Deckard floated between the reefs, doing his best to blend in.

  “Do you really think we’ll be able to scoop up the loot in the middle of all this chaos?” he heard one of the nearby players comment.

  “Yesterday, a solo player managed it. I think our odds are good—especially if we stick together.”

  “Right. Let’s go over the plan one more time. First, you…”

  “Quiet!”

  One of them nodded toward Deckard nearby. The other one continued in a lower voice.

  Deckard chuckled.

  They sure are optimistic. Then again... so am I.

  Even though guilds got most of the kills, Deckard had seen the moment they were talking about. In a particularly chaotic battle, a solo player had managed to land the final hit and even get away with a bit of the loot. It had been sheer luck, and the chances of someone here tonight pulling that off were slim at best.

  Still, that player’s success was all the proof some of these people needed. They believed they’d be the next lucky ones. You could see it in the way they clutched their gear, already imagining the loot notification pop into their log.

  Most were alone, but a few had formed temporary pairs or trios, whispering to each other just out of earshot. No one trusted anyone—not fully—but for now, they shared the same unspoken truce.

  Others were more easygoing, drifting in loose groups, laughing and swapping jokes without bothering to whisper. For them, it wasn’t about getting a kill or loot. It was about being here and experiencing what it felt like to fight a wild boss.

  Three guilds were competing for the wild boss this time. Deckard only knew the name of one—the CocoaNuts. They’d lost the last contest, but as soon as the victors left, they claimed the best reefs. They held the high ground—better sightlines, more rafts, and the shortest path to the boss’s likely spawn.

  Of the other two guilds, one moved in coordinated silence, as if this weren’t a game, but a real battle against a monster. The third was louder, more chaotic—half the players chatting, the other half preparing their gear.

  “You darn CocoaNuts! You’ve tried to sabotage our raft! Did you think we wouldn’t see your divers trying to cut the ropes underwater?”

  “Shut up, Brawly! You are all liars!”

  “Ha! Your guilds sicken me! I’m this close to disbanding my guild to join the guildless players. They’re the true heroes.”

  “Oh, be quiet, you bootlicker!”

  “Your whole guild’s just a walking donation box!”

  Players stationed on the rafts hurled one last round of insults across the water, loud enough for the guildless to hear. Deckard recognized the play. They weren’t just taunting each other. They were fishing for allies.

  Further out, flashes lit up the murk—bursts of light from skill activations. A few players weren’t interested in the wild boss at all. They hunted regular turtles below or along the reef wall, and their skill effects painted the depths with flickering bursts of light, casting shifting shadows across the floating crowd.

  For Deckard, they weren’t just skills. They were fireworks—an early celebration for his win.

  He took stock of his preparations. Full oxygen tank—check. He opened his inventory and double-checked the gear tucked away. Secret weapon—check.

  He scanned the battlefield. Four factions. That worked in his favor.

  The darkness helped, too. While the flash of [Subdimensionalize] would be more noticeable in low light, the rest of his plan relied on shadows and confusion.

  Conversations died off around him. Players fell silent and gripped their weapons. Then the water began to pull inward. A whirlpool twisted at the center of the bay, subtle at first, then growing fast.

  The Turtle Mother had surfaced.

  Deckard had watched this moment from a distance before—high on a cliff, dry and detached. Being in the middle of it, with the beast rising not far away and waves rocking the water around him, was an entirely different experience.

  Its shell breached the surface like a rising island, slick and enormous, sending waves in every direction. Swimmers kicked to stabilize; rafts tilted hard as players struggled to hold their footing. One raft, closer to the spawn location, nearly capsized.

  Even before the ripples settled, the first wave of skills lit up the water—arcs of light, kinetic bursts, and heavy impacts. There was no signal. No countdown. Just chaos breaking loose.

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  Melee fighters surged forward, some swimming directly in, while others approached in their rafts. To avoid suspicion, Deckard swam with the others toward the Turtle Mother and gave it a few light spear swipes. Nothing serious—just enough to trigger the combat log and make it look like he cared. He even let out a fake battle cry for good measure.

  The Turtle Mother fought back immediately. Its head snapped forward in sweeping arcs, knocking back anyone who got too close. Every few moments, a telekinetic pulse surged outward, causing Deckard and the others to tumble.

  Still, the players continued to press in. The turtle retracted its limbs and went still, only to suddenly strike from a second opening in its shell, catching one of the frontliners in the side and hurling them across the water.

  The pattern had seemed too simple when Deckard had watched it from a distance, but now, in the middle of it all, it was harder to track, harder to breathe. Skill effects cut across each other, sounds were muffled but constant, and warning flashes flickered all around as players scrambled to avoid friendly fire. Several didn’t succeed.

  Despite the disorder, the guilds continued with their usual strategy. From their rafts, they concentrated their efforts on drawing the boss toward their reefs. The CocoaNuts were winning the tug-of-war. The turtle, under pressure, began drifting in their direction.

