A thousand years had passed since the chase began.
No — that was just Dexter's perception of this never-ending nightmare.
His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy…
'FUCK! WHY AM I FREESTYLING IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS SHITSHOW?!'
His heart pounded like a war drum. Carrying 100 million worth of crafted gear was no joke — especially when being chased by twenty PKers, one riding a mount so fast it was like a Supra chasing a rickshaw.
Then his gamer instincts kicked in — that razor-sharp focus that once made him pro.
He spotted enemies dismounting in the distance. Still too far to reach him, but he swerved east anyway.
"MAMA!" he screamed with every near-missed attack, the battlefield becoming his absurd rap battleground.
Arrows, crossbow bolts, and crowd control spells hurtled toward him, yet he managed to narrowly evade them all.
