Deckard looked down from the lighthouse to the jagged islet below. Trash Islet. The name was well-deserved. A small, rocky patch of land perpetually battered by the ocean’s currents, the islet acted as a natural garbage collector. Discarded nets, broken barrels, rotting wood, and other flotsam littered the uneven surface. The only signs of life were the seagulls and crabs scavenging the debris—and the players who hunted them.

  Trash Islet wasn’t a major destination for most players. A few would make the swim to chat with the grizzled lighthouse keeper, an NPC with a long chain quest that Deckard had zero interest in pursuing. What drew his attention now wasn’t the keeper or the garbage-strewn terrain—it was the chaotic scene unfolding below.

  For the second time since he’d arrived here, two elite monsters duked it out at the Trash Islet. The Trash-Eating Seagull flapped its grimy wings, launching globs of wet trash with machine-gun efficiency, while the Burrowing Crab darted in and out of the battlefield, burrowing into the piles of garbage and emerging unpredictably to snap at its opponent. They charged, dodged, and parried in a complex, choreographed performance, yet neither seemed capable of hurting the other..

  The only damage was being dealt to and by players.

  A dozen of them swarmed the islet, trying to whittle down the HP bars of both elites. Some players teamed up, focusing on a single target, while others took a more chaotic approach, slinging abilities in every direction. No matter their strategy, the result was the same: collateral damage.

  The Burrowing Crab would disappear beneath the surface, only to resurface moments later in an eruption of trash, knocking players into the air or leaving them half-buried in debris. Meanwhile, the Trash-Eating Seagull kept up its relentless assault, bombarding the battlefield with disgusting, sticky projectiles that slowed movement and obscured vision.

  Fighting an elite that targeted you was challenging, but hunting one that ignored you entirely brought its own set of difficulties. Their movements were erratic and unpredictable, forcing players to stay on constant alert. Keeping pace with the elites drained stamina quickly, and focusing too intently on one often left players vulnerable to surprise attacks from the other.

  They really love to make it miserable for us, don’t they? Deckard thought, leaning on the lighthouse railing. The developers had leaned hard into the “messy” theme, turning the encounter into a grueling test of patience and positioning.

  It wasn’t all bad, though. From his vantage point, Deckard was gaining something far more valuable than loot or experience points: Understanding. His sharp eyes followed every movement, every attack, every unique interaction between the two elites. The system rewarded his keen observation with a familiar notification:

  You’ve seen the Trash-Eating Seagull fighting the Burrowing Crab.

  Your Understanding of them has grown.

  He was quickly raking in Understanding points of both elites.

  Finally, after an exhausting back-and-forth of trash bombs and burrow strikes, the Trash-Eating Seagull let out a final squawk and collapsed into the debris with a plume of feathers and muck. The battlefield erupted in chaos as players converged on the loot. Swords clashed, skills flashed, and shouts rang out as participants tried to claim their share of the spoils—or at least prevent someone else from walking away with them.

  Meanwhile, a smaller but no less determined group of players shifted their focus to the Burrowing Crab, trying to get the kill while most of the competition was distracted by the seagull’s loot. The crab’s movements grew slower and more erratic as its HP dwindled, its burrowing attacks becoming desperate. Finally, with a sickening crunch, the crab’s massive form collapsed. The frenzy over the crab’s loot was less heated than the seagull’s. With fewer contenders, the loot distribution sorted itself out more quickly.

  You’ve seen the Trash-Eating Seagull and the Burrowing Crab die.

  Your Understanding of them has grown.

  The carnage below began to subside as players looted what they could and drifted back to their respective objectives. Deckard took out the dimensional binder and checked the two drawings of the elites. They looked colorful and vivid.

  “I should be able to attempt a capture next time they spawn,” Deckard murmured.

  Moments later, the lighthouse became lively as winners and losers of the battle made their way up the winding staircase to the top of the lighthouse. Some to lick their wounds, others to collect their spoils.

  Among them was a player Deckard recognized. The guy was hard to forget, with his lanky gait and the rusty pipe in his hand.

  He’s one of the guys who followed me into the village.

  Even though Deckard’s heart was drumming in his ears, he kept his cool. The player with the rusty pipe approached the lighthouse keeper, who greeted him with a few gruff words and a nod. After a brief exchange, HercMerc handed over a bundle of items—mostly trash, though a few gleaming trinkets stood out.

  In return, the lighthouse keeper reached into a weathered chest and pulled out a shimmering reward. HercMerc’s eyes lit up as the notification flashed above his head, his character visibly leveling up on the spot. Nearby players glanced over, some muttering under their breath.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Deckard watched as the player pulled out a cape made of seagull feathers and threw it over his shoulders with an exaggerated flourish. He turned on his heel, striking a dramatic pose.

  “Ha! Ha! Ha! This cape really suits me,” HercMerc crowed. “Bow before the king of trash!”

  “Tsk. Get over yourself, dude,” a nearby player shot back. “You only got that because you were lucky.”

  “Lucky? Please,” the player scoffed. “You were flailing around like a noob and still missed the [Trash-Crushing Beak]. Not my fault you’re slow.”

