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HC: Card Slinger | Ch. 54 - Psychological Warfare
🕑 Added 2025-03-28 10:48:21 +0000 UTCSeeing so many players who surpassed him in underwater combat rattled Deckard’s confidence. He pushed his feelings aside. It was too soon to accept defeat. They were only a few steps ahead, nothing he couldn’t close with time and practice.
Besides, fighting them head-on wasn’t his plan. He was here only for the cards.
For now, he focused on learning the terrain. He swam slowly, mapping the seabed—the stretches of undisturbed sand, the places with more turtles, the jagged rocks, the cavernous formations large enough to take cover.
When the fight broke out, he needed to know the best places to maneuver.
Once he had the layout down, he kicked upward. The deep blue gave way to shimmering gold. He broke the surface with a sharp inhale, blinking against the glare of the sunlit bay.
From here, Shell Bay stretched wide before him. He turned, scanning the movement around him. The surface was just as chaotic as the depths below.
Reefs jutted out in patches, forming natural platforms where players stood, striking at the water to lure turtles into combat. Further out, waves lapped against anchored rafts, their occupants doing the same—churning the sea with each attack.
I’ll watch how players fight on the surface for a bit.
Deckard hauled himself onto one of the reefs, gripping the slick stone as barnacles scraped against his fingers. Around him, the battle raged—spears and staves striking water, bursts of telekinetic force rippling through the air.
He barely had time to catch his breath before a shadow loomed over him.
Deckard turned.
The player standing before him was wiry, his stance loose but predatory. A silver dagger crossing a skull was tattooed on his forearm. He rolled his shoulders, the motion casual, but there was nothing relaxed about the way he watched Deckard.
“You lost, newbie?” His tone dripped with mockery.
Deckard arched an eyebrow. “No. Why?”
The man jerked his chin toward the water. “Out. This is our reef. Low Lives territory. Find another.”
Our reef?
Deckard clenched his jaw. The entitlement in this guy’s voice grated on him. He hated this type—players who thought they owned everything just because they had the numbers to back them up.
A few Low Lives fighters had turned their heads. Some were still battling, but their stances had shifted. The silent message was clear: This isn’t a request.
Before Deckard could respond, another voice cut through the standoff.
“Real brave of you guys, kicking out solo players like that.”
A player stood on a nearby raft, arms crossed, a strip of red cloth tied around his bicep. He was lean but broad-shouldered, his stance steady despite the waves rocking beneath him. A smirk played on his lips, but his eyes were sharp—assessing, waiting.
The enforcer’s smirk faded. “Stay out of this, Red.”
The player on the raft laughed, unbothered. “Why? This is a public area, isn’t it? Typical Low Lives—you guys really picked the perfect name. A bunch of bullies, through and through.” His voice carried easily across the water.
The enforcer’s jaw tightened. “Oh, give me a break. If this guy tried farming on any Red Arms’ islets, you’d throw him off in a heartbeat.”
“The Red Arms believe in fair fights,” the Red Arms player shot back. “Solo players deserve a chance too. Guess that’s the difference between us—you boys only win when the numbers are stacked.”
Deckard noticed a few guildless players floating nearby, watching. So did the enforcer. His nostrils flared, but instead of pressing the argument, he turned back to Deckard.
“I’m asking nicely. Leave. I won’t ask again.”
Deckard’s fingers twitched. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but every instinct screamed at him not to just roll over for these guys. And yet, the bigger surprise wasn’t Low Lives acting like thugs—it was the Red Arms player sticking his neck out for him. Why? What did he get out of this?
He flicked a glance at the reef’s edge. The Low Lives stood there, weapons in hand, watching—but none of them jumped into the water after the Red Arms player. Why not? Numbers were on their side.
The enforcer’s fingers twitched. “I’m warning you, Red. Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”
Tension crackled between them, but neither moved.
Deckard weighed his options. He could push back—or avoid unnecessary trouble.
He exhaled through his nose, forcing a grin. “Didn’t realize I was stepping on toes. My bad.”
