Martin MacMillan slowly got out of his old, but comfortable and cherished virtual gaming cabin, taking off his Cybercore inductive VR helmet and gently putting it down. He sat up and paused, weary of old age.

Tiptoeing through the study, he arrived at his bedroom, and went for the door.

“Marty, are you going to bed yet? It's dawn already. You should know better than that,” a drowsy voice of his beloved wife welcomed him, though he'd rather if it didn't.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart, I'll be right back. I'll just check on the kids.”

“You are a bad influence on them. I thought you would learn by now,” she chastised with closed eyes, unmoving.

Martin didn't really have an answer to that. He grimaced helplessly, then stepped through, leaving the door a tiny bit ajar, and quietly scaled the stairs down to the first floor, where his son with his family lived.

He was a self-made man, who came into fortune after a long career in the e-sports industry, both on the scene and behind it. This small, cozy manor in the picturesque British countryside was a lifelong dream of his, which he had paid for with sweat and blood on the virtual battlefield. Now, in the twilight of his days on earth, he was more than happy to be sharing it with his own children, and theirs.

“Dad? You up already? Oh …” his son asked softly, shaving in the bathroom, getting ready for work.

“Morning, Tommy. Carry on.” Martin smiled awkwardly, being caught in a compromising position.

“How lucky are they to have such a grandpa.” His son shook his head, evidently let down.

“Well …”

“Was it even worth it?”

“It was,” Martin categorically declared, nodding solemnly. “I'm sure they'll tell you all about it.”

“Can't wait,” Tom responded sarcastically. Both his offspring were currently unemployed, which wasn't a good thing in this economical climate. Peter was already 25, and a failed athlete. He took after his grandfather, getting into his head that he too could become a professional gamer. But the times had long changed, and the blood sports had evolved into a financial mafia with connections being more important than actual skill. Diana was only 19, and she attended an Open University from home, trying to make something of herself, as her attempts to get onto the national Olympic archery representation flopped twice in a row now.

The estate wasn't cheap to maintain, and Tom wasn't optimistic about the future. At least his sister's eldest daughter was pursuing neuroengineering.

Martin verified, that both his grandkids were getting their well deserved rest, then returned to his bedroom. He didn't need to go downstairs to check on Hannah, as he trusted in the smart girl's self-discipline.

Noticing that his wife was asleep, he went back to his study and once more lied down in the virtual cabin, putting on his helmet.

He had important work to do. Some words kept him awake, and demanded addressing.

“If you can't or don't want to fight on the same arena as I, it doesn't mean I'll just abandon you after you're done being useful. I couldn't care less about your current ability, only about your passion and spirit. If you can dedicate yourselves to your goals, you'll be someone yet. And even if you had all the skills and all the drive in the world, but lacked in character, I would give you a wide berth, careful to avoid your stench. We would inevitably become enemies. In the end, you decide who you want to be.”

Martin started up the multibrowser and combed the various forums. It was the same as usual – public outcry confronting universal acclaim. A slew of the vilest insults imaginable on one side, and fervent defense on the other, mostly eloquent, or attempting to be. The divide couldn't be more glaring. It was as if war was about to erupt.

Martin sighed exhaustedly.

“How I wish I didn't live to see such times …”

But then he reminded himself, and a flicker of light appeared in his eyes. He swiftly went to the official Immortal Frontier forum, which was exclusive to active players.

There, it was so much more cultured, it was like heaven and earth. And the reason was simple – responsibility for what one said. Nonetheless, the heated debate was not one bit inferior, it was merely civil.

Moral stance aside, a large portion of the playerbase was filled with trepidation. They were afraid of enjoying the game, because immersing oneself meant a powerful backlash whenever something went wrong. Forget hunters – even gatherers and crafters were scared. The dangers of Celestia were endless. They were worried that this would give psychopaths an inexcusable edge over everyone else, shifting power ever further in the direction of a few privileged. They were afraid of the consequences the brutal game would have for the world.

The opposition, however, was just as strong. For one, this was an excellent tool for tempering oneself and pushing one's limits, with ample training wheels. It was also a marvelous place to forge lasting friendships, as the trials and tribulations players would have to go through together were bound to expose their true selves, and their worth in times of need. Most importantly, it was precisely this realism that made the whole experience breathlessly rewarding and fulfilling.

Martin opted to open a new thread in the Game Balance section, which was currently under siege, with millions taking part. He had to give his input, even if it wouldn't change anything. After choosing his words carefully, he reviewed what he wrote, then submitted it, and waited. And he didn't need to wait long.

[There's enough good to balance out the bad]

By Fleeting Time.

“I've been a part of the game industry for a very long time – my entire life, which is slowly nearing its end. I've been through ups and downs with the games that I loved and with the communities that I had been a part of. I've witnessed the passion that let underdogs rise to prominence, and I've seen many mistakes that led to the downfall of popular titles.

Hear my words!

The final shape of Immortal Frontier will be determined by the players, not by Cybercore or public opinion. Give the first one the benefit of the doubt that they deserve, and don't let the second one manipulate you against your better judgment.

It's true that this terrifying game gives psychopaths and criminal elements a platform to develop.

But it's also true for men of honor.

Today, I've met a man whose heroism is legendary. I've never seen anyone so noble, so ardent, and so just. He's playing on full realism, and he gives it his all, unafraid of any challenge, reveling in adversity. All that without forsaking chivalry and kindness. He's proof that this game is exactly what we need.

Like he said: you decide, who you want to be.”

A recording with audio from Fleeting Time's perspective was also attached.

Martin's heart was beating really fast right now.

