The sound isolation device continued its faint hum, sealing the tent in artificial silence. Raymond remained standing, one hand still resting on Rakheel's shoulder—not comfort, but control. His mind churned through what he'd just heard, trying to force the pieces into patterns that made sense. People not of this world, descending periodically, talking about mission ratings like it was all scripted—nothing about this felt like simple transmigration anymore.
Raymond's grip on Rakheel's shoulder tightened slightly, just enough to remind the merchant of what would happen if he started lying again.
"How many people like me have you dealt with?"
His voice stayed level, conversational even, but the threat underneath was clear.
Rakheel swallowed hard, his throat working against the residual pain in his gut. His eyes flicked up to Raymond's face, then away, unable to hold that cold stare.
"Not many. Only three."
The answer came quickly, almost too quickly. Raymond watched for the tells—the micro-expressions, the shift in posture, the cadence of speech. But Rakheel seemed genuine this time, his fear overriding any instinct to embellish or hedge.
Three. Not counting Raymond himself.
So they're rare. Not common enough to be predictable, but regular enough that a merchant family could build a strategy around them.
Raymond's grip loosened. He stepped back, moving around the table with deliberate slowness before settling into his chair. The wood creaked under his weight.
Rakheel's shoulders sagged with visible relief. His breath came easier now, though he still cradled his stomach with one hand.
Raymond leaned back, eyes never leaving the merchant's face.
"Tell me everything those three did. Every detail."
Rakheel nodded quickly and began talking.
The merchant's voice filled the tent for the better part of half an hour, recounting encounters, transactions, behaviours. Raymond listened without interrupting, cataloguing every detail, searching for patterns.
When Rakheel finally finished, Raymond had more questions than answers.
The first two people the merchant described seemed straightforward enough. They'd been lured into helping Rakheel's family in exchange for safe passage to the nearest town—exactly the same play Rakheel had attempted with him. Simple transactional relationships. Nothing strange about that.
The third one, though.
That one had helped Rakheel willingly enough. Made it to town without incident. Then, once inside the settlement, he'd gone on a killing spree. Not targeted. Not tactical. Just random violence that drew the local militia down on him like a hammer. They'd raided his position, overwhelmed him with numbers. He'd died under their assault.
But according to Rakheel, the man had been laughing the entire time. Even as the bullets tore into him, even as his blood painted the sand red, he'd laughed like it was all some grand joke.
That's why Rakheel said people like them didn't fear death.
Raymond sat in silence, turning it over in his mind.
Truly bizarre.
He couldn't think of a single reason why someone would go to such lengths only to get themselves killed. No tactical advantage. No apparent objective. Just senseless violence followed by suicidal defiance.
What the hell was that about?
Slowly, a strange conjecture formed in Raymond's mind.
What if all of this is some sort of game?
Like those old films—Predator, Hunger Games. People dropped into environments, forced to survive, hunted or hunting. But for what purpose? Entertainment for whoever was watching? Some twisted coming-of-age ceremony for a civilization that had grown bored with regular challenges?
Still too little information.
The thought felt incomplete, unsatisfying. It explained some things but not others. Why the mission ratings? Why the system interface? Why—
Then it hit him. A bulb switching on in a dark room.
What if it's a simulation?
The Simulation Hypothesis. He'd read about it years ago, back when he'd had time for that kind of philosophical rabbit hole. The idea that reality itself might be a constructed program, indistinguishable from the real thing. His system interface—the clean UI, the gamified stats, the achievement notifications. The way those other "people not of this world" had talked about mission ratings like they were checking a scoreboard. Players. They'd been players in an elaborate simulation game.
The more he turned it over, the more the pieces locked into place. Everything made sense through that lens. The impossibility of his capture, the mechanical soldiers, the holographic displays, Rakheel's matter-of-fact acceptance of people descending into his world periodically like scheduled events.
A pale blue window materialized in front of him.
< ACHIEVEMENT: Discern the truth of the world! >
< REWARD: 100 Reputation Points >
Raymond's breath caught. His pulse hammered in his throat. The system had just confirmed his deduction. Proved it. This wasn't just paranoid theorizing—it was real.
His mind felt like static, thoughts fragmenting and reforming in rapid succession. But training overrode panic. His eyes flicked immediately to Rakheel.
The merchant stared back at him, confused and nervous, but showing no reaction to the floating display between them.
He can't see it.
The system panel was Raymond's alone.
Raymond pushed the revelation aside. He'd process it later, when he wasn't sitting across from a terrified merchant who might still have useful information.
He fixed Rakheel with another hard stare, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make the man squirm.
