Waiting Room (2)

"Yeah."

I don't know if my response even got through. The same white landscape greets me, along with the settlement sheet.

I skimmed over it and closed it out of habit. Habit? Looks like even this is starting to feel routine.

Routine. If shuttling between battlefields and the waiting room counts as routine, then sure.

"Ha."

A half-sigh, half-laugh slipped from my lips.

Being on the battlefield was pretty fun, in its own way. At first, I thought it was because of Berga's body—this bloodthirst etched into it or whatever. Some kinda chuunibyou bullshit, you know? But nah. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Killing monsters and holding off waves without a second thought? That's real.

Of course, if someone told me to kill people, it'd be a different story.

Now I kinda get why it felt so good. I was lonely. In this stark white room.

Battlefields have more than just monsters—people too. Folks guarding the walls and everything inside. Drinking, singing, cheering on their warriors. Fighting alongside them, winning with them... that's the thrill. My overwhelming victories easing the tears in their eyes? Feels damn good.

Defense games are all about protecting something, after all.

Naturally, my body tilts onto the bed, head sinking into the pillow. Somehow, I can faintly hear the soldiers' songs and the warriors' stomping from some distant place.

"Ughhh..."

A long stretch after a solid nap straightens out my stiff body. Loose sleeves slide down my outstretched arms. My elbow catches my eye.

'A hole got punched here. Right through my bone.'

All the buried blood, sweat, and dirt vanishes when I return to the waiting room. So what about wounds? If they heal clean too, then as long as it's not a fatal one, I could just wait for recall, right? No potion costs. No agony.

Plus, I've got that Avenger bomb necklace as a last resort.

Having a way to test it right away is nice. I opened the community board.

Hmm? So recall doesn't heal wounds either. More importantly, the waiting room doesn't auto-clean. Gotta drink potions on the battlefield. Or better yet, don't get hit.

Speaking of guns. The weapon shop had 'em for sure.

'No reason it wouldn't.'

Fortress of End uses every damn backdrop imaginable. Modern gunpowder wars, future sci-fi battles, underwater fights—you name it. Switching accounts to peep different fields ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was fun back in the day.

'But as a merc, it's less fun and more...'

Since becoming Berga, I've only seen two medieval walls and one jungle. Weapon of choice? Daggers.

"Hm."

Too damn fantasy. Was it 'cause my old Jeong Ji-hoon account was medieval walls? Or good luck?

Dodging bullets sounds rough. Can't exactly plate up in full armor either. Skills shop feels more urgent than ever.

I scrolled down the board further. Communities suck you in—you can't stop.

That so? Massive axe warrior... Probably that frontliner chanting.

"Black lightning..."

Feels kinda—nah, pretty damn proud. And reading this stuff... another side of me creeps out.

This feeling. I'm alive.

Time to close community and stock some potions—then the blinking contract tab catches my eye.

What? ...Two things hit me.

First, time flows differently between battlefields and here. She said one message per wave, so at least three waves passed. Gaps between waves are long, so waiting room time must run faster.

Second, Lena's a bit... Nah. Don't go there.

Next.

Her tone feels more mature somehow. The attached sponsorship? Anyway, not bad.

Makes the community randos and contracted commanders feel close, like they're right here.

Finally. No clue how long it's been. Calls dried up after Nakan Jungle—waiting room life got boring.

No day-night cycle, no fatigue, no hunger. Static days. Without day or night, is it even a day?

Bored as hell, anyway.

"Wave 8? Frontline?"

My mutter gets answered by white light pulling me there. Dirt crumbles under my feet. Eyes open to battlefield... Huh?

Dirt floor, got it. But everything—front, back—is just dirt.

'Trap?'

"Damn! What a screw-up!"

A sharp woman's voice cracks out. Short blonde, tough vibe. Gotta be the commander... Huh? Military uniform.

Not the familiar kind, but definitely a uniform. Behind her, long earthen walls and supplies stretch out.

Not a trap. I spawned in a trench.

"What a pointless waste... Shit..."

Commander spits curses again. Doesn't even clock I'm here.

'Waste?'

"Berga, right? Situation's urgent—bear with me. Your summon was a mistake."

"Mistake?"

"Yes. You look like a cold-weapon era assassin merc. Unfortunately, Gravenfelt Frontline is, as you see."

Erika nods at the rifle slung over her shoulder instead of finishing. Long gouged trenches, soldiers hustling ammo. Me in fantasy yukata-tunic ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mix with daggers.

This is a hot-weapons battlefield—rifles, grenades. And I'm the short-armed medieval brute who got dropped in.

"Can't cancel the summon, so... do your best. If you can do anything."

Blatant dismissal.

"Commander! Urgent report—wave start signs confirmed!"

"Roger. Soldiers, hold positions. We endure with Gravenfelt's strength alone."

"Yes sir!"

'Gravenfelt's strength alone?'

Erika's treating me like air. Fleeting side-eyes during the report reeked of annoyance.

I get it's a headache. Mistake or not, that's 2,000 Cron down the drain. Fair to be pissed.

But no "good luck" or "survive together"? Too much to ask?

Me to just take this shit? Insult me behind my back if you want—don't do it to my face.

You fucked up the summon yourself and blame me? I can't even decline calls.

"Commander. I have demands."

"What? Spit it out. If it helps the battlefield, approved."

"Helmet. One rifle. Four mags. One assistant gunner."

"What...?"

You asked what I could do, right? Berga's an assassin, sure. Old-school too. But Jeong Ji-hoon? Proud full-term discharge from a divided nation's army, sergeant rank.