**Zone: Genesis Sub-Layer — Border between Metacore and Murim**
The red light of the portal dissipated behind me like dying embers, leaving only the soft hum of energy that seemed to permeate this twisted space. I landed in a perfectly controlled stance, my body moving with the fluid precision that had taken months to master. My saber still dripped with spectral energy from the guardian I'd just defeated, each drop dissolving into motes of light before it could hit the ground.
The silence that followed was profound—not the empty silence of abandonment, but the heavy quiet of a place holding its breath. Waiting.
I straightened slowly, my senses already cataloging the impossible architecture around me. Floating fragments of skyscrapers hung in the air like the bones of some massive digital creature, their surfaces covered in a mixture of steel and stone that shouldn't exist. Giant roots, thick as subway tunnels, snaked through the suspended buildings, their bark inscribed with glowing runes that pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat.
A dark mist drifted between the structures like a living thing, occasionally coalescing into shapes that resembled faces before dissolving back into formless shadow. The air itself felt different here—thicker, charged with potential energy that made my skin tingle.
"The Shattered Genesis," I whispered, the words coming from somewhere deeper than memory.
This wasn't just a zone. This was a wound in reality itself, a place where the boundaries between worlds had been torn open and left to heal wrong. The fusion of Metacore's technological brutality and Murim's mystical traditions had created something entirely new—and entirely dangerous.
My gaze swept the area below, automatically cataloging potential threats and escape routes. The warrior's instincts I'd developed over countless battles were screaming warnings, but beneath that was something else. Recognition.
Someone else was here. Another player.
I could feel them the way a shark feels blood in the water—not through any interface or detection system, but through the same instinct that had kept me alive through every death match and dungeon raid. They were skilled. Dangerous. And they had no idea I was watching.
I descended carefully, using a spiral staircase of rusty steel that groaned under my weight. Each step was measured, controlled, my breathing steady despite the adrenaline beginning to course through my system. The sound of my movement was minimal—a technique I'd learned from the Shadow Monks of the Northern Peaks.
Below me, the other player had taken a defensive position. Smart. They'd heard my approach and were preparing for a fight rather than trying to hide or run. That alone told me they were experienced.
My thermal vision kicked in automatically, but the readings were scrambled—whoever this was, they weren't showing up on any of my sensors. Like a ghost made of digital flesh and binary bone.
"Are you a special mob or are you just here to annoy me?" The voice cut through the silence, loud enough to carry but not loud enough to echo. Professional. Controlled. But with an edge that suggested this player was used to being in control.
I stepped around the corner of a collapsed structure, allowing myself to be seen. The other player was exactly what I'd expected—a tech specialist, judging by the armor and the way they held themselves. Artificer class, most likely, with enough levels to be confident in their abilities.
But confidence could be a weakness.
"You've set foot in a place that wasn't meant for you," I said, my voice carrying the calm authority I'd learned from years of meditation. Not a threat—a statement of fact.
The player's eyes narrowed, and I could see them running calculations, trying to assess my level and capabilities. Good instincts, but they were thinking like a gamer. They'd forgotten that in Genesis, especially in a place like this, the old rules didn't always apply.
"So, NPCs now have philosophical lines, or are you just a noob who thinks he's a samurai?" Their response was quick, sarcastic, designed to provoke a reaction.
I almost smiled. Almost.
The tension in the air was palpable now, like the moment before lightning strikes. No cutscene triggered, no dramatic music swelled. Just two predators recognizing each other and making the calculations that would determine who walked away.
I drew my sword in one fluid motion, the blade singing as it cut through the air. The spectral energy that clung to the metal cast dancing shadows on the walls, and I could feel the Wish Mark on my wrist pulse in response to my intent.
The other player—Z3RO, according to the faint nameplate that flickered above their head—leaped back with impressive speed, their gauntlets crackling to life with electromagnetic energy. Smart. Create distance, use superior firepower to control the engagement.
But I'd fought tech specialists before.
The fight erupted like a symphony of violence and precision.
