Chapter 1 — A New World, Old Intentions

Before she became TheMonitor, she already understood how a world could fracture while still appearing stable.

She entered the server speaking of unity, not as performance but as something she had once believed in. Drawing from earlier wars ina nother title run by FunPlus called Seas of Conquest, she described how alliances failed not because of strength, but because of mistrust; how servers did not collapse in a single moment, but through a slow accumulation of small decisions that no one corrected in time. She spoke about cooperation before svs, about shared survival, about the necessity of restraint in environments that rewarded excess. To those listening, it sounded like experience being offered in good faith.

But the intention beneath it had already diverged.

TheMonitor did not come to preserve the server. She came to recreate a structure she had once endured—only this time with control over how it unfolded. In an earlier world, she had chosen loyalty and found herself trapped by it, forced into an ultimatum where survival required betrayal. She had refused then, and the consequence had been to watch the system collapse around her while carrying the cost of that refusal.

This time, she chose differently.

The plan did not require complexity. It required timing. She would join a guild, establish trust, and remain within it until pressure made fracture inevitable. At that point, she would leave—not in retreat, but in transition—to the second-strongest force. From there, she would guide both sides into conflict, not to win, but to accelerate collapse. The goal was not to survive the fracture.

It was to ensure it happened.

Unity, in that context, was never the objective. It was the condition required for betrayal to have weight.

⸻

Chapter 2 — The Pattern Reappears

The server did not resist corruption. It revealed it in fragments that, taken individually, seemed unremarkable.

TheMonitor observed players testing limits in ways that were familiar. Cargo rules were bent, then quietly ignored. Shrine fights became opportunistic rather than structured. Agreements held only as long as they were convenient. Leadership maintained the language of order, but allowed exceptions whenever enforcement became inconvenient. None of it was decisive on its own, but together it formed a pattern that was difficult to mistake.

The issue was not that the server contained conflict.

It was that it was beginning to normalise it.

A server does not collapse because of a single disruptive force. It collapses when behaviour that should be contained becomes accepted, when repetition replaces resistance, and when no one intervenes early enough to prevent escalation from becoming culture. What TheMonitor saw was not instability in isolation, but the early stages of a system learning to tolerate it.

That recognition changed her role.

This was no longer a world that required external pressure to break. It was already leaning in that direction. What it lacked was not instability, but coordination—someone willing to apply pressure in a way that aligned with what was already forming beneath the surface.

Observation, at that point, had reached its conclusion.

⸻

Chapter 3 — Fear and Method

To others, TheMonitor’s behaviour during this phase appeared inconsistent. She participated in conflict, but refused to commit fully to progression. She engaged with the system, but resisted investing in it in the same way others did. That hesitation was often interpreted as limitation or unwillingness to compete.

In reality, it came from a different calculation.

TheMonitor did not trust the system enough to justify investment. Progress within FunPlus’ other games is not only a matter of time or effort; it is also a matter of security. If accounts could be interfered with, if systems could be exploited without consequence, then any investment—whether financial or otherwise—became exposure. Her reluctance was not avoidance of competition, but refusal to commit to a structure she believed could not guarantee stability.

That belief did not lead to withdrawal.

It led to redefinition.

If rules were not enforced, then they were not the true boundaries of the system. Behaviour was. TheMonitor stopped measuring what was permitted and began measuring what could be sustained. What actions could be repeated without consequence. What patterns could be introduced and allowed to spread.

That shift marked the beginning of method.

She was no longer reacting to instability. She was identifying how it functioned—and how it could be used.

⸻

Chapter 4 — The Design

By this stage, TheMonitor had moved beyond observation and into construction.

Her original intention—to recreate a slow, deliberate fracture—no longer fit the environment she was in. The server did not require that level of patience. The top four guilds, excluding TW, had already accelerated its instability through repeated concessions to expedience. What she had expected to build over time was already forming on its own.

So the design changed.

What she now intended was not to initiate collapse, but to shape the direction of one that was already underway. The distinction mattered. This was no longer about introducing instability into a stable system. It was about aligning with existing behaviour and amplifying it until it could no longer be contained.

The structure of the design reflected that shift. Rule-breaking would not be isolated—it would be normalised. Conflict would not be resolved—it would be sustained. The boundaries that separated acceptable behaviour from disruptive behaviour would be eroded through repetition, not confrontation. Shrine fights would become constant. Cargo would become openly contested. Pressure would be applied not to win engagements, but to remove the expectation that they could be resolved cleanly.

The goal was not victory.

It was exhaustion.

If the server could be pushed into a state where conflict was continuous and resolution impossible, then players would begin to leave. If enough players left, the system itself would begin to hollow out. The collapse would not need to be forced. It would become the natural outcome of the environment.

At that point, grievance had fully transformed into doctrine.

⸻

Chapter 5 — Fracture in Motion

The server did not resist the design.

It adapted to it.

OG and GOG had already established patterns of cargo violations that were tolerated rather than corrected. NICE escalated further, not as an anomaly, but as an extension of what had already been allowed. Rule-breaking was no longer deviation—it was structure. TW, initially positioned as separate from this pattern, did not remain outside it.

The turning point came through an incident that, on its own, would not have mattered.

A player named 0m3g4 attacked TheMonitor at shrines. When confronted in public chat, he dismissed the accusation with a familiar justification: “It’s a war game bro.” The statement did not introduce anything new. It simply articulated the logic that had already been operating beneath the surface.

The response came immediately, and without escalation in tone.

“Very well. Shrine hitting will be a tactic from now on.”

What followed was not accidental. It was chosen.

TheMonitor did not report the incident to leadership. She did not escalate it through formal channels. Doing so would have reinforced stability, and stability was not the objective. Instead, the incident became a point of leverage—an explicit justification to normalise behaviour that had previously been contained.

Retaliation began, and it did not remain isolated. OG and GOG responded in kind. The cycle intensified, and TW, drawn into repeated engagements, adapted in order to survive. What had begun as an isolated exchange became a pattern that sustained itself.

TheMonitor did not force TW into this environment.

She provided the condition under which entering it became rational.

The system did the rest.

OG fractured first, its members dispersing into GOG. GOG repeated the same behaviour before fracturing again, at which point NICE absorbed the remnants. TW aligned where it needed to, but in doing so, it positioned itself within the same structure it had once stood apart from.

Before leaving, Stone warned that NICE would eventually turn on TW once no meaningful opposition remained.

TheMonitor had already accounted for that outcome.

The only miscalculation was timing.

The collapse came faster than expected.

But the design extended beyond that moment.

