Alan’s destination was hidden in the heart of a thick forest that stretched over a mountain, just five miles south of Calumet town. This location was chosen by the U.S. military for its advantageous attributes, serving as a defensible stronghold.

The area’s topography offered multiple natural barriers, including rugged terrain, steep cliffs, and dense foliage. These characteristics, in conjunction with the close proximity of a hill that provided an unobstructed view of Calumet town, allowed for the efficient monitoring of any impending threats. For the players seeking refuge, this well-fortified location promised safety.

As Alan’s vehicle approached the location, the presence of security grew more pronounced. A well-manned military checkpoint marked the entrance to the camp, where soldiers in full gear thoroughly inspected each arriving individual. Alan’s reputation preceded him, easing the process, but the careful scrutiny reflected the gravity of the situation.

Upon arrival at the camp’s vicinity, Alan took a moment to survey the landscape. He quickly estimated that at least 2,000 players had gathered there, accounting for nearly half the players on the server. This mix of military personnel and civilians worked in harmony, each contributing to the camp’s fortification.

While the military professionals directed the efforts, players from all walks of life were engaged in the labor-intensive task of constructing defensive walls. They were filling sandbags, stacking them meticulously, and reinforcing weak points, all under the watchful eyes of experienced soldiers.

In a separate area, vigorous training was underway. Groups of players were drilled in combat techniques, weapon handling, and tactical maneuvers. The air was thick with determination and urgency, reflecting the importance of preparedness for the unknown challenges ahead.

Observing this hive of activity, Merle turned to Alan, voicing the question that lingered in everyone’s mind: “So we are going to sell these weapons to them?”

Alan’s reply was as cryptic as his smile: “No, not quite.”

He then instructed Luis to keep driving, pointing to a specific direction that led them away from the main camp. As the vehicle moved, Alan’s eyes were fixed on a particular spot. It was a location he recognized from his previous game, a gathering point that remained unchanged. 𝒐𝓋𝑳xt.𝚌𝞸𝗆

Only a short distance from the military camp, nestled within a clearing surrounded by tall, dense trees, stood a stark contrast – another encampment. While it was notably smaller in scale, the gathering was still significant, boasting a count of approximately 300 players.

As Alan’s vehicle drew closer, distinguishing features of this camp’s inhabitants became evident. The most striking of which was a vibrant red bandana worn by many. The sight of it elicited an immediate reaction from Merle, his voice tinged with a mix of annoyance and disbelief, “Seriously? These lunatics!”

Alan had led them to the camp of the Blood Patriots, a notorious group representing anti-government sentiments that had been gaining traction across the nation. They were known for their radical views and, at times, extreme measures.

In stark contrast to the military-backed camp they had just left, the Blood Patriots camp presented a somewhat disheveled scene. The inhabitants had a motley appearance, with mismatched gear and equipment, some of which had clearly seen better days. The players there, while united in their cause, wore expressions that told tales of despair, frustration, and defiance.

Unfazed by the sea of curious and, at times, hostile stares directed at them, Alan maneuvered the vehicle into a prominent spot near the center of the camp. He shot Vicky a meaningful glance, which she acknowledged with a subtle nod.

Vicky, with her alluring charisma, climbed atop the back of the truck. Standing tall, she began to confidently unveil some of the weapon bags, the metallic sheen of the firearms catching the dappled sunlight. With a voice that commanded attention, she began her rehearsed pitch, echoing Alan’s instructions, “Weapons to sell! A vast selection up for grabs! Step right up and take a look!”

The allure of weapons combined with Vicky’s magnetic presence had the desired effect. Soon, a crowd began to gather, drawn like moths to a flame. Nearby, Luis readied himself, anticipating the rush of potential customers.

“Our prices are unbeatable! Assault rifles going for a mere 1000 survival points, and handguns at just 500! And that’s not all – with every purchase, we throw in a cartridge absolutely free! Grab yours while stocks last!”

The tantalizing offer, coupled with the fact that their prices undercut those at the official item shop, led to a palpable excitement within the crowd. Eyes gleamed with interest, and murmurs of discussions began to spread as many started to consider the tempting proposition.

The opportunity to acquire firearms was an attractive one for the Blood Patriots. Many of the players in this group had not yet managed to get their hands on any decent weaponry. Unlike their counterparts in the military-supported camp, these were not just fighting for a game but for a cause they believed in, and they were desperate for the means to do so. Alan understood this all too well, and he had crafted a plan to make the most profit from their desperation.

But as the first eager player stepped forward to make a purchase, the atmosphere suddenly changed. From one of the larger tents, a group of stern-faced men, armed and with an air of authority, emerged. They moved with purpose, bringing all activity in the camp to a halt.

Merle was quick to react, leaping to his feet. Rose, too, was on high alert, scaling the truck to position herself with her sniper rifle at the ready. The tension was palpable.

Alan, however, remained unperturbed. With a calming gesture and a reassuring word, he told his companions to stand down. He had anticipated such a response, and he knew how to handle it.

Emerging from the group of armed men was the leader of the Blood Patriots, Marcus Wright. A fierce-looking man in his late twenties, his reputation as one of the famous veterans of the game preceded him. Recognition flickered in his eyes as he spotted Merle, a fellow participant from last year’s game, and Alan, whose high rank at the training ground was well-known.

Approaching with a firm stride, Marcus assessed the situation and spoke, his voice carrying an air of authority, “I thought you are here to join our cause.”

Alan responded casually, “You could say we’re here to support it.”

Marcus, intelligent and shrewd, understood the subtext in Alan’s words. He knew that Alan was politely declining the offer to join them fully. Choosing to play along, he replied, “We need all the help you can give.”

His eyes then fell on the weapons, and he couldn’t hide his surprise at the sheer quantity available. Without hesitation, he declared, “I’ll take them all.”

Expecting such a response, Alan nonchalantly provided the tally, “69 assault rifles and 82 handguns, plus the ammunition, That will be 130,000 survival points, for the whole bulk I’ll give you a solid 120,000”

Marcus’s reply was swift, his gaze unyielding as he countered, “40,000. I will pay you that much.”

The audacity of the offer hung in the air. It was daylight robbery, and the Blood Patriots’ leader had unabashedly thrown out the figure in front of his men. No one laughed; no one even smiled. Instead, Alan could see them tighten their grip on their weapons, their bodies tense and ready to respond to their leader’s command.