Insomniac Player

Damien walked John through the rest of it, the real Shadow Palace, Xuan Wuye’s rescue, the coma, the revealed face, and an offer with exactly one survivable answer attached to it. Then he pulled up the title.

John read it once. Leaned in. Read it again.

"Fourth-highest standing?"

"No stat buffs."

"Damien."

"No skills either."

"Damien."

"It’s mostly administrative."

John stood and started pacing a circle around the room. "You went into Murim to buy medicine."

"Yes."

"You came back the disciple of a demonic lord."

"Fifth disciple."

He pointed straight at him. "That correction makes it worse."

Damien closed the title window.

John kept pacing. "Outsiders don’t join native Murim sects. They trade with them. Run missions for them. Rent a training hall for a season, maybe get handed one minor technique if heaven’s feeling generous that year. Native lineages don’t take in people who can log out of the entire world whenever they want."

"Xuan Wuye seemed unbothered by that."

"Xuan Wuye is one of the Seven Lords. That’s exactly why he seemed unbothered. Men at that height get to be unbothered. Reality becomes everybody else’s problem instead."

That explains a few conversations I had down there.

John stopped mid-step. "He gave you anything?"

"A movement manual. And a pill."

He shared the pill’s notifications. John lowered himself into a chair with more care than the motion usually took him. "Ninety permanent points."

"My level stayed at twenty."

"I can see that."

"Apparently it was a basic foundation gift."

John said nothing for a full five seconds. "I hate rich people."

Damien glanced around the limited-edition penthouse John had once offered to buy a hundred copies of on a whim. "You’re a rich person."

"I hate richer people."

That, at least, tracks.

They kept talking until evening had covered the windows completely, John asking about every wound, every enemy, every line of the secrecy warning Xuan Wuye had given him. Damien left nothing out that mattered. When he finally finished, John leaned back and dragged both hands down over his face.

"You’re not going back until you understand that manual."

"Probably."

"And next time, I’m coming with you."

"No."

John’s hands stopped mid-motion.

Damien held his eyes steady. "I went there to find my own cure. I’ll take information from you. I won’t hide behind your level while I do it. You respected that before."

John muttered something deeply disrespectful about the whole concept of principles under his breath. He nodded anyway.

The city lights sharpened below them as the sky finished going dark. Damien sat with the strength still settling under his skin, the manual waiting untouched in his inventory, and the next forced coma that was going to arrive eventually, whether he was ready for it or not.

He needed more than controlled teams and careful investigations. He needed gate access, emergency networks, and people who actually understood what Earth-69 had become while he’d been gone.

"Mr. John." He said it plainly, no riddles left in him tonight. "I want to join the army."

John’s chair creaked hard under his grip. "No."

"That was fast," Damien said.

"I considered it the moment Martin first offered."

"He offered me the position. Not you."

John crossed his enormous arms. "And I answered correctly."

Damien’s mind went back to that government hall, Sir Martin offering him a major’s rank and three hundred players to command, John shutting the whole thing down before Damien had even opened his mouth. At the time he’d been running on fumes, surrounded by officials he barely trusted, still half convinced the room was deciding between recruiting him and locking him up.

That refusal made sense then. He wasn’t sure it made sense now.

"I’m not asking your permission."

Quiet, when he said it. John’s expression still shifted anyway, the legendary player who’d smashed through government walls a week ago suddenly looking a lot more like a father remembering that the son he wanted to protect had already survived two years without him.

John let out a long breath through his mustache. "I know."

Damien waited.

John got up and walked to the window instead, Viremont spread out below in grids of gold and blue light, patrol beams sweeping the lower avenues, the distant glow of stabilized gates staining the horizon past the outer wall.

"If you actually want to join, I won’t stop you. Not this time."

Damien had braced for a louder fight than that.

"But you don’t sign anything permanent yet." John kept his back turned. "You woke up having lost two years. You’ve been back for weeks, not years. You don’t know the ministries, the commanders, the guild treaties, the regional laws, or which smiling official is looking to trade your name for a promotion."

"Imran’s been teaching me."

"Imran teaches maps like he expects the map to salute him back. Information isn’t the same thing as experience."

That’s something Imran would probably admit himself, if pressed hard enough.

John turned around. "Freelance. Take government missions one at a time. Show up for gatebreak operations when Region 21 actually needs you. Learn how the army moves before you let it decide where you live, fight, and die."

Damien turned it over. Freelance status would get him the access he actually wanted without putting three hundred strangers under the command of a Level 20 whose best strategies mostly involved running away intelligently. It would also leave the door to Murim wide open whenever he needed it.

"That makes sense," he said.

John’s eyes narrowed. "You agreed too fast."

"You’d prefer an argument?"

"I had several good points ready."

"Save them for Sir Martin."

John’s mustache lifted at that. "Now that’s a sensible plan."

He pulled up his friend list and tapped a name. The call connected almost instantly, a golden projection blooming over the lounge table.

Field Marshal Sir Martin appeared in full uniform, golden hair catching light that didn’t actually exist in the room, wearing an easy smile like a man who moonlighted as anything other than a field marshal.

He looked at John first. "What did you break this time?"

"Nothing today."

Smoke drifted lazily out of the ruined kitchen behind him. Martin’s eyes tracked it.

"Nothing important," John amended.

"Why are you calling?"

John pulled Damien into frame. "The boy wants to work with the army."

Martin’s eyes landed on Damien. "Knew it. He’s got the look."

"He won’t join it."

Damien glanced at John. Martin did too.

John kept going, unbothered. "He’ll work near the army. Occasionally for it. Never inside it."

"A freelancer," Martin said.

"Exactly."

"You could’ve opened with that."

"Then I wouldn’t get to check whether your intelligence has improved any."

Martin ignored the jab entirely. "Mr. Damien. Is this your decision?"

"Yes."

"Central Command, tomorrow, nine o’clock. We’ll adjust the offer."

The projection cut out. John stared at the empty air where it had been.

"He hung up before I finished."

"Maybe his intelligence really did improve."

John turned toward him slowly, and Damien decided that was a fine moment to go check what was left of dinner.

◇◇◇

At nine the next morning, they walked into Region 21 Central Command.

The complex stood apart from Viremont’s government quarter, three defensive walls deep, automated weapons tracking slow arcs across the open sky. Players in dark uniforms crossed between training fields, command buildings, and gate-response hangars, most of them carrying weapons openly even off duty, though the whole place carried a discipline Murim’s armed markets had never bothered with.

John’s presence made every security system in the complex visibly nervous. Red lights blinked awake along the outer gate and followed him all the way to the central tower.

"They remember me," he said, proud of it.

"You broke seven walls."

"Six."

"The report said seven."

"One of them was already weak."

Sir Martin met them in an office overlooking the deployment yard, no politicians this time, just a legal officer, a uniformed woman holding a tablet, and two silent guards posted near the door.

Martin waved them toward the chairs. John tested his before committing to it. The frame held. He looked almost disappointed about that.

"Your original offer’s withdrawn," Martin told Damien.

John smiled.

"It’s been replaced."

John stopped smiling.

A contract bloomed above the desk.

➤[Region 21 Independent Combat Agreement]

➤[Contractor: Damien]

➤[Service Classification: Military Freelancer]

➤[Auxiliary Designation: Honorary Major]

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