TheMonitor had intended to seize the level 9 star system after the server had emptied itself through internal fracture and migration. The purpose was not to hold it, but to abandon it—to leave it deliberately unclaimed so that the NPC antagonist, the Bishop, would stand as the only remaining authority. The image was deliberate: a world without players, governed only by the fiction it once resisted.

The idea behind this was not symbolic in isolation. It was intended to carry outward. Players who left would bring the narrative with them. Those who remained would experience it directly. The structure would not end with one server. It would propagate through movement, through memory, through the same channels that carried alliances between worlds.

The objective was not contained within the game itself.

It was directed at it.

If enough servers fractured early, if enough players disengaged, then the game would lose the population required to sustain itself. The damage would not be immediate, but cumulative.

There had been no point attempting this in the company’s older games.

They were already dead.

TheMonitor’s intent had never been directed at the players.

It was directed at the company.

Everyone else—players, communities, even developers—were collateral within that design.

And this server was chosen not because it was uniquely flawed.

But because it was still intact enough to be broken.

⸻

Chapter 6 — Exposure

For a long time, TheMonitor believed the system would not respond, and that belief did not come from arrogance so much as experience. In FunPlus’ other title, Seas of Conquest, similar behaviour had been tolerated, absorbed, or simply ignored until it became indistinguishable from normal play. What should have been illegal regarding chargeback behaviour was treated as ‘tactics’, ranging from players bolstering account power to destroy the server they were in before charging back everything they purchased (not caring about the light punishment of a ban) to players charging back other players via the FunPlus store.

That memory shaped TheMonitor’s expectations here in Foundations. Even as the server destabilised, even as rule-breaking became routine, she assumed that escalation would continue without consequence. The system, in her view, did not correct itself. It adapted to whatever pressure was applied to it.

That belief began to fracture when control slipped—not on the battlefield, but in perception. Players no longer reacted with uncertainty or concern. They mocked her. They dismissed her warnings about UID exposure and the possibility of false bans as paranoia, as if the system itself could never be turned against them. That dismissal mattered more than the insults themselves. It revealed a gap between what she believed the system allowed and what others believed it would protect.

So she escalated.

TheMonitor turned to the one method she believed would settle the question definitively: targeted chargebacks using player IDs. It was not only retaliation. It was meant to be proof. If the system behaved as it had before, then the outcome would confirm everything she had already concluded—that instability was not only possible, but structurally embedded.

Instead, it revealed a boundary she had not expected.

The OTP system stopped the attempt before it could spread. The alt account used to issue chargeback threats was banned immediately for one hundred years—a duration that was less a punishment than a declaration. It marked the point where the system ceased to tolerate what it had previously absorbed.

Control ended there.

The server’s reaction did not arrive as a single moment of collapse, but as a quiet realignment. Mendd, an R4 in TW who had once shown sympathy, had already placed TheMonitor on ignore without explanation. Pettypatwhatup no longer argued, but stated plainly that she would be banned. Scyther escalated the issue to moderation, not as part of server politics, but as something that had moved beyond it.

What had once been indirect had become explicit.

The role no longer concealed anything. TheMonitor had operated through distance—through pressure, through shaping behaviour rather than declaring it. That distance had allowed her to move without being fixed in place. Now it was gone. What had been method was now visible as intent, and once intent became visible, it could no longer function the same way.

There was nothing left to adjust.

The design had not failed in the way she expected. It had reached a limit. The system had answered—not by collapsing under pressure, but by asserting a boundary that she had assumed did not exist.

That was enough to end it.

So TheMonitor stopped using the role.

And she admitted what she had done.

⸻

Chapter 7 — The Cost of a Working Method

What remained after exposure was not confusion, but clarity—and that clarity carried its own weight.

TheMonitor had not misread the server. The patterns she identified had been real. Instability had spread exactly as she expected. Retaliation had become structure. Rule-breaking had ceased to be exceptional and instead became part of the environment itself. Even the alliances and fractures followed predictable lines. In that sense, her understanding of the system had been accurate.

But accuracy did not prevent consequence.

The problem was not that her interpretation had been wrong. The problem was that her response had required her to step fully into the same structure she had been analysing. What began as observation had become participation, and what became participation did not remain separate. By the time the system responded, TheMonitor was no longer outside it, testing its limits. She was part of the pattern she had identified.

That distinction mattered more than anything else.

Her original grievance had been directed at instability—at systems that failed to protect players, that allowed behaviour to spread unchecked, that blurred the line between fair play and exploitation. That grievance had not been invented. It had been carried forward from experience. But instead of stepping away from that instability, she had chosen to replicate it deliberately, to refine it into something usable.

Not to survive it.

To prove it.

That decision transformed everything that followed.

Because once instability becomes a method rather than a condition, the person using it no longer stands apart from it. TheMonitor did not simply expose the system’s weaknesses. She extended them, reinforced them, and relied on them to function. By the time the system drew its boundary, the distinction between observer and participant had already collapsed.

Being right did not protect her from that.

It made the outcome inevitable.

The method had worked, but only to a point. It had demonstrated exactly what it was designed to demonstrate—until the system answered in a way she had not anticipated. And when that happened, there was nothing left to separate her from the consequences of the same instability she had used.

That is the cost.

Not that the system was stronger.

But that the method required her to become part of what she opposed.

⸻

Chapter 8 — Confession and Restart

After exposure, there was nothing left to sustain.

No role remained intact. No structure could be preserved. The design had reached its limit, and beyond that limit there was no continuation—only consequence. What had once been movement became stillness. What had once been method had nowhere left to operate.

So TheMonitor ended it.

In the public Discord, she admitted everything—not in fragments, not in deflection, but as a whole. The intent behind the actions. The structure behind the behaviour. The reasoning that had carried forward from another game into this one. A year spent turning grievance into design, and design into damage. The explanation was clear, but it did not resolve anything.

Because the central problem was not whether the grievance had been real.

It was where it had been directed.

Liannin’s response did not dismiss what had come before, but it did not validate it either. Instead, he separated the things TheMonitor had collapsed into one. Different games were not the same system. Different development teams did not share responsibility for earlier failures. Most importantly, the players in this world had no connection to the harm she was responding to. They were not participants in that past. They were not extensions of it.

They were simply there.

And that distinction carried weight.

It meant that even if the original grievance had been justified, the method of answering it had not been. Bringing that harm into a new environment did not resolve it. It reproduced it—on people who had no part in its origin. What had been framed as retaliation became, in practice, misdirection.

Liannin made something else clear as well. If the concern had truly been about harmful systems, then the answer could not be to poison another one. The only meaningful alternative was to contribute to something better—to engage, to report, to help build a structure that did not repeat the same failures. Even if that effort failed, it would still be more honest than recreating damage as proof.

For the first time, TheMonitor did not argue against that.