The Low Lives enforcer studied him for a moment, then gave a small, approving nod. “Smart move, noob.”
Satisfied, he turned away, signaling to his guildmates that the issue was over.
Deckard pushed off the reef, slipping back into the water. The cold swallowed him, washing the tension away—at least for now.
The Red Arms player didn’t let up. “You really are cowards! If the Red Arms weren’t here to call you out, you’d just PK this poor guy. Some people make me sick.” His voice rang over the waves, loud enough for bystanders to hear.
Deckard studied him. He was still standing on the raft, arms crossed, completely at ease. He wasn’t repositioning, wasn’t scanning for threats—wasn’t even acknowledging the turtles surfacing near him for air.
As Deckard swam past, he hesitated. Might as well say something.
“Thanks for the help back there.”
The player turned to him with an easy smile. “Of course! My pleasure. The Red Arms try to be an upright guild. These Low Lives? No shame. Always looking for an easy target.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “Glad I could step in.”
Something about the way he said it felt... practiced.
“Yeah… well. Appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” The player smiled again, his expression warm—too warm.
Deckard gave him a nod and kept moving. As he swam toward another reef, he glanced back. The Red Arms player was still there, standing on the raft, unmoving.
Whenever a solo player passed, he greeted them with the same polite tone. Never shifting, never acknowledging the turtles bumping the raft’s edge as they surfaced for air.
What’s he even doing? He wasn’t hunting. Wasn’t fighting. Just... standing.
Deckard exhaled, shaking off the thought.
A short distance away, another reef jutted from the water. As he swam closer, he spotted red bands wrapped around the arms of the players standing on it.
Red Arms territory.
He wasn’t planning to climb up this time—just observe.
Then he heard it.
“Sorry, kid, but this reef is Red Arms turf. Find another one.”
A solo player, still dripping from his climb, was being waved off by a Red Arms enforcer—a woman this time, her stance rigid, voice firm.
The guildless player hesitated. “But—”
She took a step forward. “No buts. Off.”
Deckard’s frown deepened. Just earlier, the Red Arms had played the heroes for solo players. Now they were pulling the exact same move.
So much for being the ‘upright guild.’
A sharp, grating voice rang out from a nearby raft.
“Bwahaha! There it is! Red Arms, acting like they own the whole ocean!”
Deckard turned. A scrawny kid, no older than twelve, stood wobbling on the raft, a ragged tunic hanging off his shoulders. A silver dagger-and-skull tattoo covered most of his forearm—too large for his skinny frame, like he hadn’t grown into it yet. His half-cracked voice wavered unpredictably, jumping between shrill and deep, making every remark painful to hear.
“You Red Arms are bullies!” the kid shouted with his hands cupped around his mouth. “You don’t just claim reefs—you hog all the best hunting spots for the wild boss! You don’t even let players climb up to rest and regain stamina! And don’t try to deny it! I’ve seen it with my own two eyes!”
The Red Arms enforcer’s jaw tightened. “Stay out of this, Low Lives.”
The kid grinned widely, spreading his arms. “Why? You don’t want everyone hearing the truth?” He turned toward the few players floating nearby, making sure they were watching. “These guys act all noble, but I’ve watched them PK solo players who got too close to their farming spots.”
The Red Arms fighter stiffened. “Get lost! Don’t make us go there.”
“Oh. Do come! I’d love to see you try.”
The Red Arms player glanced downward at the surf and smiled. “Hmph. Nice try. Just you wait. When we’re done guarding this reef, we’re coming for you.”
The kid just stuck his tongue out and kept taunting the team. “Look, everyone! The oh so great Red Arms! ‘Protectors of solo players’—unless you step on their reef! Then you’re dead! What a joke of a guild!”
Deckard’s eyes widened.
So that’s how it is.
Both guilds wanted absolute control over the reefs. That much was obvious. They wouldn’t allow anyone but their own to set foot on them. He’d seen several videos of Mother Turtle hunts, and more often than not, the ones who secured the boss’ kill were the ones who controlled the best-positioned reefs.
