The breeze off the cliffside carried the salt of the sea and the faint tang of incense burning in the temple district below. Rhys leaned back against the willow trunk, eyes half-closed. For a long while, he simply listened—the chatter of rchants rolling carts, the call of gulls wheeling over the harbor, the rhythmic clang of smiths hamring steel into shape. Golden Fortune lived, breathed, and moved around him, but for once it did not demand anything of him.
That stillness was almost foreign.
When at last he rose, the sun was high, painting the city in a warm haze. His boots carried him into the crowded avenues where preparations for the Festival of Closing had begun in earnest. Banners of gold and crimson were strung between rooftops. Children ran with paper lanterns shaped like beasts and moons. Even the hard-faced rcenaries who had filled taverns with their boasts a day ago now found themselves weaving flowers into their braids or sparring lazily in the streets.
Rhys’s eyes flicked toward the sky. The True Moonstone pulsed faintly at his chest, reminding him the peace was only a pause. Soon, the gates would close, and Golden Fortune would no longer be just a city of trade and festival—it would be the crucible where the chosen and the desperate alike tested what they carried.
He spent the afternoon wandering further:
At the docks, he watched sailors argue over whether to risk leaving before the seal fell, or to wait and gamble on what opportunities the Festival might bring. Their voices carried the tension of those who knew that once the gates closed, the city would beco both treasure hoard and cage.
In the market square, he paused by a smith’s stall. The weapons glead bright, yet when Rhys laid a hand on one, the blade vibrated weakly against the resonance of the Ruinous Darkness Blade. The smith frowned, muttering that so steel simply wasn’t ant for n already bound to greater arms. Rhys left a coin anyway.
Near the shrine of the Moon, he watched pilgrims lay down offerings of silver coins and polished shells. So whispered prayers for luck, others for protection. A few, their eyes sharp, prayed not for themselves but for the downfall of rivals.
By evening, the sky blushed purple and gold. Lanterns lit one by one, turning the city into a river of firelight. Musicians played at every corner, their flutes and drums keeping pace with dancers in painted masks. The Festival’s heartbeat had begun.
Rhys stood at the edge of a bridge, leaning against its stone rail. Below, the waters mirrored the lanterns, a thousand tiny stars rippling on the tide.
Puddle stirred again, voice like a calm current through his mind.
"You feel it, don’t you? The city is not just celebrating. It is waiting. Watching."
Rhys’s grip on the rail tightened.
"They’re waiting for sothing to break."
The True Moonstone pulsed once more, steady as the tide.
He looked out over the glowing city. The ruins were behind him. The Arena had proven his balance. Now, what remained was the city itself—the storm beneath the festival lights.
And Rhys knew, when Golden Fortune’s gates sealed, his path would be drawn sharper than ever.
He turned from the bridge, cloak trailing behind him, and stepped back into the lantern-lit streets.
Rhys walked back into the streets, the music and noise washing over him. The festival was in full swing now. Stalls were packed with food—skewers of roasted at, bowls of spiced rice, and sweets coated in sugar. Jugglers tossed knives in the air, and dancers in painted masks spun circles to the beat of drums. Children darted between the crowd, holding lanterns shaped like wolves, birds, or moons.
But under the laughter and light, Rhys felt the sa tension Puddle had spoken of. Too many eyes lingered on him as he passed. So were just curious, others calculating. Everyone knew the seal would fall soon, and when it did, the festival would turn into sothing far more dangerous.
He kept moving, careful not to stay in one place too long.
At a quiet corner, he bought bread and sat to eat, listening to the crowd. rcenaries talked about which districts would be the safest once the gates closed. rchants whispered about hidden storerooms. Pilgrims prayed a little louder than before, as if trying to push fear away with words.
Rhys finished the bread and stood again. The Ruinous Darkness Blade at his side felt heavier tonight, as if it also sensed the city waiting. The Moonstone at his chest pulsed in slow rhythm, steady and unchanging.
The bell at the city’s center rang once. Then again. The sound was deep, heavy, and final.