"Alright. You've got a deal. I'll help you with whatever you need."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping.
"But unlike my predecessors, I won't be putting my life into unnecessary danger. In return, you provide me with all the support I need. Food, water, transport, information—whatever I ask for."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"Understood?"
The last word came out sharp, demanding.
Rakheel's head bobbed up and down like a chicken pecking grain. Fear still painted his features—the wide eyes, the shallow breathing, the way his hands trembled against the table. But something else crept across his face too. Relief. A smile began to form at the corners of his mouth, stretching wider even as tears still streaked down his cheeks.
The combination made him look slightly unhinged.
Failed to trick him, but if he helps willingly, that's even better, Rakheel thought, his racing mind already calculating advantages. And this one seems far more competent than the others. Controlled. Professional. If he survives...
Raymond acted as if he didn't notice the bizarre smile.
"Okay. I'm going to head back and freshen up first. We can have a proper chat later and decide exactly what help I can provide."
He stood from the chair, the wood scraping against the tent floor. Just before turning towards the exit, he stopped and glanced back.
"Oh, and don't let anyone know what happened here. If those mercenaries ask, just say I hired you to be my guide for a boatload of money. Tell them they'll get a share too if they assist me properly."
His eyes locked onto Rakheel's.
"Got it?"
"Yes... yes! I will do so. Thank you—"
Raymond cut him off with a raised hand.
"Wipe the tears and snot off your face before you talk to those guys."
He turned and walked towards the tent flap.
"I'm off."
Raymond stepped through the tent flap into the morning sunlight. The guards straightened slightly as he emerged, their eyes tracking him with wary curiosity. Sayeed stood a few paces away, arms crossed, that chain sword still strapped across his back. His expression carried questions he didn't voice.
Raymond met their gazes briefly, offered nothing, and turned towards the oasis.
His boots crunched across sand and sparse grass as he made his way to the water's edge. The lake sat still and clear, reflecting the pale blue sky like polished glass. Date palm fronds rustled overhead, casting shifting shadows across the ground.
He knelt by the shore, cupped his hands, and brought the cool water to his face. The shock of it helped clear some of the fog from his mind.
A simulation.
The word felt strange even thinking it. But the achievement notification had confirmed it. This world, this desert, Rakheel, the mechanical soldiers, the train—all of it constructed. Programmed. Artificial.
But that just opened more questions.
What triggered it? Why am I here?
He splashed more water across his face, scrubbing at the grit and dried sweat.
What's the objective? Complete missions? Survive? Reach some endpoint?
The system gave him achievements for escaping captivity, for figuring out the truth. But it didn't tell him what he was supposed to do with that knowledge. No quest markers. No clear goals beyond survival.
How does one exit?
That was the real question, wasn't it? The one that mattered most.
His mind went back to Rakheel's story. The third predecessor. The one who'd helped the merchant, reached town, then gone on a killing spree. Died laughing as the militia tore him apart.
Maybe death is the way out.
Raymond stared at his reflection in the water, watching it ripple and reform.
But if death was the exit, you could just take your own life.
That seemed too simple. Too easy. Simulations like this—training programs, tests, games—they usually had rules. Safeguards. You couldn't just opt out whenever things got difficult.
Unless... there's a restriction. Only being killed by others counts?
That would explain the predecessor's behavior. Picking a fight he couldn't win. Forcing the system to end him through external means rather than suicide.
He splashed another handful of water on his face.
He'd learned so much in the past hour—Rakheel's secrets, the existence of other participants, the simulation theory confirmed by his own system. Information kept piling up, one revelation after another, filling his mind like courses at a massive buffet.
And yet he still felt empty. Unsatisfied. Still hungry for the answers that actually mattered.
Did the original body owner know about this?
The question surfaced unbidden, sharp and insistent.
Raymond closed his eyes, reaching inward, searching for any fragment of memory that didn't belong to him. Any scrap of knowledge about this body's life, its history, why it had been in that container.
Nothing.
Just darkness where those memories should be. A void where another person's entire existence had been erased.
He shook his head, frustration building like pressure behind his temples.
Or maybe forgetting is part of the simulation. Everyone enters with a blank slate, no past identity to cloud their performance.
But that didn't track either. If memory wipe was universal, how would his predecessors have known to talk about mission ratings? They'd understood what they were doing, where they were, what the rules were. They'd had context Raymond lacked entirely.
Damn it!
He splashed another handful of water onto his face, harder this time, the impact stinging his skin. The frustration twisted in his gut—not just at the missing answers, but at his own helplessness. Flying blind in a game where everyone else seemed to know the rules.
Then his ears caught something.