  Deckard kept to himself, away from the rafts, letting the other players and guilds fight their tug-of-war while he stayed unnoticed.

  The Turtle Mother suddenly reared back—not to retreat, not to feint. Its eyes pulsed with energy, and the water around it vibrated with a low, unnatural hum. A grunt tore across the bay, not from players but from the beast itself.

  Deckard grinned.

  Finally!

  The boss was going berserk. It wouldn't last much longer. This was the climax of the battle, and every player in the fight was scrambling to position themselves, calculating paths to where the loot would drop and possible escape routes before it all went up in a storm of violence.

  Deckard had been waiting for this moment. As the series of three telekinetic blasts rippled outward, he quietly slipped back, away from the front line. He counted them out—one, two, three—and risked a glance around. The players closest to him were laser-focused on the boss, eyes narrowed, weapons raised, skills already queued.

  No one was looking at him.

  Seizing the moment, Deckard dove down. Being underwater would add a layer of covertness to his next moves. He opened his inventory and retrieved the two turtle shells he had prepared.

  When he’d glued these together, he left a few holes in them—just large enough for him to fit his hands and feet through. Curling himself into a tight ball, he drew the halves around his limbs and chest, tucking in as tightly as he could. The curve of the shell pressed against his back and knees.

  Now I have to hope the Turtle Mother is fooled.

  Another psionic pulse tore through the battlefield. Deckard held his breath. Then he felt it—the soft upward tug, gentle at first, then undeniable. The water churned around him as he began to rise, drawn upward by an invisible force.

  Yes! Yes! Yes!

  There had been no way to test whether this would work. He’d read a year-old post where someone claimed they'd pulled this off for fun, but it was just one obscure post with no way of confirming it. But now that he was here, suspended alongside the real turtles, the most uncertain part of his plan had already fallen into place.

  Water drained from the interior of the shell as it rose. Telekinetic force cradled his makeshift disguise, guiding it into a wide, rotating ring above the boss, leaving him dizzy and dry. Through one of the spyholes he had left in the shell, Deckard peered out.

  The battlefield lay below in spirals of movement and motion. The three shockwaves had pushed everyone back. The guilds were scrambling to re-engage. And with the shells spinning rapidly, none of them would be able to tell that one of them wasn’t quite right. His was bigger, clunkier—but in the dark, from a distance, caught in motion? No one would see the difference.

  It was time.

  He adjusted inside the shell, careful not to break his disguise. His legs tensed, keeping the halves pressed together, while he freed one hand and worked it toward the nearest spyhole. Slowly, steadily, he slipped his hand through, holding a card between his fingers.

  Subdimensionalize!

  A vortex of light burst forth, wrapping around the Turtle Mother. With its health nearly gone and his Understanding maxed, it had little resistance left. The boss let out a final distorted cry as the vortex pulled it in.

  The ring of hovering turtle shells collapsed, dropping into the water below.

  Deckard’s shell hit the surface and bobbed once before sinking. As soon as it touched down, he slipped out. The other players would be on their way. He didn’t have much time.

  He’d dropped right where the boss had fallen. A shimmer in the water caught his eye—loot.

  Please be there. Please be there.

  A quick glance revealed a pile of coins, a chunk of turtle shell, a helmet, and a card. He grabbed the card and the helmet, left the rest behind, and kicked away fast.

  He swam toward the nearest safe spot he could find, nestled in a cleft behind a coral cluster. Without hesitation, he activated his skill and curled inward.

  Dumpster Disguise.

  Instantly, trash from his inventory clung to him in clumps. From the outside, he looked like nothing more than a clump of sunken trash caught in the reef.

  From his hiding spot, Deckard watched as the chaos unfolded.

  The first players to arrive were from the CocoaNuts. They spotted the gold and the shell, but their expressions soured. It was too little. A wild boss was supposed to drop more than this. Deckard could practically hear their frustration.

  They pocketed what was left, only for more players to arrive before they could thoroughly search the area.

  And then it started.

  Everyone knew the rules. If a player picked up boss loot, they were guaranteed to drop it within 60 seconds of picking it up if they died.

  Newcomers took down the two CocoaNut fighters and grabbed the loot. But the guild reacted fast—reinforcements closed in almost immediately. The first thief didn’t last long. In the chaos, a solo opportunist snatched the prize, but the CocoaNuts were on him in seconds. He went down just as fast.

  The brawl spiraled from there, a whirlpool of shifting ownership. Players turned on each other. Rafts capsized. The reef lit up with skill effects.

  He stayed still, breathing slow and shallow, his body camouflaged beneath banana peels and plastic wrappers.

  I’ll leave you all to it.

  He smiled faintly, opened his menu, and tapped the logout button. He had what he came for. Let the rest fight over scraps.

  He was going to take a well-earned nap.