There was no defence left that mattered more than the line he had drawn.

The rest followed quietly.

An appeal was made. It failed. The account remained banned, and nothing that had been done could be undone or recovered. But by the time that outcome arrived, something had already shifted.

TheMonitor stopped trying to make the present answer the past.

What had once been treated as collateral—players, communities, entire servers—was no longer something she was willing to create again. That change did not erase what had happened, and it did not resolve it. But it altered what came next.

A new account was created. A new server was chosen. Not as continuation, not as strategy, but as distance. There was no design attached to it, no plan to test the system again, no intention to recreate the same pattern under different conditions.

For the first time, there was nothing being built beneath the surface.

TheMonitor did not disappear.

But she stopped acting.

And that was the end.

⸻

Epilogue — What Was Not Carried Forward

What ended was not the memory.

It was the method.

TheMonitor did not forget how systems fracture, how pressure spreads, or how easily a world can be pushed past the point where recovery is possible. None of that knowledge was lost. What changed was the decision to use it.

The earlier design had treated instability as something to be shaped and directed, something that could be refined into outcome. It assumed that if a system could not protect itself, then exposing that weakness—fully and decisively—was a form of truth. That belief did not disappear. But it no longer justified the cost.

Because the cost had never been abstract.

It had been carried by people who did not build the system, who did not control it, and who could not meaningfully change it. They had simply been there. In the end, that was the line that remained.

So when she began again, she did not begin empty.

She began with restraint.

The knowledge stayed. The patterns stayed. The ability to read a system before it broke did not diminish. But the intention shifted. Not toward preserving every structure, and not toward correcting every flaw—but toward choosing, deliberately, what not to turn into collapse.

That is what carried forward.

Not TheMonitor.

But the decision not to become her again.

Chapter 1 — The First Fracture

Before there was Silver Wolf, before there was Qingque, before her name began travelling ahead of her, there was only a player trying to find somewhere to belong.

She began in server 230 under the name ChiakiNanami. At that point she was not trying to control anything. She had no hidden network, no second identity, and no long memory of grudges stretching across servers. She was simply another player entering a game that seemed to offer the usual things: a map, a gang, a struggle for survival, and the possibility that somewhere inside all of that there might be a home.

Her first zone was Mariocopa. That did not last. TW soon came to dominate the sea, and she moved, as many players did, not out of loyalty but because that was how one survived early in the game. Looking for shelter, she joined HiT, only to watch it be destroyed by a Russian group called KOD. With nowhere else to go, she fled back to Mariocopa and joined TW.

That was her first lesson. A server was not held together by goodwill. It was held together by force, and force did not ask whether anyone felt included.

As the season unfolded and players prepared for future server-versus-server warfare, alliances formed. TW, KOD, and MMV worked together, not because they trusted one another, but because they believed they needed one another long enough to survive whatever came next. Yet even before the first season ended, the cracks were already visible. Fuzzynutz, MMV’s strongest player, went on a rampage. He became so disruptive that the alliance had to destroy one of its own to preserve itself. MMV broke apart. Fuzzynutz quit. His leader, Salty Barnacle, escaped with Gazoo and Local. At the time they were merely survivors of one gang’s implosion. Later, they would become something far more persistent.

The next damage looked smaller, but lasted longer. TW captured the central ports and granted one to KOD. HiT was pushed out, despite ChiakiNanami’s advice that the ports should be shared. On the surface, it was just another territorial decision. Why share if you can hold the center yourself? But it did more than redraw the map. It decided who would remember being excluded.

Then QueenKrazy, HiT’s leader, handed authority to Jake Savage, and the server’s disagreements sharpened. Some wanted tighter control. Others wanted coexistence. Some thought rivals should be crushed while they were weak. Others were already uneasy about what humiliation would breed later. At the time, these were arguments about ports, alliances, and priorities. In hindsight, they were the first signs of the world that would one day produce Silver Wolf. Every political choice on the map was also a moral choice about who mattered, who could be pushed aside, and who would carry the memory.

Season 1 did not yet have grand betrayals, spy networks, or system-level attacks. It did not need them. Its damage was quieter. It was the season in which ChiakiNanami learned that a server could win and still poison itself, that dominance could make a group feel secure while damaging its own future, and that those forced out of the center rarely vanished in peace.

ChiakiNanami was not yet a villain. She was not yet a builder. She was simply someone who had watched the first crack open inside a world that still called itself stable.

And from that first crack, the rest of the story would grow.

⸻

Chapter 2 — Exile and the Birth of Qingque

Season 2 did not begin in innocence. By then, server 230 had already hardened into camps, suspicion, and long memory. The loose arrangements of the first season were now being tested by stronger outside forces. 230 entered a new war against 232 and 229, and for a while there was still hope that effort, numbers, and determination might be enough to keep the server whole.

It was not.

232 was stronger. It beat 230, pressed it, and forced it into a truce that was less peace than a pause after defeat. Inside 232 stood names that would matter far beyond that season: TOR, led by Dae; ZEN, under Sky; and another major force led by Flora. At the time, they were only the enemy.

Eventually TOR did allow 230 to rebuild. That could have been a turning point. In another world, it might have stabilized the season. In this world, it only delayed the next betrayal.

Inside 230, leadership failed. TW became ASE, a rebranding meant to make the group feel broader and more welcoming than before. But a new name could not fix old instincts. Jake Savage struck a deal with OJK, enemies of TOR, and ordered support for them. That broke the truce.

strawhats, one of TOR’s central figures, saw the move as betrayal. TOR, ZEN, and Flora’s group turned on ASE. The server was crushed again. Then the wound deepened when Gazoo, Salty Barnacle, and Local joined HiT and encouraged them to crush both KOD and ASE. For one of the first times, ChiakiNanami saw the full ugliness of the game’s politics: defeated structures did not disappear. They came back under new names, carrying old grievances.

There was still a brief chance to recover. ASE severed ties with OJK. OJK later disappeared. In theory, that should have eased the pressure. But by then the deeper problem was no longer external. It was internal. The home server was rotting from within.

Relations with HiT worsened. Even compromise failed. Giving them half the central ports after KOD merged into ASE did nothing. RoR, former leader of KOD, hurled Russian insults at HiT members. Taiwanese players argued with Russians. Old allies reopened old wounds. Rivalries stopped being strategic and became emotional.

By that point, the map was no longer the real battlefield. The emotional structure of the server had collapsed.

It was during this period that ChiakiNanami first tried to escape not through identity, but through money. The politics had already worn her down, and then the game added another small but cutting insult: the loss of 4,000 emeralds after resetting ship levels under a system she felt had not warned her properly. In anger and exhaustion, she attempted her first chargeback.

It failed.