A faint sound. Mechanical. Distant but growing louder.
Engines.
Raymond's head snapped up. His body went still, every sense sharpening, tuning to the noise. Not one engine—multiple. Heavy vehicles moving fast across sand.
He turned towards the camp.
The mercenaries had reacted too. Sayeed's hand had already moved to the chain sword on his back. The guards by Rakheel's tent were scanning the horizon, rifles coming off their shoulders. Shouts rang out across the camp as others scrambled to defensive positions.
On the horizon, shapes emerged from the heat shimmer. Dune buggies—four of them, maybe five—racing towards the oasis at speed. Sand kicked up behind them in rooster tails, forming a storm cloud that announced their approach like a banner. The engines' roar grew louder, cutting through the morning air.
The mercenaries moved with practiced efficiency. Shouts rang across the camp as they formed a defensive perimeter, spreading out to cover angles of approach. Rifles came up. Bodies dropped into cover behind carts and supply crates. The disciplined chaos of people who'd done this before.
Raymond didn't wait to see more.
He sprinted towards the central tent. The guards who'd been posted at the entrance were gone—called back to reinforce the defensive line. The tent flap hung open, unguarded.
He ducked inside.
Rakheel was there, fumbling with something near his bed, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Worry carved deep lines across his weathered face, made worse by the golden circuits tracing his skin. His hands shook as they searched through a storage chest.
When he looked up and saw Raymond, relief flooded his expression.
"Who are they?"
Raymond's voice came sharp, no preamble.
Rakheel straightened, abandoning whatever he'd been looking for.
"Sand Rats. Escaped convicts from Cyber City." The words tumbled out fast, urgent. "They operate in the desert, harassing caravans, robbing anyone who crosses their territory. They're—"
"How many?"
"Usually five to eight. Sometimes more if they're desperate."
Raymond's mind was already working through tactical considerations—numbers, weapons, defensive positions—but something else nagged at him. An inconsistency that didn't fit.
This world had high-tech weapons. Glowing batteries, mechanical soldiers, rifles with energy panels. But the caravan used pack animals to transport goods. Beasts of burden instead of trucks. Yet these bandits—the Sand Rats—they had vehicles. Working engines. Fuel.
"Why do they have vehicles when you're using animals?"
Rakheel blinked, caught off guard by the question in the middle of a crisis. But he answered anyway.
"Fuel is a luxury item. Controlled by the government. According to Sultanate law, only authorized parties can possess it—military, officials, licensed merchants with special permits." His voice carried bitter resignation. "It's expensive. Restricted. Most of us can't afford it even if we could get authorization."
He gestured vaguely towards the sound of approaching engines.
"Only outlaws like the Sand Rats dare to defy the Sultanate. They steal fuel from government convoys, black market refineries. They don't care about the consequences because they're already condemned."
Raymond nodded. Probably just the world's setting. Resource scarcity as a control mechanism.
He filed it away and moved on to what mattered.
"Do you have a weapon I can use?"
Rakheel hesitated. His eyes darted to the storage chest, then back to Raymond. Nervousness flickered across his face—the kind that came from handing over power to someone unpredictable.
Raymond's brows creased slightly.
That was all it took. Rakheel practically lunged for the chest, hands moving quickly now. He pulled out a handgun wrapped in cloth and thrust it towards Raymond.
"Here. Take it."
Raymond unwrapped the weapon, turning it over in his hands. The design was unfamiliar—angular lines, grip texture that felt synthetic rather than polymer or wood, the slide machined in a pattern he didn't recognize. The weight distribution felt slightly off, not quite balanced the way he was used to. But his fingers found the safety mechanism easily enough. Positioned where it should be, thumb-activated. The trigger guard, the trigger itself, the general mechanics—all familiar territory despite the foreign aesthetics.
He worked the action. Smooth. Whatever cosmetic differences existed, the gun functioned like any other semi-automatic he'd handled.
Good enough.
Raymond gave a curt nod.
Then gunfire erupted outside.
Sharp cracks, overlapping, the distinctive sound of a firefight in full swing. Multiple weapons firing at once, the reports echoing across the camp and bouncing off the oasis rocks.
Both men flinched.
Raymond was already moving. He turned towards the tent flap, the handgun gripped properly now, finger off the trigger, muzzle angled down. His free hand shot back towards Rakheel.
"Magazines."
Rakheel scrambled back to the chest and pulled out two spare magazines, pressing them into Raymond's outstretched palm. Raymond pocketed them without looking and headed for the exit.
"Hide well."
He didn't wait for Rakheel's response. The tent flap parted and he stepped back into the morning light.