Lanterns still burned, music still played, but everything froze. NPC rchants stopped mid-sentence, guards lowered their spears, and dancers in the street stood still like broken dolls. Then, one by one, they vanished—fading into dust and light until the streets were empty of anyone who wasn’t a player.
The air shifted. A pressure fell over Golden Fortune like a cage snapping shut.
System text burned across the sky:
[ Final Event Triggered – Festival of Closing ]
[ The city’s safety net has fallen ]
[ NPCs removed – Only challengers remain ]
[ Survive the Endless Waves ]
[ Every monster defeated drops a Gift Box – higher tiers grant rarer rewards ]
[ Death will not reset progress – but survival brings fortune ]
For a mont, there was silence. Then the streets erupted with voices.
"Finally! The Closing Event’s here!"
"Forget the auction—this is where the real loot drops."
"Yeah, those whales can keep their shiny sets. Out here it’s about skill."
Groups of players tightened their armor straps, checked their weapons, and spread out across the plazas and bridges. So laughed, adrenaline rushing through their voices. Others cursed, already worried about what the first wave would bring.
"Rember, no PvP! Only monsters count."
"Good. ans nobody can gank us mid-fight."
"Exactly. This is the only ti the poor and small guilds can compete for top rewards."
On the edges of the streets, loners sharpened blades or whispered spell chants under their breath. So ford parties on the spot, strangers shaking hands like comrades about to walk into war.
The banners from the festival still swayed above, but their colors looked strange now against the empty streets and tense faces.
From the walls ca another roar, louder, closer. Dust shook free from the bronze gates.
Rhys stood still, watching the players around him with a calm gaze. Excitent, fear, greed—it was all there. But one truth united them all: when the monsters ca, only their skills would matter.
The gates groaned as sothing massive struck from outside. The first cracks split wide.
The Endless Waves were about to begin.
The cracks in the bronze gates split wider, glowing faintly as the runes ant to reinforce them shattered one by one.
Then the gates broke.
With a deafening crash, the tal doors slamd open, and the first wave poured through.
Dozens of Beastlings—wolf-like creatures with bone masks and glowing red eyes—charged across the stone streets. Their claws scraped sparks against the ground, jaws snapping as they leapt for the nearest players.
"Contact!" soone shouted.
"First wave’s just fodder, clear them fast!" another voice answered.
Magic circles lit the night as fireballs, ice shards, and bolts of lightning rained down on the front line. Swords clashed against fangs, shields locked in place, spears thrust through the beasts’ hides. For every monster that fell, a small golden box dropped, flashing briefly before being pulled into the victor’s inventory.
"Gift Box! I got one!"
"Already? Damn, that’s Tier 1. Keep killing, higher waves an better drops!"
Rhys drew the Ruinous Darkness Blade, its silver-black edge humming as it resonated with the [True Moonstone]. He didn’t rush the first pack like the others. Instead, he watched the flow of the fight—how parties covered each other, how solo players ducked between the lines, how the monsters sward without hesitation.
The Beastlings were weak, but they weren’t endless fodder. They tested the players’ coordination, their ability to manage space and tempo.
One lunged at Rhys, claws flashing. His blade moved in a clean arc, splitting the creature down the middle. A faint shimr appeared in his inventory: [Gift Box – Tier 1].
Around him, the roars of monsters and the shouts of players filled the streets.
"Wave cleared!"
"Get ready, next is coming!"
The system’s voice rang across the city:
[ Wave 1 Complete ]
[ Total Monsters Defeated: 243 ]
[ Wave 2 will begin in 30 seconds ]
Players hurried to regroup, gulping down potions, reloading crossbows, tightening their grips on weapons. The air buzzed with excitent.
"Not bad, not bad. If Wave 1’s this easy, we’ll be swimming in loot by Wave 10."
"Don’t get cocky. They always scale fast."
"That’s the point, isn’t it? Only the strong survive."
Rhys exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the gates as the sound of growling rose again—this ti deeper, heavier, like sothing far worse was waiting its turn.
The second wave was coming.
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