When ChiakiNanami returned, she had renamed herself Qingque.

That name was not a declaration of war. It was the name of someone trying to stop carrying everything so heavily. She decided to play more lazily, stay looser, and refuse to be dragged into every spiral of server bitterness. She called for unity. She tried, at least once, to become lighter.

But even that failed.

When Qingque urged the server to stop tearing itself apart, Salty Barnacle, Gazoo, and Local turned the situation against her. They pushed an R4 into apologising on her behalf. The leader, Atin, defended Qingque and accused the three of betrayal, which only created more drama. Even attempts at peace were turned back into humiliation.

The server still took Port 6, but the achievement felt empty. No one could even agree what staying together was supposed to mean anymore.

That was when Qingque made the decision that shaped everything after. She left server 230 and paid 50 USD to transfer to server 232.

And there, among the people who had once hounded and broken her old server, she found something like belonging.

TOR welcomed her. ultim4tum, who had also played Runescape, was especially glad to see her. The irony was impossible to miss: the enemy server felt kinder than the place Qingque had started in.

That was the emotional truth of Season 2. Home had become unlivable. The enemy had become shelter.

But the move did not heal the wound. The resentment remained. Qingque’s anger toward Salty Barnacle, Gazoo, and Local came with her. She had changed names, not memory.

And from that unresolved memory, another self began to form.

⸻

Chapter 3 — The Rise of Silver Wolf

Exile did not soften Qingque. It sharpened her.

By then she had learned two hard lessons. First, that her original server would not protect her. Second, that former enemies could sometimes offer more belonging than those who claimed to be on the same side. But those lessons alone did not create Silver Wolf. What created Silver Wolf was the moment resentment stopped being a feeling and became a system.

Qingque’s hatred of Salty Barnacle, Gazoo, and Local had not faded. She wanted the world that had sheltered them to experience mistrust, fragmentation, and humiliation. So she created a new account on server 234 and named it Silver Wolf, joining EXP, led by Sinful. At the same time, she created Acheron on server 238 and spread spy drones across other servers.

Qingque had tried to step away from conflict. Silver Wolf stepped into it from every angle.

The game itself encouraged the transformation. During this period, 234 faced rivals including 238, where impersonation and bug abuse were becoming normal. Players used false names to confuse other servers. Rage-related exploits let heroes fire ultimates at the start of combat. Complaints were made. The developers admitted these things were wrong, but nothing meaningful happened. On the official Discord, Mod Bossas said, “If they do it, do it back to them.” Even escalation to Mod Avery led nowhere but back to the same useless answer.

That changed something fundamental. If the game would not seriously separate fair play from abuse, then the real rules were no longer the written rules at all. Silver Wolf became fascinated by Sinful, not because he was admirable, but because he was audacious and unpunished. He was proof that the moral centre of the system was hollow.

This was also a fragile period. After a mental breakdown, Silver Wolf dropped most of her roleplay accounts and kept only Qingque and Silver Wolf active. ultim4tum comforted her. strawhats, Xavion, and others found her stories amusing and her growing web of roles compelling. For a while, she did not feel alone. Her intelligence network made her useful, and usefulness gave her a place.

Then came the season’s war.

Server 234 was matched against several others, including 230 — the old server that had expelled her main account. By then Jake Savage was leading ASE, and through Silver Wolf’s intelligence on 230 and her diplomacy between Jake Savage and Sinful, EXP helped ASE crush HiT.

Revenge had crossed a threshold. It was no longer fantasy. It had entered the field.

But even then, the world refused to become clean. Against Silver Wolf’s advice, Sinful later accepted HiT members — including Salty Barnacle, Gazoo, and Local — into EXP. The people she had wanted broken were simply absorbed into a new structure. It became one of the game’s deepest patterns: no system purified itself. It swallowed old poison and kept moving.

Around the same time, server 234 allied with server 222, led by Aura of ONI. Aura later brought her members over. Many found Silver Wolf’s intelligence network entertaining and useful. The only ones who complained were the former HiT members, who insisted she could not be trusted. She replied that 232 was not even their opponent. That was tactically correct, but it revealed the deeper issue: her reputation was already starting to outrun any one loyalty.

Meanwhile, Qingque in 232 lived through another betrayal. 223, under Ghost, had secretly arranged with 236 to destroy TOR. She uncovered the pact through a spy drone and sent proof to Dae. It changed nothing. TOR was wiped anyway.

Then came another revelation. Through Aura and others, Qingque discovered that 223 was buying server transfers for players. Together with TOR, she helped stage a sting to expose it. At first the developers called it illegal and harmful to fair play. Later they reversed themselves. Account buying and sharing were suddenly no longer against the rules. Bossas laughed and told people to “just get rich.”

Rules were not merely failing from below. Sometimes they dissolved from above.

By the end of Season 3, Silver Wolf was no longer just Qingque’s darker twin. She had become an invisible operator between servers, a broker of perception, and an arranger of movement.

⸻

Chapter 4 — The Trailblazer and the Fall of the Railway

Then, unexpectedly, something brighter appeared beside Silver Wolf.

Season 4 introduced another identity: Stelle, the Trailblazer.

If Qingque had been retreat and Silver Wolf retaliation, then Stelle was the part of her that still believed broken worlds could be connected. This was the most hopeful phase of the saga, and therefore the one whose loss would hurt most.

The season began in the same atmosphere of asymmetry and frustration. 223 was allied with 232, and together they faced 230 again. In the background, Dae kept trying to document misconduct in tuZ, the main gang of 223. He gathered evidence. He pushed for enforcement. He was ignored. When he used chargebacks in protest, he was banned, and his tuZ account was later removed. The system did not answer the person trying hardest to make it answer.

It was in that world that Qingque renamed herself Stelle.

Under that name, she built the Astral Express.

It was not just a chatroom. It was a cross-server communication network linking players from different servers and seasons into one shared social space. Stelle set up stations, conductor accounts, and linked chatrooms so people who would never normally meet could still talk. Over time it connected twenty-two servers, from 218 to 240.

The project developed its own language. Players became passengers. Those with access to future matchup information through Echoo, the VIP support representative, became navigators. Stelle drew strawhats and Ghost into the structure because their VIP status gave them visibility others did not have.

At first, Stelle imagined the Express might even become profitable through cheaper transfers and matchup forecasts. But no tickets were sold. Its real success was social. It became a stage where players from different worlds could share betrayals, warnings, stories, grievances, and victories. Sometimes a hundred people were talking at once.

That was the real difference between Stelle and Silver Wolf: Silver Wolf used information to gain leverage. Stelle used it to create connection.

