Chapter 293

The fight was over in less than ten seconds.

Hurent lay on his back. The sky spun above him. He couldn't feel his jaw.

Footsteps approached. Red stood over him.

Red sheathed his rapier. He looked down at the defeated ranker, raised his hand to his forehead, and shamelessly started emoting a Fortnite L-Dance right on top of him.

Hurent groaned. The physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional damage. The 5th ranker on the unified leaderboards was literally doing a joke emote over his beaten body.

"How..." Hurent forced the words out. "How did you get so strong?"

Before Red could answer, a shadow fell over the two players.

Piaro stood there. The Farmer held a basket of seeds. He looked at Hurent on the ground, then looked at Red.

"You stopped tilling," Piaro said.

Red stiffened. He immediately dropped his hand from his forehead. He stopped dancing. "Captain, I was just showing the new guy the ropes."

Piaro pointed at the ground. "You stepped on the fresh seedlings while doing that inexperienced leg movement."

Red looked down. He had trampled three small green sprouts.

Red went completely pale. "Sir, I can replant them. It was an accident."

"Five extra acres," Piaro said. His voice left no room for argument. "Before dinner. And you are forbidden from using any movement techniques while doing it."

Red groaned. His shoulders slumped. He looked like a man walking to his execution. He picked up his wooden hoe and trudged away toward the far end of the field.

Piaro looked down at Hurent. "Get up. The sun is wasting."

Piaro walked away.

Hurent didn't get up. The potion's effects were fading, replaced by the crushing weight of his bruised ego. He just sat up slightly, letting his back curve and his arms dangle over his knees in a miserable, broken slouch.

He stared blankly at the dirt.

A quiet rustle of clothes made him blink.

Ash walked up. The Magic Swordsman stopped a few feet away.

Ash didn't say anything. He just looked at Hurent. He observed the way Hurent's shoulders slouched, the specific angle of his bent neck, and the way his hands rested limply in the soil.

Ash's face turned serious. He nodded slowly.

Ash sat down in the dirt next to Hurent.

Ash carefully let his own back curve. He dropped his shoulders. He let his arms dangle limply over his knees, perfectly mirroring Hurent's defeated posture.

Hurent turned his head slowly. He stared at Ash. "What are you doing?"

Ash kept his eyes forward, looking very earnest. "Isn’t this a resource recovery stance used by the top 10 rankers? I can feel my back muscles stretching."

Hurent opened his mouth to yell. He wanted to summon a sword and swing it.

But he had no energy.

Hurent just closed his eyes, buried his face in his dirty hands, and let out a long, quiet sigh.

Dooong. Dooong.

A loud bell rang across the massive agricultural fields of Stormbreak. The deep, heavy sound echoed off the distant mountain peaks.

Hurent paused. He wiped sweat from his chin and leaned on his hoe. He was completely exhausted. His stamina was barely recovering.

All around him, everyone stopped working.

It wasn't just the players. Colt threw a heavy sack of fertilizer onto a wooden cart. Galahad unhooked himself from the large metal plow. Even Piaro, the Head Farmer, dropped his tools. The NPC guards on the walls and the local NPC farmers all turned toward the city.

Then, they started running.

They didn't just jog. The entire workforce—rankers, and NPCs alike—sprinted toward the inner city like a stampede of wild horses. Dust kicked up into the air.

"What are they doing?" Hurent muttered.

His stomach let out a loud, painful rumble. The hunger gauge in his system window was flashing red. Manual labor drained satiety faster than combat.

Hurent dropped his hoe. He forced his tired legs to move, following the dust cloud toward the towering inner walls of the city.

As he passed through the massive stone gates, Hurent slowed to a walk. He looked around.

The inner city was staggering. The architecture was advanced, built with heavy grey stone and reinforced steel. But it was the population that made him stop in his tracks. Hurent saw humans walking alongside beastmen carrying heavy logs. He saw sirens near a massive fountain, and witches in pointed hats laughing outside an alchemy shop. The sheer variety of races casually coexisting in one place was unheard of.

Hurent followed the massive group as they funneled toward the center of the city. 

The crowd had funneled toward a large stone building near the center of the city. From the outside, it looked like a standard large guild hall. Hurent walked through the wide double doors.

He gasped.

The interior of the dining hall was at least fifty times larger than the exterior. Spatial expansion magic of this caliber was a myth. Long wooden tables stretched as far as the eye could see. Thousands of citizens, soldiers, and players were already sitting down, eating voraciously.

At the far end of the hall was a long wooden counter.

Behind the counter stood a man wearing a simple white apron. He had mid-length dark hair, red eyes and a relaxed, light-hearted posture. He was pulling freshly baked meat pies out of a massive magical oven and handing them out at a terrifying speed.

Hurent got in line behind the other citizens. He assumed the cook was a high-level NPC hired to manage the territory's food supply. The terrifying speed at which he served thousands of citizens single-handedly proved he was no ordinary chef.  The cook was warm and easy to talk to, chatting with the farmers about their crop yields with a calm smile.

Suddenly, the air near the front of the line shimmered.

Echo, the 3rd-ranked assassin, stepped out of high-tier stealth right in front of the counter. She had completely bypassed the massive line. She reached a gloved hand toward a tray of hot meat pies.

The cook didn't even look up. He casually reached out with a wooden soup ladle and gave Echo a light bonk on the top of her head.

"Nice try, Echo," the cook said gently. "Line starts at the back."

Echo rubbed her head. She gave the cook a silent, exaggerated pout, her shoulders slumping in defeat, before turning around and trudging to the end of the line.