Arknights: I became an NPC in the online game

Felix glanced briefly at the Emperor, then turned his eyes to Duck Lord.

There were two towering figures by the door—a bear and a dog, both dressed like bodyguards. For a second, he questioned whether he'd stepped into some surreal animal kingdom. But no, Terra was full of Terranoid-animal hybrids, though fully animalistic appearances were rare. In all his travels, the only truly bear-like person he'd met was an old Ursus craftsman back in the Kawalerielki.

As for his pitch to Duck Lord, Felix kept it simple and honest. He highlighted the unique value of adventurers.

"From a business standpoint, adventurers are a strategic asset. Thanks to their Originium-enhanced immortality, they can take on high-risk missions—combat, escort, reconnaissance—without fear of death. As far as I know, only Kazdel's twin rulers, Theresa and Theresis, have formally employed adventurers."

He leaned in slightly.

"That said, our company won't rely solely on adventurers. We intend to recruit driven individuals across Terra who believe they have something to prove. Mercenary work and logistics are currently the most scalable sectors."

He wasn't wrong. On Terra, almost everyone had basic combat skills, and most people could drive. But scientific research? That required formal education—a university degree, maybe even a doctorate. Talent in that domain was much rarer. For now, logistics and security services were low-hanging fruit.

Player levels averaged around 25, with some having reached level 30. Many had already found positions in existing organizations. In Iberia, for instance, large numbers had joined the Inquisition and were now wearing those infamous black-and-pink robes.

Felix never expected to recruit all the players. But he was confident he could win over a good portion, especially given his reputation and past leadership.

The only issue? He hadn't been as active in front of players lately. Once the company officially launched, he'd have to ramp up his visibility again. Player activity in version 2.0 was surging. At its peak, the online player count would surpass 30 million.

Still far from 3.0's zenith—but rapidly climbing.

Duck Lord finally looked up from his watch, giving Felix a measured nod.

"I understand your angle. You have ambition—that much is clear. And as a founder, you're qualified."

He shot a glance at the Emperor, who was lazily sipping his drink, clearly uninterested in the details.

"But ambition alone isn't enough. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I'm curious: What specific challenges do you foresee? And how do you plan to overcome them?"

As he spoke, he flipped open his briefcase.

Inside were stacks of Lungmen currency and, more impressively, rare Originite prime—gleaming, volatile, and incredibly valuable in industrial applications. Dozens of them, at least.

Not bad for a single briefcase.

"You're not the first interesting company I've invested in," Duck Lord said, clicking his pen, "and you won't be the last."

He leaned back, expression sharp beneath his top hat. "Let's talk terms. I might have deep pockets, but I'm not throwing coin into a hole."

"I thought you were just rich and stupid," the Emperor muttered with a sneer.

"Gah! I've got no patience for a busking penguin like you! If this kid hadn't said something intriguing, I wouldn't even have bothered showing up!"

"And who told you Felix was starting a company in the first place?" the Emperor shot back.

The two locked eyes, both snorting in disdain before simultaneously turning their heads away—like squabbling aristocrats with feathers and bills.

Felix wiped his forehead, resisting the urge to laugh. A penguin and a duck throwing shade at each other—it was surreal, but also somehow... beautiful.

The next stage was less amusing and far more tedious: negotiating terms.

Investment amount, company valuation, return structure, equity distribution, governance—this wasn't a one-day job. Duck Lord had a meeting scheduled shortly. After a round of light negotiation and note-taking, he snapped his briefcase shut, patted his well-dressed rear, and left.

The bear and dog bodyguards followed without a word.

The Emperor poured himself another glass, eyeing the preliminary deal memo left on the table. He nodded approvingly. "Not bad, Felix. You looked like a proper entrepreneur just now."

"No more calling me 'Boss'?"

"Hah. You want the Emperor to call you that?" He flapped a wing. "Make a real name for yourself first. Then we'll talk."

He studied Felix for a moment. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Technically twenty," Felix replied. "I'm scheduled for my coming-of-age ceremony in Laterano at the end of the year."

He didn't mention that he'd never celebrated a birthday in his life. As a child, no one had given him gifts or cake, and since arriving in this world, he'd barely had a moment to think about it.

"Gah! A little angel?!" the Emperor squawked, adjusting his sunglasses. "You should be proud. Making waves at this age is no small feat."

"Appreciate it."

Felix stood and slipped the contract notes into his own briefcase. "I'll head to Lungmen next summer. Before that, I'll have someone scout a location and define the core requirements for our HQ."

"I can pitch in," the Emperor said, slumping into the sofa now that business was done. His entrepreneur mask was gone—back to being a half-drunk, soulful rapper.

"I'll be in Lungmen early next year for a concert anyway. Siren Records booked me. Perfect timing."

"Great. I'll send over equipment specs and personnel needs, plus the recruitment plan," Felix replied.

He'd been mulling over one key problem: integrating players into the company without making it feel like just another corporate grind. Student-age players might enjoy the novelty. But those with real-world office jobs? No way they'd want to escape the 9-to-5 just to be corporate slaves in a game.

This wasn't a dystopia. Or at least, it shouldn't be.

Letting players grind through corporate drudgery? That wasn't the plan. Felix knew better—players logged on to play game, not work.

To avoid dragging them into that kind of hell, he needed real Terra natives to staff the company's core operations. Let players adventure, fight, explore. Let the actual administration, logistics, and back-end support be handled by locals trained and paid to do the job right.

At the same time, Felix was quietly modeling his organization after one of Terra's most successful companies: Rhodes Island Pharmaceuticals. In every area—structure, efficiency, influence—he aimed to match or surpass them. Medicine might still be their stronghold, but in everything else? Tomorrow's Development Corporation would outshine them.