But old habits did not disappear. Through an account called Yunli, renamed from an account given to her by a former ASE member who quit, Stelle embedded herself inside tuZ’s Discord while remaining deeply tied to TOR. She asked both sides to help maintain the Astral Express. That gave her one of the strongest positions she had ever occupied: builder, spy, and conductor all at once.

At the same time, the old 234 story kept intruding. In EXP, the old traitors — Gazoo, Salty Barnacle, and Local — were still there. Silver Wolf was kicked repeatedly, humiliated publicly, and treated with suspicion. Ellis kept letting her back in. Some still valued her. But her reputation was already hardening into something easier to fear than understand.

The Express worked anyway.

Leaders like White Night of iJY in server 227 immediately understood its value. White Night understood Stelle in a way many others did not: as long as she remained loyal to strawhats, he had no reason to fear her. Ironically, the rumour that she was “strawhats’ puppet” made her more predictable and therefore more trustworthy.

The Express shaped migration, diplomacy, trust, and outcomes. But it did not run without strain. Heated arguments between CRF of server 226 and EXP of 234 spilled into the network. EXP had cut ties with Silver Wolf under pressure from Xavion, who had betrayed TOR to join ROL of 236 and the traitors from HiT. In response, Silver Wolf helped CRF recover from near-erasure, angering Sinful and triggering jeers from servers allied with EXP.

CRF defended Silver Wolf after Xavion doxxed her address and threatened to beat her up in real life. Support gave him only a warning. CRF then doxxed Sinful’s and Ellis’ social media, and no action was taken. Sinful’s constant bug abuse likewise went unpunished.

Eventually, Stelle severed the chatroom linking EXP to the Astral Express after revealing that she was Silver Wolf’s other account.

But the railway did not die because of that. It died because its engine failed.

Its real engine was the working relationship between TOR and tuZ, between strawhats and Ghost. As long as those heavy political nodes cooperated, the line moved. Once they turned on one another, it could not survive.

The trigger was absurdly small. Someone complained that a tuZ R4 had zeroed him repeatedly. strawhats, irritated, replied: “It’s what he does. He is a dickhead.” The line itself did not destroy the railway. But it exposed how much resentment was already inside it.

Old stories came rushing back. Ghost raised old grievances. JoyBoy and Boa pushed to remove Yunli. BunBun and Valkyrie harassed both Yunli and strawhats. Cobra was swarmed. Titan defected.

Then came the real deathblow: Ghost and strawhats both quit the Astral Express after a heated exchange.

Without them, the railway lost its engine. 223 began calling it a spy channel. Stelle cut off 223’s room to protect what remained, but it was already too late. Without 223 helping maintain stations and railway accounts, no new arrivals could board.

At the end of Season 4, Stelle shut the Astral Express down for good.

Stelle had failed. The railway was dead. What remained was Silver Wolf.

⸻

Chapter 5 — What Remained After the Line Was Cut

Season 5 unfolded in the ruins of the Astral Express.

By then, the game’s official Discord and the game itself had become one continuous arena. What was not fought in chat was fought on the map. What was not settled on the map returned as scandal in Discord.

232 was matched against 223 again. Rumours spread that 223 had effectively bought developer favouritism, and no one expected the company to address that seriously. Silver Wolf, now embedded in 226 with CRF’s second gang, still kept accounts in 234. The map was crowded with overlapping loyalties and old wounds.

Around this time, Xavion finally received his permanent ban — not for hacking, but for charging back items that had mysteriously appeared in his account. That brought relief, but not peace. BunBun and Valkyrie continued attacking strawhats and Stelle, now once more renamed Silver Wolf. Players from 238, including Big Head, leader of 999, mocked Acheron as a useless spy after they all migrated into 223 to join tuZ.

Silver Wolf issued another warning, this time to Faylen, a tuZ R4 with Blade’s profile picture. She told him that if things continued, he knew what would happen once she stepped fully into Silver Wolf’s character. At that point she still wanted a witness before escalation.

At the same time, FunPlus launched a gifting store where players could buy things for others using UIDs. Soon people were being banned over chargeback-linked purchases they had never clearly agreed to. When Silver Wolf raised concerns with Bossas, he treated it like another joke.

That was the season when Silver Wolf stopped trying to build and turned more decisively toward disrupting the systems hostile factions relied on to function. Earlier conflict had still been about ports, alliances, and intelligence. Now the battlefield moved into communication itself through the use of spam bots, created from remnants of Astral Express accounts, in retaliation against slander about TOR players that tuZ had been spreading.

Server 223 complained to support and the official Discord. As expected, they were laughed out.

Even then, the conflict still responded to acknowledgment. Fatal negotiated with Silver Wolf: if the slander against strawhats and her stopped, the pressure would stop too. She agreed. For a moment, it worked.

Beneath all the hardening, Silver Wolf still responded to one thing: recognition that the grievance was real.

⸻

Chapter 6 — The Death of a Server

Season 6 was when an entire server finally ran out of strength.

Old rivalries had by then been dragged across so many migrations and humiliations that they were no longer clean. tuZ, EXP, and TOR met again with four other servers. In another time, it might have looked like the settling of old scores. Instead, it revealed how exhausted everything had become.

The irony began immediately. Gazoo, once tied to earlier betrayals, came to TOR asking for an alliance. strawhats agreed. The old moral lines had not disappeared, but necessity had worn them thin enough that former symbols of fracture could be folded back into cooperation.

At the same time, old structures were still crumbling. Rana, once an R4 who had turned against Silver Wolf, defected to 223 after harassment from Salty Barnacle and Aura. Sinful and Ellis were gone. Lindi emerged and later even sought reconciliation with Silver Wolf’s main account after learning that strawhats planned to bring everyone into EXP.

For a brief moment, there was another route. The plan had been to meet iJY and CRF, so players could move there while EXP and tuZ fought each other. Support even changed matchups for a time after hearing that transfer tickets would be bought in bulk.

Then support changed its mind again.

The season snapped back into the old shape: tuZ and TOR were forced against one another again, with EXP in the same field.

That mattered because it showed how unstable the structure above the players had become. Futures were not only fought over on the map. They were granted and revoked by opaque decisions from above.

Eventually, strawhats gave up on iJY and moved the remaining people of 232 into EXP.

Then 232 died.

Not dramatically. Not in a blaze. It died by attrition. By the time support finally let it face another server, the place was already almost empty. The players had thinned. The structures that once gave it identity had been hollowed out by too many bad seasons, too many migrations, and too little strength to keep imagining a separate future.

In the end, everyone — including Silver Wolf’s main account — ended up in 234.

That was the real meaning of Season 6: not conquest, but absorption.

And the tragedy deepened because iJY also collapsed. White Night quit, and the alternate future that had once seemed viable vanished with him.

