Savannah's lips curled into a sneer as she eavesdropped on her father's phone conversation. He was pacing the hallway outside her room, his tone unusually animated for someone typically reserved and calculating.
"…Recoil is making waves," he said to the person on the other end. "Keep monitoring him. He might be the one who cracks the Citadel."
Savannah's nails dug into her palm. Her father had never given her such praise. Not even when she was ranked second in the North American PvP leaderboard.
There's only one winner here—and that's me.
She stormed off into her room—a sleek, neon-lit gamer's lair tucked inside the luxury of her family's estate. The glow of her monitors cast sharp reflections off her polished weapons rack and the dual curved displays looping PvP streams.
She opened Discord and Telegram—both synced to her multiple burner gamer profiles. Eternity's Edge Competitive Ladder. Trash talk, memes, patch complaints… the usual mess. Until one thread caught her eye.
@ZeroToLegend: "WOW. Reaper just got his ass whooped."
[Link – "Artifact Showdown | Recoil vs. Reaper | 4K Uncut"]
Her eyebrow arched. "Reaper?"
She clicked it. A 30-minute uncut video. Already 20,000 views and climbing.
Savannah watched in silence as the battle unfolded. Recoil was a storm—quick, methodical, ruthless. He'd gotten some help from his Syndicates team but one would see how he baited Reaper into overextending, then leveraged the artifact's 10-second vulnerability window. She flinched when Recoil's Phantom Fang combo landed—hard and direct. The crowd roared. The video ended.
She leaned back, stunned. "What the hell… Reaper took me down in under a minute. I stomped Recoil last week."
Her hands trembled slightly as she stood and moved to her gaming rig. Her father would object—he always did—but right now, she needed answers.
Sliding into her chair, she bypassed the VR rig and plugged in her earpiece. The screen blinked to life.
"Iris," she said coolly.
"Yes, Athena?"
"What's Recoil's current odds of beating me in a 1v1?"
A pause.
"Thirty percent," Iris replied. "His odds have increased significantly after the Reaper engagement. Adaptive learning patterns detected."
She exhaled. That was no joke. He was gaining ground fast.
"Run a simulation with my last loadout against his current setup. Deliver projections and counter-strategies by morning."
"Affirmative."
She stared at the screen for a moment longer, the pause stretching.
Who are you, Recoil?
***
Meanwhile, Ethan—Recoil—was savoring the peace. In the real world, he'd wrapped up work, silenced all notifications in preparation for three days of uninterrupted immersion. A full 72-hour window.
He'd earned it.
In-game, morning light filtered through the skylights of the Silver Syndicates' gym. The clinks of chains and weight machines echoed in rhythm with his breath.
They'd agreed to use the cash reward from the gold box to get a guild building of their own at Tyrion's suggestion.
Forty-two pull-ups. Forty-three.
"You have to make this second nature if you want your Strength stat to budge," Nova reminded him, her tone calm and clinical.
"Yeah, yeah," he panted, pulling himself up again. "Easy for you to say, you're not the one dripping sweat here."
"Technically, you are not sweating. This is a simulated response for immersion."
"Helpful. Thanks."
He grit his teeth and hauled himself up again. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it feels like I've done over sixty."
"Forty-seven," she chimed helpfully.
"Of course," Recoil muttered and rolled his eyes mid-lift. " I knew I could always trust you to do the math."
" it's my one of my job description to be accurate" Nova deadpanned completely unbothered by the sarcasm.
By fifty, he let go of the bar and dropped to the padded floor, breathing heavily. His black tactical shirt was soaked, clinging to his lean torso. His muscles twitched with strain, but the glow of accomplishment flickered in his virtual pop up HUD. [+1 Strength].
Name: Recoil Coins: 2350
Height: 6 feet 1inch
Rank: C {Amateur I} XP: 355/400
HP: 300/300 MP: 200/200
Strength: 56 Accuracy%: 45
Stamina: 40. Agility: 30
Luck: 30 Available stats point: 60. Available skill points: 40
**Weapons**
–Backpack capacity–: 4/10
Dual Glock 19cc { -75 points damage,clip size: 9, reload time:15secs, range: 100 metres}
Remington shotgun LV2{ -90 points damage, clip size: 9, reload time:25secs, range: 97 metres}
Saber blade XR { -36 points damage}
Phantom fang { -130 points damage, critical hit damage -150}
Grenades x8[ -250 points damage, 10 metres blast radius]
N/A…
***Skills***
Basic street fighting ( Lv5)
Quantum leap (Lv 1)
***Accessories***
Shadow protocol: Bomber jacket, T shirt, Jet black cargo pants, Xtreme C grade sneakers.
He smiled through the pain.
"Let's head to Mav's," he said, brushing off sweat and flicking open his menu.
At Maverick's private training centre underneath Valerion prime, the training grounds pulsed with enchantments and flickering illusions. Targets popped in and out. Wind simulations twisted the arena into chaos at random intervals.
Maverick was waiting—arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his face.
"You remembered where I live, huh?" he called out.
"Missed the warm welcome," Recoil replied with a grin.
"I saw the clip. Taking down the Reaper, huh? Kid, you just made a lot of enemies… and a few allies you might not want."
"I'm not worried."
"You should be." Maverick tossed him a weighted practice knife. "Every level you climb comes with someone new trying to knock you back down."
Recoil caught it and spun it once in his palm. "Then I'll just keep climbing faster."
"Good answer."
Maverick drew his own knife. "Let's test if that stunt with the Reaper was skill… or just luck."
They began to circle. Recoil moved first—light on his feet, trying to close the gap with a tight sweep. Maverick deflected it, smoothly pivoting into a counter-thrust that forced Recoil to duck and roll.
"Too slow," the veteran muttered.
Recoil smirked. "I call it testing your reflexes."
They clashed again. Sparks flew. The enchantments responded to every movement, amplifying their impacts with cinematic flourish. Maverick's style was fluid and relentless—meant to exploit hesitations. Recoil, however, had improved. His footwork was sharper. His feints carried weight. He wasn't the same scrappy underdog from a week ago.
After a blistering exchange of blows, they broke apart.
"You're improving, you aren't the Recoil of a couple weeks ago" Maverick admitted. " Well that Recoil hadn't gotten an artifact stolen from him" Recoil grinned.
"But you still rely too much on instinct. You need to predict, not just react."
Recoil nodded, sweat dripping down his brow. "Then show me how."
"Alright," Maverick grinned. " I'll bet I could still make your back hit the floor"
They reset, blades raised again. The grind was far from over.