He still had time. Rhodes Island hadn't yet risen to prominence, which gave him a head start. If he could establish a reputation now, he might even influence history's course.

"You know," the Emperor said, fluffing his wings, "compared to the rest of your kind, you really are a genius."

Then he glanced at his watch. "Anyway, I've got a meeting with Duck Lord tomorrow. Don't be late."

"Got it."

August was the month of negotiation—contracts, stakes, legalese. Felix, the Emperor, and Duck Lord became a business trio, each playing a role. Felix handled the charm and pressure. The Emperor added unpredictability. Duck Lord was the immovable object—an old hand in the business world, nearly impossible to bluff.

Felix began to suspect that neither the Emperor nor Duck Lord were as simple as they looked.

Back in his past life, players barely knew anything about the Emperor beyond his flashy lifestyle, Penguin Logistics, and his rap career. But the more Felix worked with him, the more he wondered: was this guy an immortal?

It wasn't far-fetched. On Terra, immortals weren't myths—they were races with abnormally long life spans. The Sarkaz, the Sankta, and the Vouivre could all live for centuries. If the Emperor and Duck Lord were among them, it would explain their insight, their patience, and their unwillingness to get fooled by his carefully rehearsed pitch.

He made a mental note: maybe it was time to learn from Kal'tsit's playbook—stay cool, keep your face blank, and let no one read your thoughts for the next ten thousand years.

By the end of August, the company—Tomorrow's Development Corporation—was officially born.

Felix retained 50% ownership.

The Emperor held 13%.

Duck Lord took 12%.

Another 20% was set aside for future fundraising rounds.

And the remaining 5%? That would be floated on the open market.

With that, his entire personal savings vanished. Liquidated. Gone.

But that was the price of growth. Old money out, new opportunities in.

The final step? Registering the company in Yan Country. That required paperwork. A lot of it. And unfortunately, it couldn't be delegated—he'd have to go in person. But that could wait.

Next year would do.

After wrapping up the initial wave of company affairs, Felix finally began packing for his next journey. This time, just like before, he had no intention of bringing the kids along—Ursus wasn't a tourist destination.

"Degenbrecher… I'm leaving the house in your hands." Felix spoke as the last few crates were loaded into the truck. He turned and gave her a look of quiet trust.

Degenbrecher nodded, stepping forward to adjust his collar. Her golden eyes met his, calm and serious. "Of course. Leave it to me."

"Be careful out there, boss," she added.

"I'm very fond of staying alive," Felix replied with a smirk.

He knelt briefly by the truck, exchanging farewells with Senomi and the others. Carnelian stood beside Degenbrecher, giving her a brief glance before saying with a confident grin, "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on him."

Degenbrecher silently approved. During their time in Trimount, Carnelian had spent most of her time honing her combat abilities. Her progress had been impressive. Still, considering Felix's uncanny ability to find—or attract—trouble wherever he went, Degenbrecher couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy.

"We'll meet again in Laterano, if all goes to plan," Felix said with a smile toward Muelsyse, who had come to see him off.

"You say that like I'll be sitting still," Muelsyse replied with a knowing smirk. As she spoke, a translucent, water-hued clone of herself slid into the backseat and gave a wave.

Felix chuckled, got in the driver's seat, and with a final nod to his companions, hit the gas and rolled out of the city.

This wasn't his first time setting foot in Ursus. On a previous journey, he'd briefly stopped overnight in one of its towns. But that had only been a fleeting stay. He'd never explored a full-fledged mobile city, nor had he experienced the harsh daily life of its people.

If there was a place in Terra with the lowest average happiness, it was probably here. Even among players, those who started in Ursus had the most miserable grind. The villages were isolated, some buried in year-round snow. There were quests—plenty of them. But most revolved around snow-shoveling, hauling freight, or guarding supply routes. Functional, repetitive, and eventually soul-numbing.

The locals fared no better. Civilians in Ursus were perpetually under the boot of the empire's expansionist machine. They were conscripted, taxed into oblivion, and routinely harassed by officials and nobility. Their social status was low, and their futures were locked behind systemic oppression.

And worse off still were the infected.

In Colombia, infected citizens could at least live in designated zones. In Ursus, infected people lived like ghosts—hunted, discarded, denied even basic dignity. Patrol squads had free rein to capture and transport infected individuals to remote labor camps in the northwest mines. Worse, the military held full authority to execute infected on sight.

Even players weren't exempt. Some, after contracting infection in-game, were captured and forced into hard labor. The lucky ones escaped. The unlucky ones just stopped resisting. One even laughed bitterly and said, "You can't kill me, so what are you gonna do—bore me to death?"

They weren't far off. Patrols treated them like trash—imprisoned but invincible, unkillable but unwanted.

Most of the infected players eventually escaped. In the Ark, players didn't need to sleep. Their stamina recovered naturally, and eating food could purge most debuffs. It was hardly unusual to see groups of infected players slipping away under the cover of night.

And there were more of them every day.

Have you ever seen the Reunion Movement at its peak?

There was a quote from his previous life that still stirred something in Felix every time he recalled it.

After Talulah founded the Reunion Movement, countless infected players in Ursus threw their lot in with her. Some joined for money, others for survival—but more than a few believed in what she stood for. They wanted to use the power of the players to force change on this broken land called Terra.

And to that, Felix had only one thought:

Let that fire burn brighter. Let it consume everything rotten.

Because the lives of infected NPCs in this world could be snuffed out at any time, anywhere. And their last cries, the raw fury and grief before death—those were real.

This was the meaning behind those words:

Turn my broken body into a raging fire.