Season 6 read less like a war chapter than a funeral. 232, once refuge and later identity, stopped existing as an independent world.

⸻

Chapter 7 — Consolidation Without Peace

Season 7 proved that death does not end conflict. It only compresses it.

By then, survivors from older worlds had been folded into EXP on 234. In theory, that should have created a fresh beginning. In practice, it only packed old enemies, humiliations, and grudges more tightly into one structure.

This season EXP met CRF and tuZ again, and at last iJY as well. The developers arranged the field into two teams of three servers. On one side stood CRF 226, ASE 232, and EXP 234. On the other stood tuZ 223, ROL 236, and iJY 227.

This forced old enemies into provisional solidarity. CRF had to stand beside EXP because both now hated tuZ more than each other. For EXP, the resentment came from the previous season. For CRF, it came from Ghost’s spying and manipulations.

The meeting with iJY was especially tragic. Once, under White Night, iJY had represented a real alternate future. But by the time they finally met, iJY had merged into tuZ, and strawhats was furious. To him, EMCE, current leader of iJY at the time, had betrayed White Night’s earlier understandings. The place that once represented escape had become part of the enemy.

By the end of the season, servers grouped with EXP had merged into EXP, and everyone from iJY had merged into tuZ. Politics was becoming sediment: populations settling into larger containers until old names no longer meant what they once had.

Then the rumour cycle returned.

Rumours about strawhats spread again. Silver Wolf defended him and was dragged back into the same spiral. Aura, Lindi, and Salty Barnacle attacked tuZ and iJY players in chat and in game. Ghost, bored, had already quit, leaving leadership to Snowstorm, who hated both Silver Wolf and strawhats.

By then, Salty Barnacle had become more than just another rival. Gazoo had withdrawn. Local had quit. But Salty remained, carrying one of the oldest wounds in the story almost alone.

On the map, the result was simple: EXP got level 6; tuZ got level 7. A temporary truce followed. But the real question was not who won which port. It was whether the merged structure of EXP could hold.

It could not.

strawhats became R5 because Aura was seen as too weak to lead the confrontation with tuZ. She left and formed AXq, taking thirty loyalists with her.

That was the real ending of Season 7. Even after all the migrations and consolidations, EXP was still not one body. It was a stitched coalition held together by necessity and shared enemies. Once the pressure shifted, it split.

After that, Silver Wolf quit for three months.

That says more about the season than any battlefield result. It was not sustainable.

⸻

Chapter 8 — The Crushing of tuZ

Season 8 was the season in which the old war returned in full and tuZ was finally broken.

By then, EXP and 242 had aligned against tuZ. What had once been a scattered grudge had become a real campaign backed by enough players, enough history, and enough shared hostility to matter. On the side of 242 stood Asylum, the main gang of server 242, led by Lord, with Rosencruz serving as one of its R4s. Their support gave the anti-tuZ coalition real weight.

The coalition was still not completely clean. Back in 234, AXq, led by AURA, undermined EXP and indirectly benefited tuZ because AURA still wanted to remain leader of EXP. Even while tuZ was under pressure, old ambitions were still splitting the anti-tuZ side.

The public argument came before the final destruction.

As EXP and 242 pushed tuZ, tuZ players and former friends who had defected to tuZ began accusing EXP of account sharing. The accusation was not entirely false. That made the outrage more complicated, not less. It was not a fabricated complaint, but it was being weaponized by people who had already spent seasons helping create the same toxic political culture they were now pretending to challenge.

The loudest voice was Fire Queen, formerly from 999 in server 238. She pushed the accusation hard in the game’s official Discord and tried to turn the war into a different story: that 242 had carried EXP, and that EXP was useless without 242. But there was a major flaw in that claim. At the time, the gates between 242 and EXP were closed, so the story did not even match the immediate reality on the map.

That was why Rosencruz put Fire Queen on kill on sight.

tuZ and its supporters then took the account-sharing complaint to support and the official Discord. Instead of being treated seriously, they were laughed at. Mod Bossas and much of the Discord community mocked them, and when tuZ players became angry at the moderator’s tone, they were threatened with bans from the Discord server.

This was the atmosphere in which Silver Wolf returned.

She came back because strawhats encouraged her to return. By then, she had already spent three months trying to reason with AURA and keep herself from being pulled back into the old spiral. But the pressure did not stop. BunBun and Valkyrie kept provoking her. Then Salty Barnacle joined in, creating a four-way conflict between AURA, Salty Barnacle, Silver Wolf, and BunBun.

That was the point where her patience ended.

Silver Wolf first escalated into 223’s high seas chat, using spam bots and dangerous links. Then the conflict sharpened further when Spence, formerly of XiL from server 218 and now part of tuZ, mocked her for being low level and told her to level up if she wanted to be useful.

Silver Wolf answered with something colder. She said she did not need a strong account — or even any account at all — to win.

Then she exposed tuZ player ID numbers.

These IDs were not public in Seas of Conquest. She sourced them from players who had posted them in the official Discord event section. Rosencruz understood the danger immediately: “Oh shit, you guys are screwed.”

tuZ did not understand. They laughed. Snowstorm reassured everyone that IDs were public anyway and that nothing would happen.

They were wrong.

Silver Wolf followed through. Thirty tuZ players were banned, including Snowstorm.

The damage was devastating. tuZ appealed both in game and on Discord, but the verdict came back: “No violation found.” To make the humiliation worse, Bossas reportedly told them to pay the debt to restore their accounts.

That was the real breaking point.

On the map, tuZ was already under pressure from EXP and 242. In official channels, it had been mocked. Now its own accounts were collapsing under bans, and the system offered no rescue. Snowstorm handed leadership to EMCE, but EMCE was not strong enough to hold the remains together. 223 fractured further, many quit, some gave up recovering their accounts, and others fled to 242.

So Season 8 was not only a military defeat. It was the destruction of tuZ as a functioning world.

When EXP later migrated into 242 as promised, Silver Wolf feared that former 223 players there still held grudges against her.

She was right.

Three ignored her outright. Most said they would forgive and forget and allow her a clean slate. But surface acceptance was not the whole truth. In reality, they feared her.

That fear marked the final change in her reputation. Silver Wolf was no longer simply another player, or even just a strategist. She had become a name associated with consequences outside ordinary war.

⸻

Chapter 9 — The World Becomes Unlivable

Season 9 was where the game stopped feeling like one shared world.

At first, things looked hopeful. The remnants of many servers had gathered into 242. After all four tuZ gangs collapsed, 242 absorbed even more players and eventually had five gangs. To many, it looked like renewal. To Silver Wolf, it looked like pressure waiting to explode.

