed active missions, projected earnings, and a ranking system of the top-earning Harvesters.
The Witch turned back to them, grinning.
"You’re free to register your teams. My job ends here."
She tapped her wrist token, and a notification pinged across everyone’s devices.
"For any additional information—cha-CHING!"
She mimicked a money sign with her fingers before disappearing into the crowd.
Althea crossed her arms, looking around at the lively hub. "So... what do we do now?"
Nioh adjusted his gloves, eyes locked on the registration counter. "You guys can explore. I’m going to register the team."
Without waiting for a response, he separated from the group.
The registration desk was a simple, reinforced booth with a built-in holographic console.
Behind the counter sat a familiar face.
An old man.
The sa grizzled attendant Nioh had t when he first paid his rent in the Citadel.
Nioh blinked. "Sir Atlas, you work here too?"
Atlas glanced up from his tablet, smirking.
"Oh? You’re that anomaly from that year."
"Yes, sir!"
The old man leaned back, arms crossed. "Seems like you’re doing well in the Citadel."
"I am! That’s why I’m here—to register my team."
Atlas nodded, fingers tapping the console. "Do you have a na?"
Nioh hesitated. "Nope. I’m not great with naming things."
Atlas chuckled. "Then let’s baptize it. Any ideas?"
Nioh scratched his chin.
"The Mavericks?" He shook his head. "No... too obvious."
"The Hunters?" He frowned. "Probably taken."
"Centurions? Titans?" He exhaled. "No, no... I got it."
His gaze hardened. "The Fangs." It was tacky, maybe. But Nioh didn’t want to waste ti on technicalities.
"Aweso. Here are the mber nas," he said, sliding over his list.
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