Z3RO's opening move was textbook—a pulse from their right gauntlet, a magnetic wave aimed at my center of mass. The energy crackled through the air, distorting my vision and setting my teeth on edge. Most players would have tried to dodge or block.
I cut through it instead.
My saber moved in a perfect arc, the blade's edge splitting the electromagnetic discharge like it was made of solid matter. The energy dissipated harmlessly around me, absorbed by the spectral matrix that surrounded my weapon.
"Your gadgets," I said, already moving into my next attack, "they're cute."
Z3RO's response was immediate and impressive. Instead of backing down, they charged forward, sliding under my horizontal slash with the kind of fluid grace that spoke of countless hours of practice. As they moved, they placed something on the ground—a small device that began to glow with ominous energy.
EMP trap. Clever.
The device detonated with a sound like reality tearing, sending invisible waves of disruption through the air. My HUD flickered, my enhanced reflexes stuttered, and for a moment I felt the disorientation of systems shutting down and rebooting.
Z3RO didn't waste the opportunity. They spun on their heel and drove their charged gauntlet toward my ribs with enough force to shatter bone. The blow connected with a sound like thunder, and I felt the impact through every fiber of my being.
**[Critical Impact! -198 HP]**
I stumbled back, tasting digital blood as my health bar flashed red. The hit had been perfect—timed precisely to catch me during my system reboot, delivered with the kind of force that came from knowing exactly how much damage was needed to shift the momentum of a fight.
But pain was just data. And data could be processed.
I took two steps back, then stopped. A single drop of blood beaded at my temple, and I could feel Z3RO's satisfaction radiating from them like heat from a forge. They thought they'd won. They thought superior technology and clever tactics would be enough.
They were about to learn otherwise.
I smiled, the expression feeling like a blade being drawn from its sheath.
"Good," I said, my voice carrying the calm of absolute certainty. "But now it's my turn."
I activated Martial Focus Mode, feeling the familiar rush as my consciousness expanded beyond the normal limits of player awareness. The world slowed around me, every detail becoming crystal clear. Z3RO's stance, the way they favored their left side, the slight delay in their armor's response systems—all of it became part of a equation I could solve with violence.
**[Martial Focus Mode: ACTIVATED]**
**[Boost: +20% Movement Speed, +15% Attack Speed, Temporary Automatic Parry]**
I launched myself forward, not with the reckless abandon of a berserker, but with the controlled fury of a master who had found a worthy opponent. My blade became an extension of my will, each strike flowing into the next with the kind of precision that turned combat into art.
First strike: Rising Slash, aimed not at Z3RO's body but at their field of vision. The blade caught the light and threw it back in a brilliant flash, momentarily overwhelming their visual sensors.
Second strike: Spinning Blade, a horizontal cut that used their momentary blindness to attack from an unexpected angle. The impact sent vibrations through their armor, disrupting their balance and setting them up for the final blow.
Third strike: Parry Breaker, a technique that turned their attempt to block into an opportunity. My blade caught their raised gauntlet and used their own momentum against them, spinning them around and leaving them open for the finishing counter.
The combination took less than three seconds. Z3RO hit the ground hard, their armor sparking as systems struggled to compensate for the damage. Their health bar dropped to yellow, and I could see the shock in their eyes as they realized how quickly the fight had turned.
I approached slowly, my blade pointed at their throat. The gesture was formal, respectful—the kind of salute one warrior gave another before delivering the final blow.
"Last chance," I said, my voice carrying no malice, only certainty. "Leave this plane... or leave your avatar here."
Z3RO raised their head slowly, their eyes meeting mine with a mixture of pain and something else. Something that looked almost like... appreciation?
Then they smiled.
"Okay, samurai," they said, their voice carrying a note of genuine respect. "Let's dance for real."
The words hung in the air between us like a challenge, and I found myself nodding slightly. This player—this Z3RO—had proven themselves worthy of a true fight. Not the desperate scrambling of a low-level player, but the skilled combat of someone who understood that in Genesis, defeat was just another form of education.
I stepped back, giving them room to stand. The fight wasn't over—it was just beginning.
**End of Chapter 10 — Part 1**