  “Slow?” The player bristled, his hand hovering over his weapon. “You sucker punched me to get that drop, you jerk!”

  “Yeah, well, it’s called strategy. Learn it sometime,” the player with the rusty pipe sneered, adjusting the cape as if it were a royal robe.

  The tension thickened as the players traded barbs, but the player with the rusty pipe finally waved them off with a dismissive laugh. “Don’t hate the player; hate the game.”

  Satisfied with his parting words, HercMerc turned to leave—and his eyes landed directly on Deckard. For a moment, their eyes met. Deckard’s grip tightened instinctively around the railing, his mind racing.

  Does he recognize me?

  HercMerc’s stare lingered a little too long. Deckard forced himself to remain still, his face calm, though every muscle in his body was ready to bolt. Finally, HercMerc shrugged, muttering something under his breath, and strode toward the staircase. Deckard exhaled quietly, forcing himself to relax as the player descended the lighthouse stairs and disappeared from view.

  Close call, Deckard thought, his heart still pounding. But the disguise held up. Either that or that guy has a great poker face. He allowed himself a wry grin. Even if he recognized me, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got these two elites locked in.

  *

  Deckard descended the winding lighthouse stairs, his boots clanging softly on the worn steps. The battlefield below had quieted. Most players were idling, hunting the smaller mobs that scuttled across the trash-strewn terrain, or rummaging through piles in search of specific quest items.

  He ignored them all.

  His focus was elsewhere, his eyes darting between the lighthouse towering above and the labyrinth made up of garbage and rock. He paused, tilted his head, and recalibrated his position. “Aha! I think that’s it,” he muttered, his gaze settling on a familiar landmark: a heap of trash dominated by a large, rusting blue refrigerator.

  He climbed onto the pile and began shifting debris, mimicking the actions of others around him. To any casual observer, he was just another player scavenging for quest items. Broken planks, tangled fishing lines, and dented metal clattered as he worked. Each time he moved a piece, he kept an eye on the surrounding players, blending into the bustle. He formed a hole, carefully piling trash around it to heighten its walls.

  Thank goodness the sea washed all this garbage clean, he thought, wrinkling his nose. This would suck if there was rotting food in here.

  He worked methodically, deepening the hole and expanding its edges. To avoid drawing suspicion, he moved back and forth between the pile and nearby trash heaps, never lingering in one spot too long.

  As the sun dipped toward the horizon, a cold breeze swept across the islet. The sky darkened, shadows stretching across the terrain. The dim light wasn’t essential to his plan, but it would help hide him from prying eyes. Once he was satisfied with his progress, he glanced around to confirm no one was watching, then slid into the hole. The heap shifted beneath him as he lowered himself. Trash crunched and scraped against his armor, sending an oddly hollow echo through the heap.

  The air inside the hole was dense and damp, and smelled like salt and metal. The walls of his makeshift den pressed in around him, a cocoon of discarded fragments that muffled the noise of the outside world. Loose bits of trash settled around his shoulders and knees as he adjusted his position.

  Inside the heap of trash, he could dig without fearing discovery. He deepened his hideout, reinforcing the walls around him and covering his den with a layer of debris. Only a small gap was left open—a narrow slit through which he could watch the outside world. Using a long piece of driftwood, he carved out a secondary spyhole aimed at the lighthouse.

  Finally, his den was complete. Deckard wiped his forehead, leaning back for a moment to catch his breath. Checking the clock, he saw there was still an hour left until the elites respawned.

  Players nearby were busy fighting mobs or combing through other trash piles, oblivious to Deckard. Confident he was undetected, Deckard retrieved two cards and set them in his lap.

  The next two elites are mine.

  *

  JustTin leaned against a coconut tree as he took the call from HercMerc.

  “I think I saw the mysterious player who stole the Coconut Seagull from us,” HercMerc said.

  JustTin’s frown deepened. “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Seventy percent sure,” HercMerc replied evenly.

  “Seventy?” JustTin repeated. “Why only seventy?”

  “We never got to see him up close last time,” HercMerc explained. “And his gear’s different now. Could be him, could be someone else. But the way he moves, the way he keeps watching the battlefield—it feels suspicious. I think he's planning to do it again.”

  “I see… Where is he? I'll come and meet you.”

  “In exchange for this little tip,” HercMerc continued, “I want the loot from the elite he's gunning for. All of it.”

  JustTin bit his lip. So that was why HercMerc had kept quiet about the location of the sighting.

  “Deal,” JustTin said finally, though the word tasted bitter. “Where is he?”“Trash Islet.”

  JustTin licked his lips. It was a place with two elites! He was going to do it again!

  He’d combed through the forums after the Coconut Seagull debacle, but he couldn’t figure out how the mysterious player had pulled it off. That skill—whatever it was—was a complete anomaly. If he could see it in action again, maybe he’d uncover a clue.

  But even if he couldn’t, payback was worth the effort. Losing an elite under his nose had been humiliating. In the real world, he’d have no choice but to let it slide. However, in this world of make-believe, he could actually beat up anyone who wronged him. It was part of the fun of the game.

  He opened his message app and typed a quick note to Louie. It was time to head to Trash Islet.