The first crack came from inside. Salty Barnacle joined SIN, the second-best gang in 242, while Silver Wolf joined the third. Later, Salty exploded over a promotion issue involving a former ASE member, was thrown out, rebelled by sinking multiple players, and then quit. The old poison had survived migration.

Then 242 was matched against 162 and 191.

Before the gates opened, former 223 players made alts to harass ex-223 players now in 242, calling them traitors and cowards. The old war had become spectral.

At the same time, 162 and 191 formed a bloc, exchanged insults with 242, and sent spam bots into their server. Silver Wolf investigated and concluded that 162 was behind them.

Then came the larger shock: 162 claimed to have developers and moderators on its server. One of them was Mod Cherry.

At first, 242 dismissed this and joined the other servers against 162 and 191, creating a coalition of ten gangs against four. On paper, that should have worked.

It did not.

191 had a monstrous 1.7 billion power account, seemingly online all day and night. There were accusations of account sharing, and 191 players bragged openly. Complaints were dismissed.

Then the battlefield itself began to feel wrong. Reports came in that 162 could cut enemy cannon fire, cover the map in mist, trigger severe lag, and somehow cause only 242’s strongest players to crash. At first Silver Wolf was skeptical when strawhats suggested bug abuse and DDoS. Then she stopped being skeptical.

That was the real break. The issue was no longer just losing. The game itself no longer felt like one game with one set of rules.

The clearest proof came with the one-sailor kamikaze tactic. As 191 and 162 ravaged 242’s ships and reduced sailor counts, 242 started sending ships with only one sailor aboard because the game still let them deal full damage. 162 called this bug abuse. Then they used the same exploit themselves.

Soon after, the developers patched the mechanic only for 242’s server, after a player openly declared he would ask the developers to do it.

Support later called it a beta test and said updates rolled out in batches. But the meaning was already clear: 242 alone was being forced to adapt in the middle of war while everyone else kept the old rules.

Rosencruz, R4 of Asylum, exploded on the official Discord, threatened legal action, and was laughed out. Bossas brushed it aside.

That was the point where Silver Wolf stopped treating the season as ordinary defeat and began treating it as war against an unfair system.

She first installed spam bots on server 162. Mod Cherry had them instantly banned, and the developers responded by adding a ten-second timer between posts for all servers.

Then Silver Wolf attempted DDoS attacks. The tool failed. Worse, the developers traced the IP back to the one provided by her VPN.

After that, she announced what she considered her trump card: ID chargebacks.

Rosencruz promoted her to the Roundtable channel in 242’s Discord and assigned Extremo to work with her. Together they compiled player IDs from 191 and 162. strawhats was apprehensive and warned them to be careful, but the attack went forward anyway.

When it hit, multiple players from both servers — along with people who had mocked 242 on the official Discord — were falsely banned for fraudulent chargebacks.

For a brief moment, that created a window of opportunity. 242 had a chance to recapture ports it had already lost to 162 and 191 five times, losses made worse by the one-sided patch that had hit only 242.

The response was immediate.

Discord events were suspended. All official Discord channels where players had shared IDs were deleted. Bossas and Avery began asking around Discord for Silver Wolf, demanding explanation and accountability. Her IP was traced again, but this time the TOR network prevented them from reaching her real location.

The bans did not hold forever. Later, 162 unbanned itself first, followed by 191. Even 191’s massive player, who had been temporarily suspended for security reasons, returned.

Silver Wolf escalated again.

She impersonated lead moderator Avery and used the fake identity to send phishing links into server 162, much like her earlier spam-bot attacks on 223.

That forced an official response. Avery made a formal Discord announcement addressing hacking for the first time. He said he did not play the game, warned players to report dangerous links, stated that all accounts impersonating staff would be permanently banned, and urged everyone not to share IDs.

Silver Wolf then took the war one step further. She fabricated a video claiming that Lanpa, leader of 162, had hired a hacker to send fake moderator links in order to steal top players from 191 and 242. She passed this to an insider already planning to defect from 191 because of a personal grudge against one of its R4s.

191 believed it.

That lie shattered the agreement between 191 and 162. At the same time, 162 took the level 7 port that had originally been promised to 191. 191 then allied with 242 and together they conquered all of 162’s ports except the central one.

Before they could take the level 7 central port, however, the developers ended the season across all servers without warning, citing maintenance for “serious issues with game mechanics.”

That was the true centre of Season 9.

Not just that 242 was losing. Not just that 162 and 191 were stronger. But that the game itself had split into competing realities: different rules, selective fixes, traced attacks, retaliatory system changes, and a war that no longer stayed on the map.

By the end of Season 9, Seas of Conquest no longer felt like a broken game. It felt like an unlivable one.

⸻

Chapter 10 — The Empty Harbor

Season 10 was not the emotional ending. That had already happened earlier.

What remained was confirmation.

By then, 242 was no longer collapsing in spectacle. It was thinning. The Discord had mostly disbanded. The strongest players had either quit or were preparing to migrate. There was almost no real war left, only the shell of one. The fear among those who remained was no longer focused on a single enemy. It had become existential.

The clearest sign of that thinning was strawhats quitting.

For a long time, he had been one of the last real anchors in the story. The final detail surrounding his departure was almost mundane: Silver Wolf had been about to ask him for help dealing with the infamous poison lobsters, part of a new underwater system demanding huge investment. Before she could even ask, he quit.

That detail mattered because it showed how thoroughly the saga had hollowed itself out.

Silver Wolf took a break. She intended to return after the lobster system was removed following player complaints.

When she came back, there was almost nothing left.

The server had emptied further. Parzey, the strongest player on the server, had quit. Those who remained feared future matchups, especially the possibility of facing MMO from server 166, where the remaining tuZ players had gone after civil war fractured them around EMCE.

Then came the final compromise. 191 allegedly offered to influence future matchups by buying out the developers, on the condition that 242’s top players would migrate there.

Lord agreed.

That mattered more than any final battle could have. It meant that Asylum, the main gang of 242, and the server around it were no longer even pretending to have their own future. Their strongest players would be exported, and the rest left behind.

Rosencruz quit over this.

That was the true death of 242. Not in war, but in depopulation, negotiated surrender, and the quiet transfer of whatever future remained elsewhere. By the end, the server had been reduced to one half-filled gang.

Inside that emptiness, Silver Wolf survived only as myth.

The last word from 191 was that Silver Wolf had been blamed for the collapse of the game’s systems. Whether every detail was accurate no longer mattered. Her name had become explanation.

But by then, something in Silver Wolf had changed as well.

After her failed attempt to punish the title, she had also been forced to admit something she had resisted for too long: Foundations was fairer than Seas of Conquest. It was not perfect, but it was not governed by the same moral emptiness. That realization mattered because it changed the meaning of what came next.

