To the soldiers, these Undying were an enigma—obsessed with bizarre hobbies, spouting nonsense, and now celebrating the right to build shacks.
They watched as the players:
Struggled into plate armor… while bare-assed naked
Wore only helmets and gloves, torsos proudly exposed
Sporting just boots like some avant-garde fashion statement
A unanimous verdict formed: It's not their immortality that's terrifying… it's their minds.
Especially when they babbled about "encumbrance limits"—whatever that meant.
But nothing compared to the horror of witnessing their housing-induced euphoria.
Only Lind understood.
This world would never grasp the sacred joy of virtual construction.
Players were a unique breed. The harsher the wasteland, the wilder their blueprints. Give them a survival game with base-building, and they'd erect madness incarnate—floating castles, underground labyrinths, dick-shaped towers.
Even in certain infamous dystopian factory simulators, they'd ignore all objectives to build cottages with rooftop gardens.
Given free rein, Lind mused, they'd probably reconstruct the golden spires of Goliath City beside Starcrest's walls.
A chilling vision flashed before him—towering phallic monuments, labyrinthine death traps—
"I'll designate your build zone," he blurted, striding forward. "Two-story height limit."
No restrictions? The eldritch abominations they'd create…
"Ugh, rules?" Dragon Scale Sword groaned.
The trio slumped. So many grand designs—now reduced to sensible architecture.
After marking the area, Lind reiterated: "This is your communal rest space."
He provided no beds. Why would they sleep in-game? Logging off is safer than risking gear drops.
Starcrest had acres of unused land—enough for hundreds of player homes. But past exiled lords had prioritized bribing their way back to civilization over development. By Lind's arrival post-Collapse, starvation left no resources for construction.
Maybe later, he thought, once survival's secured, I'll let them bulldoze this place into a player metropolis. "Recycling trash into treasure," as it were.
"But how do we build?" The huddle intensified.
White Stockings Enthusiast vibrated with excitement. Video title secured: [White Socks' Guide to Fantasy DIY].
"Rocks?" Black Tortoise Shield suggested. "Plenty of rubble around."
"Or…" Slaughter Moon Blade's grin turned feral. "Salvage NPC houses at night?"
"NO!" White Stockings hissed. "We're friendly with Starcrest—housing rights and gear access. Don't burn bridges till we've got backups!"
The others nodded. For now… the grind for legal materials began.
"Not loyalty—just not stupid enough to torch our only safe zone," they agreed silently. Given the chance, they'd slit Lind's throat and loot all ten NPCs dry.
"Wood and rubble it is. Let's cobble something together," Slaughter Moon Blade decided. "That 'nightmare winter' spiel sounded like a mechanic trigger."
"Wait, really?" Dragon Scale Sword frowned. "I night-crawled yesterday. Zero threats."
"Probably unfinished content," White Stockings shrugged. "Broken nighttime mob stats. We'll beta-test it later."
Thus began their stone-hopping, log-dragging odyssey.
Lind had granted them dirt and dreams—no tools, no materials, just a "Build here (but not tall)" scrawl.
"Holy shit, manual labor? No instant blueprint magic?" Black Tortoise Shield gaped.
"Duh. This game's 'realism' fetish means actual foundations," White Stockings scoffed, rolling up imaginary sleeves.
"Yo, Socks—you IRL construction or something?"
"The hell? How'd you—"
"Big 'civil engineering major' energy."
"We need proper timber. Deadwood Forest's got some," Dragon Scale Sword suggested. "Weapons Shop sells axes. Pool our coin?"
As they marched out armed with a single axe, the soldiers' sanity eroded further.
Who volunteers to build… for free?
Who BUYS THEIR OWN TOOLS?!
Lind merely sighed. "Keep them in check. As long as they follow basic rules…"
…we might survive their 'help'.
The remaining soldiers gathered to skin the wolves, separate the meat, and debone the carcasses.
They didn't dare let the Undying handle this—who knew what grotesque "efficiency" they'd employ with precious food? Every scrap mattered now.
Inedible offal was piled for later burial in the garden plots, a desperate attempt to coax even faint nourishment into the barren soil.
Night fell. The outpost slept—mostly.
Of the four players, one logged off briefly before returning. At least they didn't try a midnight stroll. Lind knew better: night belonged to the Calamity.
A player might kill a monster or two, but the commotion would draw hordes. Until defenses improved, recklessness meant suicide.
They respawn. I don't.
Dawn arrived. After a breakfast of wolf-meat broth, Lind armed himself and the three R's—Reed, Rio, Reef—loading bundled pelts onto their backs.
"Keep monitoring that 'White Stockings' channel," he mused. Player antics on video meant early warnings.
I've got eyes everywhere.
They trekked from Starcrest at first light, reaching the riverbank by midday.
Open terrain. Flowing water. No celebration.
Water meant life—and competition. Desperate drifters and Calamity beasts congregated here, turning every riverside into a battleground.
"My lord—horse tracks!" Reed called.
Lind inspected the prints.
Horse? More like dire mammoth.
The hoofprints spanned a human head's width—yet the horseshoe marks were unmistakable.
"Move. Now." Lind hissed.
Most Calamity creatures could withstand daylight—they simply preferred darkness.
But if they stumbled upon some daywalking abomination… Four men wouldn't be enough.
Thankfully, the rest of the journey passed without incident.
They paused roadside to choke down jerky harder than boot leather and stale water, then marched relentlessly—until twilight finally unveiled Prey Town's jagged silhouette.