And that’s why none of them wanted to leave. They didn’t just block enemy guilds—they shut out everyone. No outsiders. No neutrals. No risks. The reef was a fortress—easy to defend, hard to take.
That’s what the players on the rafts wanted—to bait them out, force them into open water, strip them of their advantage.
That’s why the Red Arms enforcer had looked down at the surf. Maybe she wasn’t just irritated. Maybe there was a team of Low Lives waiting, hidden beneath the surface, ready to storm the reef the second the Red Arms made a mistake.
But that wasn’t all. There was a secondary battle going on.
The real fight wasn’t just between the Red Arms and the Low Lives. When the wild boss spawned, it wouldn’t be a neat two-sided war. It would be a brawl. Dozens of guildless players, all looking for an opening, swarming in wherever they could.
Those guildless players weren’t organized. They weren’t following orders. But they had instincts.
If a Low Lives member had just shoved them off a reef, they might hesitate when choosing where to swing their weapon. If a Red Arms player had just defended them, they might subconsciously side with them in the chaos.
Guildless players didn’t care about banners or territory. But they remembered faces. They remembered who had helped them and who had screwed them over. And when the fight broke out, that moment of hesitation—of doubt, of a split-second decision—was all it would take to tip the battle.
The guilds weren’t just fighting for positioning.
They were fighting for control—over the land, over the battle, over the minds of the players watching. The fight had already begun.
Expression unreadable, Deckard kept swimming, quietly mapping every islet and noting which guild controlled what. When he was done, he slipped away, silent, unnoticed.
He needed a base—somewhere out of the way, where no one would see him as an immediate threat but still close enough to observe the battle when it started. Too close, and the guilds would see him as competition. Too far, and he’d lose the chance to track their movements.
After swimming through most of the bay, he found the perfect spot—an isolated reef near the cliffs. It was far enough from the main guild groups that they wouldn’t bother him but close enough that he could keep an eye on the battlefield and gain Understanding Points when the Mother Turtle spawned. More importantly, the cliffs provided an escape route. If things turned south, he could use the effects of his Sea Wind Boots to break for higher ground, just as he had before.
Settling onto the reef, he went over what he had seen. This wild boss wasn’t just a fight—it was a strategic puzzle. There were two key dimensions: divers and surface fighters. At least for now, there were three main factions—the Red Arms, the Low Lives, and the neutral players. But that could change depending on how many guilds showed up for the fight.
Too bad I can’t pull the same trick I did with the elites.
Capturing this boss and running wasn’t an option. This wasn’t like the Amphibian Crab or the Coconut Seagulls. It wasn’t like any of the dungeon bosses, either. In the dungeons he’d been to so far, bosses, elites, and common creatures all pulled from the same collection of skill cards, with only the drop rate changing.
This wild boss, on the other hand, had one skill card that could only be obtained as a drop. First come, first served. If someone wanted it, they had to be there the moment the boss died—before anyone else grabbed it.
I have to find a way to capture the turtle, pick the drop, and then run.
Moreover, he had to do so under the noses of many more players than usual. No one would be willing to let him run away with the skill card. Wild boss skill cards were so valuable that even guilds hoarded them. The few that dropped were claimed instantly, fought over, or locked away within the guild. Finding one for sale was rare.
His only advantage was that most guilds cared more about something else. The real reason guilds fought so hard over wild bosses: relics.
Wild bosses in AstroTerra dropped relics—items that could be placed in a guild’s museum, granting permanent stat boosts to all members. Compared to that, a single skill card wasn’t as much of a priority. However, that wasn’t true for guildless players.
Deckard didn’t care about relics. He was here for Terralore cards.
He had to adjust his plan. Diving into that mess unprepared wasn’t an option.
For now, he’d stay in the background—farming turtles, collecting their skill cards, and watching.
His chance would come soon.
And when it did—
He’d be ready.
Comments
Cássio Ferreira
Haha. I'm glad you thought so!
Julia Pennoyer
Huh. From how the Red Arms guy on the raft was acting, I thought he might be a recruiter. But this is much more interesting