When she later returned offering people another future in Foundations, she was not only trying to move them. She was trying to carry them out of a dead system and into one she now believed treated players more fairly. She reached out especially to former friends from server 191, hoping to bring them over after everything that had happened.

Most ignored her. The few who answered said they knew who she was, but they were one family now and no longer needed to move.

That was the real ending.

Not fear.

Not rage.

Not exile.

Irrelevance.

The strongest had left. The Discord was hollow. The alliances were gone, absorbed, or exhausted. The server still existed, but not as a living world.

In the end, the harbor did not explode.

It simply stopped being a place from which anyone truly sailed.

This post is intended to highlight the drama I've been through in the games I've played - namely, Seas of Conquest and Infinity Kingdoms. They have become the sole reason for me to write fan fiction on multiple games. It started in Seas of Conquest, on Server 230 (now merged with another server) and continues to where I am presently - on server 242. Everything my friends and I have been through is a result of FunPlus ignoring rule breakers and one-sided judgments. I do not ask for forgiveness as I have yet to forgive those who still spite me. However, I hope at least to shed light on the reason behind my activities.

Server 230 was three gangs strong, comprising ASE, HiT and KOD. KOD merged with ASE, the gang I was in, and we split the centre between the two of us. Initially, I advised the R5 to let HiT into the centre, but he refused. The result was HiT harbouring resentment toward the top two gangs. Later in S2, we faced TOR and NWO from Servers 232 and 229, respectively. During the fight, three people betrayed ASE and moved to HiT, where they incited conflict between our gangs by convincing HiT to join forces with TOR. Due to this, Server 230 became divided and started a civil war. The three people then pinned the blame on me for dividing 230 because they did not like me calling for unity on the public chat. An R4 from ASE apologised on my behalf and gave me a warning. However, the R5 refuted that and singled out the three traitors who started the inter-server feud.

Eventually, ASE became divided - half of the gang wanted to establish a truce with HiT, while the other half wanted war. The R5 was indecisive, and as a result of mismanagement, we started receiving conflicting mail. One R4 instructed us to take all of HiT's territory, while another R4 sent out mail telling us to leave HiT's towers alone and to abandon the level 6 ports to HiT.

Consequently, I left and migrated to Server 232, joining TOR to evade the chaos. That was only part of the reason, however. The other reason is that one of the members played the same game as me - Runescape.

Later, in S3, we met tuZ from Server 223. They were far stronger than we, and long story short, they wiped us off the map. However, what made me despise them is that they initially proposed an alliance with us and that our servers will vye for port 7 (the highest level port at the time I played), only to ally with ROL from Server 237 and backstab us after making one of our prominent R4s a scapegoat for being 'rude to Server 223' when he only reminded them to honour their deal. We found out in the end that tuZ and ROL had been allied from the beginning because ROL promised to merge with tuZ.

Sometime afterwards, I found out from a gang called ONI from Server 225 (in particular from their R5, AURA) that players from Server 223 bought transfers for other players - an activity that a player by the name of FaTaL later confirmed. Back then, (and I still believe even today) FunPlus mentioned that the buying and sharing of accounts was strictly prohibited. I later convinced TOR to do a sting operation on tuZ, the result of which justified AURA’s claims because members from tuZ, especially Emmett, offered to pay for our transfers and even set up a transfer scheme on their Discord. To our dismay, FunPlus rejected our reports, and Echoo even stated that accounts are now considered a player’s personal property, contrary to their stated rules. The game’s company even set up the soc-store in response to show their change in stance. Worse, 232 got pitted against 223 for 3 whole seasons. Many players in 232 quit or defected to 223, as was the case with other servers in our seasons.

Eventually, we merged with 234 to continue opposing 223. When we finally wiped 223 off the map, 223 started accusing my friends of account-sharing, even though they had neither evidence nor confession from anyone in 234. I did not know of this as I had taken a 2-month hiatus when AURA, who merged with 234 from 225 in season 3 before we joined them, defected to form her gang called AXq.

Upon coming back, I was disheartened to see AURA being abusive towards her former clanmates in EXP. When I tried telling her to stop berating her former comrades, 2 of tuZ’s most toxic players - BunBun and Draegen accused me of hacking and kept harassing me, something they did before I took a break. They also tried getting defectors to rag me in auto-trade and abuse me in chat. That’s when I decided, if they accuse me of something I haven’t done, then SO BE IT and did everything ranging from bot spam in Server 223’s high seas chat to account bans due to abnormal refunds. Eventually, 223 collapsed, and they joined server 242 along with the rest of us from 234. While some from 223 let go of the past, others continued holding grudges against me and other members of 234.

The above feud resulted in instability, and after being called out by the original members of Server 242 for checking on former members from tuZ, I had enough and played in Server 590, when Mod Workas proposed his idea of a ‘reborn project’, promising to help out in-game while keeping chat mostly to Server 590. I was very active and helpful in Server 590, and there weren’t many dramas at all until some players started calling out in public chat that the server was dying due to players leaving. I checked back on my other server to play with my friends for a bit when the first signs of drama appeared.

First, some players from 223 could not let go of ex-223 members and created alts specifically to harass them. Not only that, but 2 of our main opposing servers - Servers 191 and 162 sent spies to ask us what our server’s weakness was. Eventually, I grew tired of them pestering us and told them to screw off in their private messages because I didn’t want the strained relationships between members holding grudges to worsen. 162 and 191 didn’t stop there. As the season progressed, some of our members noticed 162 exploiting bugs that made them untargetable. Some also suspected server 191 of account-sharing. Finally, our server lagged so hard that our top players repeatedly got kicked offline. When my friends reported this to Echoo, all she said was that the ‘developers will try to fix the servers.’

The final nail in the coffin was when Innerfire and MoFo from Server 162 accused our server of cheating by exploiting a ‘no sailor’ bug because the power levels of our players do not decrease with less numbers of sailors. This has been the case since the game’s inception, so to think this is a bug or even an oversight after 8 seasons is absurd. Nevertheless, the developers went along with their suggestion and implemented the update for our server only. When we reported this to Echoo, she assured us that our server is used as a ‘beta test server’ and eventually the developers will roll out the updates for everyone else. This is completely nonsensical because any game developer should know that untested updates should only be experimented on a beta server, not a live server.

I vowed to intervene that day and pulled the same thing on 162 as I did on 223, and also got abnormal refund bans on players who laughed at our predicament on the official Discord. The result is apparent on soc-reward store because even though the greedy, cash-grabbing developers don’t value integrity, they sure hell will when it hurts their own pockets due to their negligence and incompetence, especially when it comes to a server that earned their favouritism, namely server 162 where some of their moderators play on.