The East Potomac Golf Course glistened under the mid-afternoon sun, an incongruous patch of manicured green in a world scarred by dimensional rifts. The distant hum of golf carts and the crisp clinks of golf balls echoed across the pristine grass, a bizarre soundtrack to the apocalypse. You'd never guess an E-rank gate, a shimmering tear in reality, had manifested right at the edge of the eighteenth green, barely contained by a flimsy cordon.
Ben adjusted his tie, the silk cool against his neck, as he and Jordan approached the containment zone. The PBA perimeter was thinner this time—fewer agents, fewer players. Most just looked bored, leaning against their cruisers, sipping lukewarm coffee, their weapons slung carelessly. The air hung with an almost palpable apathy.
Jordan flashed his ID with a practiced, easy smile. "Jordan Lowry. F-rank." He nodded to the agent, a young woman with a bored expression.
Ben followed suit, presenting his own card. The nearest agent, a grizzled veteran with a five o'clock shadow, squinted at his name, then at his class.
"Tax Collector?" she muttered, turning the card over in her hand as if the back might offer a better explanation. Her brow furrowed in confusion.
Another agent, leaning against a patrol car, looked over her shoulder. "What, like the IRS? The fuck is an IRS agent doing here?"
Ben didn't answer. He was already walking, his steps even and purposeful, leaving the bewildered agents in his wake.
Behind him, murmurs kicked off, a low hum of disbelief that quickly escalated.
"Yo, he's F-rank? And he's got no armor? What the hell?"
"Is he even carrying a weapon? Looks like a damn accountant."
"Nah, maybe it's in that briefcase. Looks like a damn lawyer. Probably gonna sue the orcs."
"Shit, maybe he beats people with the briefcase. Like, bam, tax evasion!" A couple chuckles followed, and one guy mimed swinging a case like a baseball bat, earning more laughter. Ben didn't bother responding. Their ignorance was their problem, not his.
Inside the gate, the landscape shifted abruptly. The lush golf course warped into open plains, vast and untamed, ringed with dark tree lines and patchy, swirling mists. The air grew heavier, charged with raw mana. Orc prints, fresh and heavy, pocked the mud, leading deeper into the unknown.
"This place always like this?" Ben asked, his voice flat, taking in the desolate beauty.
"Pretty much," Jordan replied, his gaze sweeping the horizon. "This whole gate's a farm zone for Red Sovereign."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "They a major guild?"
"Not top-tier, like the Apex or the Iron Legion," Jordan said, kicking at a loose stone, "but still huge. They own or monopolize several E- and D-rank gates. They rotate farming squads to grind magic stones, EXP, stat points—real sweatshop energy, man. They run this shit like a damn corporation."
Ben frowned, a familiar knot of distaste tightening in his gut. "Isn't that... regulated? Doesn't the Player Bureau Association penalize that kind of control? It's basically hoarding."
Jordan chuckled, a cynical sound. "They don't violate any rules. Technically. They don't kick other players out—they just swarm the entire place until nobody else bothers trying. You can't fight a hundred guys grinding twenty-four-seven, can you? It's a soft lock."
Ben scanned the plains—movement in the distance, a faint shimmer of armor. Likely a squad working on a patrol loop. "So it's legal gate-squatting."
"Basically. This gate's stable—it doesn't collapse after clear counts. So it's ideal for long-term farming. Red Sovereign just camps it permanently. It's their private gold mine."
Ben clicked his tongue, a sound of irritation. "Doesn't the PBA care? This kind of control blocks independents, stifles competition."
"They do care," Jordan said, shrugging. "But not enough to crack down. You see, Red Sovereign supplies cheap magic stones. A steady supply helps the PBA stabilize the economy. Without 'em, prices would bounce like crazy. It's a monopoly, yeah—but it's a useful monopoly. Everyone turns a blind eye because it keeps the system running."
Ben's voice turned colder, a sharp edge entering his tone. "So it's all about money. Always."
Jordan shrugged again, a fatalistic gesture. "When isn't it, man? This world runs on mana and money now. Same as the old one, just with more monsters."
Ben scoffed softly, a sound of bitter resignation. "Watch what happens when something goes wrong," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the distant tree line. "These guilds'll vanish the second shit hits the fan. They'll pull their assets, their Players, and leave the mess behind. Nobody takes accountability when the gate breaks open, do they?"
Jordan slowed beside him, his easygoing demeanor fading. "You mean like the LA incident?"
Ben nodded, a grim memory etched on his face. "Yeah. The Crips and Blood Guild. Thought they owned the city."
Jordan whistled, a low, somber sound. "Damn... that was a shitshow. I heard stories."
"Worse than that," Ben said, his voice tight. "Two guilds with real-world beef playing king of the hill with dungeon gates. When one E-rank gate mutated into an S-rank, they weren't prepared. They were too busy fighting each other to notice the signs."
"Those insect swarms," Jordan said, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. "Fucking nightmare fuel. First they wiped out both guilds, then spread like wildfire. From Cali to Nevada, Utah, Arizona. Even crossed into Sonora and Chihuahua. They just kept coming."
"They burrow," Ben said, his gaze distant, remembering the reports. "Lay eggs deep. That zone's still a DMZ. A dead zone, functionally."
Jordan shook his head, a strange glint in his eye. "Still makes money though."
Ben looked over sharply. "What?"
"Every insect drops a magic stone, at least E-rank or better. They sell that shit. Hell, some black-market runners call it the 'Harvest Zone.' We don't call it disaster anymore. We call it income. People are still making bank off that mess."
Ben's face stayed unreadable, but his jaw tightened. "Short-term gain. Long-term extinction. That's the problem with Players. No foresight."
"Look," Jordan said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, "I get it. You're the cautious type. You see the cracks in the system. But come on, you don't think the government or the PBA has some kinda backup plan for that shit? Some contingency?"
Ben gave him a long, piercing look, his eyes cold and knowing. "Do you really believe that?"
Jordan hesitated, his confidence wavering. "I mean... they should, right? They have to."
Ben scoffed, a short, sharp sound of derision, turning toward the forest ahead. "That's the problem. We all say, 'I'm sure they'll handle it.' 'Not my business.' 'I'm safe here.' Until one day, it's not safe. Until the shit they ignored starts spreading across states. And suddenly it's 'Oops, I didn't see that coming.' Or worse—'Oops, my bad.' And then it's everyone else who pays the fucking price."
Jordan said nothing, the weight of Ben's words settling heavily between them. The casual optimism that usually defined him seemed to deflate.
Ben continued, his voice low and bitter, a raw edge of frustration. "All of it could've been avoided. All the death, all the destruction, all the lost zones. But it won't be. Because of one reason."
Jordan looked up, his eyes meeting Ben's. "Money?"
Ben nodded, a single, definitive motion. "Money. And the arrogance of power that thinks it's above consequences."
They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and their footsteps. The air was cooler under the forest canopy, the light dappled and green. Somewhere in the distance, an orc roared, a primal sound that seemed to mock the fragile order they discussed.
Jordan finally broke the silence, his voice subdued. "Well... let's hope the next gate isn't monetized by assholes too. Or at least, not this kind of assholes."
Ben didn't answer. He adjusted the strap on his briefcase, his eyes fixed ahead, already calculating the potential income, and the potential chaos, of the orc nest.