CHAPTER 147: THE LUCKY STAR AND THE SECOND GENERATION

The Nyman who materialized before Ryan’s eyes erupted into motion, transforming the empty clearing into the beginnings of a camp. Within minutes, tents sprang up, fires were lit, and the once-barren space became a hive of activity. At the heart of it all, inside a freshly raised pavilion, sat Agu, the Nyman Shaman.

Ryan stepped forward just as a new quest notification flashed before his eyes, announcing the start of a worldwide event.

"Welcome, friend, to the Nyman Revivalists’ camp," Agu said, his voice dry and weathered, like old parchment. "We are in desperate need of supplies. Your generous donations will earn our deepest gratitude."

The moment the words left his mouth, the shaman’s eyes turned distant. His posture slackened, his attention already gone, as though Ryan had never been there at all. Such was the way of NPCs: interactions abrupt, limited, always transactional. No soul, no spark of life—only scripts stitched together with code.

But while Agu drifted into silence, the rest of the Nyman were more than willing to engage. Around the camp, tasks and requests spilled forth like weeds after a rainstorm. Everywhere Ryan turned, someone wanted something, and all of it came down to supplies.

Each donation, no matter how modest, came with a reward: reputation, equipment, or occasionally something rare. These were neatly packaged into "Nyman’s Gratitude" boxes, each one promising a fixed amount of reputation and a random piece of gear. With enough luck, an epic-tier item might even fall into your lap.

Ryan, ever the strategist, didn’t waste a second. He carefully cataloged each request, drawing up a comprehensive list he could hand off to his guild members.

The demands were staggering. The Revivalists had a near bottomless appetite for cloth: one hundred thousand stacks of Linen, another hundred thousand of Wool, another hundred thousand of Silk, and fifty thousand of Enchanted Cloth—an especially rare drop from Level 40 monsters. The rarer the cloth, the better the rewards.

Ores were in just as much demand: one hundred fifty thousand stacks of Copper, one hundred thousand of Tin, one hundred fifty thousand of Iron, plus a range of herbs.

Cooked foods were needed in smaller numbers but far more varied in type. First Aid bandages, too, were highly sought after, earning better rewards than the raw cloth they were cut from.

In truth, the Nyman wanted everything. Trade goods, crafted items, the products of every profession imaginable. It was a clever design, Ryan thought. It meant any player, regardless of skill or wealth, could contribute. Of course, most wouldn’t have the time or resources to make a real dent in the lists. That was where his guild came in.

And his guild would be taking first pick of the most lucrative requests.

"Alright, listen up!" Ryan typed into the guild chat. "Everyone, hit the Auction House. Buy up everything on the list I’m sending. Then head to the Dreadful Mire, Level 30, and start donating."

He attached a breakdown of the most cost-effective items. "Turn these in and you’ll get a treasure chest. Inside, you’ll find reputation with the Nyman Revivalists and a random piece of gear."

To test it himself, Ryan had tossed in a stack of herbs he’d been saving for alchemy. A "Nyman’s Gratitude" box appeared in his inventory almost instantly. His reputation, already maxed from earlier quests, hadn’t moved an inch, but the box had yielded a green-quality Level 30 item—a perfect fit for the tier of herbs he’d sacrificed.

"What kind of gear can drop?" one guild member asked almost immediately, voicing what everyone else was thinking. "And what about the faction vendor? What kind of goodies do they sell?"

"How should I know?" Ryan shot back, his tone edged with irritation. "I’ve only donated one stack so far. Got a chest with a hundred and fifty points of Nyman Revivalist reputation and an item. That’s it. I’m not a fortune teller." He paused, letting the words settle before adding with a shrug, "Seems like the loot scales with your level. Can’t say if rare or epic items are in the pool, though."

As for reputation items, Ryan hadn’t discovered any vendors yet. He suspected they would only appear once the Nyman’s endless demands were finally met. For now, he told his guildmates to forget about vendors and focus on gathering the listed materials. As for himself, his plan was simple: keep grinding levels.

Unbeknownst to Ryan, however, something far bigger than guild tasks or donation rewards was already unfolding. The entire game world teetered on the brink of transformation.

In a sealed conference room, far removed from Ryan’s knowledge, a charged atmosphere hung heavy in the air. Men and women filed in one by one, exchanging brief nods but little conversation. Though the room filled quickly, a tense hush lingered, thick with expectation.

At the head of the long, polished table, a middle-aged man waited until the last seat was taken. He folded his hands, a faint smile playing across his lips. "Everyone is aware of today’s development," he began, his voice even but carrying weight. "Prometheus has confirmed: the first generation’s data accumulation is complete. The nine Glorious Achievements have been met. Kingdom Forge is ready for its next evolutionary leap. Our time has finally come."

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the room lean in. "Entering the second generation will grant us access to advanced technologies from other civilizations, accelerating our progress on the Paradise Project. And for this breakthrough, we owe no small debt to that young man. He truly is our lucky star."

No clarification was necessary. Everyone present knew exactly who he meant: Featherlight. The prodigy who had secured eight of the nine Glorious Achievements. The player who had founded the game’s first guild. The one who had turned impossible quests into milestones.

A portly old man seated to the middle-aged man’s right gave a gravelly chuckle. "If not for that one achievement slipping away early, the boy might have claimed all nine himself. The fact that he immediately mirrored the missing one only proves his strength. He must be protected. Any hostile act against him will be dealt with severely."

"Sir Xenos speaks for the higher-ups," the middle-aged man confirmed, sweeping his gaze across the table. "This young man is vital. No one is to contact him directly, and absolutely no interference is permitted." A ripple of nods moved through the gathered officials.

"Now," the man continued, his tone hardening, "the mission briefing. Prometheus has indicated the next game evolution will occur in three months. That means every preparation must be complete before then. This is a military order. Any failure to meet assigned objectives will result in extreme punishment. Every resource, every ounce of effort, is to be directed into these preparations. Anyone who dares to obstruct..."

He let the words trail off, the silence filling with unspoken menace. The faces around the table remained impassive, but none misunderstood. The orders were clear. The countdown had already begun.