“I only hope Carl won't get angry …”

Within seconds, first views were registered. Martin balled his old fists. Within a minute, there was a reply. And then a whole lot of them.

“Fake/staged?”

“Fake.”

“Lol, what a joke.”

“Did Cybercore do that?”

“Fake. Amazing quality, though, props for that.”

“Haha, how pathetic is that?”

“Pfft, full realism, right.”

“Is this an ad campaign?”

“Faaaaaake!”

“Dude, just how full of yourself are you?”

“Haha, CC insider detected!”

…

Martin was at a loss. He deflated and sobered up from the high Carl had put him on.

“Of course. What was I thinking …”

Dejected, he was about to delete the thread, when he glanced at the last few responses. Among them was a forum moderator, who rapidly made a sticky.

“Quick advice: think before you write. Forum rules state that trolling and false accusation are subject to penalties. I know many of you are new, so I'm warning you in advance. Soon, there will be a purge in this thread, done by people far less lenient than myself.”

Within moments, posts started disappearing, one after another. Some were still rambling on about, but they were dying out.

“Guys, this is the Fleeting Time from the trending thread 'Happened in Geneva' in General Discussions, look it up!”

“No way! It wasn't an elaborate prank?!”

“Under 10 seconds?! He killed an evolved beast in under 10 seconds?! SOLO???!!! ”

“That roar, though …”

“HYYYYYYPE! :O”

“Is he seriously a player? This looks way too fishy. Can we get Cybercore to confirm?”

“Wait, what about all the other prowlers, alphas and commons? Why did you only show the beginning and the end?”

“This could still have been staged. Why would he cut the middle out otherwise? They might have just used some incredibly powerful and expensive consumables. I mean come one – listen to what they say.”

“Staged, huh? After all this time, after hearing me talk and seeing me fight, you still think I'm here for personal gain? :P”

“I am Charles Lionheart, and I've come to shake the world awake! YEAH BABY! :D”

“That girl's tongue slipped. I think she wanted to say 'they're dead'. ;-)”

“Haha, and you thought this was a dire wolf? How cute! :D”

“Assassins are so broken! Fix this, Cybercore!”

“So what guild is this guy from? Do you even know?”

“Seriously, OP, how did you guys survive?”

Suddenly, Martin was at a loss once more. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Beset for answers, he gave a short reply.

“We killed the prowlers and a few alphas, and the rest fled. Or rather, we helped him kill them, is what I meant to say …”

“What do you mean they fled? There's like a hundred wolves there!”

“Yeah, and your boy was badly injured. What gives?”

“When the dire wolf prowler dies, all his minions go amok. And black wolves are way more aggressive, so what aren't you telling us?”

“Shut up. You think you're entitled to know their secrets?”

Martin sighed.

“Well, they didn't exactly flee, they were just afraid to approach us. They even trailed us back to the portal, but always kept a safe distance.”

“Am I smelling a potent monster repellent? :P”

“Is there even such a thing? I haven't heard anything about that.”

“Why wouldn't there be? There 100% is, just think about it!”

“Daaamn, you guys got so lucky! He basically conquered the dungeon for you! What was it, a fine item?”

“I know, right? Free fine quality item for their whole team, bound as well … ”

Martin chuckled weakly. These people were so ignorant …

“You nitwits, are you BLIND?! He said the guy plays on full realism!!!”

“No way. Where's the proof?”

“Where's Cybercore? Still waiting for verification. Better not talk until then. Too many got suspended and banned already.”

“But the amusing poetry aside, this thread really belongs here. Assassins must be nerfed ASAP! This is pure nonsense!!!”

Martin watched for several minutes, as the views skyrocketed. Everyone wanted to know who Carl was, what group did he belong to, what tricks did he use, or where could he be found in the game. Very few paid any attention to the point Martin was trying to convey – hardly anyone, in fact. They were all about the mundane.

Martin moaned painfully, holding his head in his hands.

“What have I done … Brother Carl, forgive me!”

Meanwhile, the blissful hero stood at the gigantic temple's deserted altar, at the very back, so far away from other players that he was practically unnoticeable, there to meet a divine official.

“Are they seriously going to make me wait?”

He walked about, checking out the various 'premium' services, which nobody was requesting, for obvious reasons. He was still covered in gore, and the prices made even his eyes bleed.

“Welcome, Charles Lionheart,” a dignified voice greeted him.

Carl turned around casually and saw a beautiful and noble man wearing a white toga and golden sandals standing right next to him.

“I don't know why I expected wings.”

The man was smiling cordially, patiently awaiting a response.

“Hello.” Carl waved childishly. This must have looked hilariously from an outside perspective, given both their appearances. “I kind of thought you would descend from up above in a ray of light, but … never mind.”

The man laughed gently.

“There's no need for that.”

“So you're an angel?”

“My name is Nathaniel. Come, you need to bathe yourself in holy water. You will then be cleansed and restored.”

“Awesome!”

Following the divine official to a font located in an aisle, Carl kept mulling over a thought he had for a while now.

“You needn't be afraid. Feel free to speak,” the cherubic man pacified once they arrived at the destination.

“Okay. Sooo … you're an 'official', if you know what I mean, right?” Carl winked exaggeratedly. Noticing a tiny jolt, he beamed gleefully and continued. “Fantastic! Listen, I have an urgent complaint about your announcer, and I know petitions won't get anywhere. The voice pack I and some other players got is disgraceful, and you're forcing us to pay if we want to change it. This is unacceptable.” He finished on a severe note.

Drew Bailey began sweating.

“Oh no, I can't mess this up! Boss won't be happy!”