《Corona: Blood & Concrete.》 Flying fish. The Backyard wasn¡¯t a place for dreams. It wasn¡¯t a place for much, really. Survival consumed the minds of the people who lived here, gnawed at them, wore them down until all that remained was the dull, ceaseless struggle of existence. But some still dared to dream. In this dreary place that snuffed out the light from anything and everything, some stubbornly let their embers burn. Au¡¯Mas was one of them. He knew there was a life beyond this¡ªthe towering, radiant cities of Corona, where the sun shone freely and streets weren¡¯t choked with rust and ruin. A world where people didn¡¯t wake up wondering if they¡¯d eat that day, where the rich didn¡¯t dangle opportunities like bait, watching the poor kill each other for a chance at something better. Au¡¯Mas wanted that life. For his people. For his friends. For his dead parents. For his younger brother. And most of all, for himself. Why? Why not? The Backyard was the lowest rung of Corona, a place wedged between civilization and oblivion. If the city was a machine, then the Backyard was the pile of discarded scrap at its base. Yet, even here, there were remnants of industry¡ªold, worn-out facilities left to rot. Buildings once filled with promise, now skeletal husks of metal and rust. The people of the Backyard had long since learned that no one would help them. So they helped themselves. They repurposed, scavenged, built, and rebuilt. They took what was abandoned and made it their own. And in one such makeshift garage, seventeen-year-old Au¡¯Mas sat hunched over a mechanical contraption, tinkering. The dim glow of a cracked work lamp illuminated his workspace, casting jagged shadows across the walls. The air smelled of oil, sweat, and burnt metal. A half-disassembled engine lay before him¡ªthe beating heart of a bike he was building from salvaged parts. The tightening of bolts. The clanging of metal. The soft whir of gears turning as he adjusted the inner mechanisms. It was all calming in a way. But there was no time to relax. Only a few weeks remained before Au could enter The Game. His only way out. ¡°Still working on that hunk of junk, huh?¡± The voice was familiar¡ªcalm, soft and mildly teasing. Kiel. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Au smirked but didn¡¯t look up. ¡°It¡¯s not junk.¡± A low chuckle. Footsteps echoed in the space as Kiel walked over, leaning against the workbench. The dim light revealed a tall, lean figure wrapped in layers of neat good clothes, keil refused to be seen as a street rat so he pulled every fabric he found thread by thread and wove his clothes back. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement. ¡°You¡¯re really serious about this, huh?¡± Kiel muttered. Au didn¡¯t stop working. ¡°Always have been.¡± Kiel exhaled, crossing his arms. ¡°You do realize the odds, right?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°You do realize what happens if you lose?¡± Au tightened a bolt with a final click and set the wrench down. Then, finally, he looked up. ¡°What happens if I don¡¯t play?¡± Kiel fell silent. There was no need for an answer. They both knew it. If you didn¡¯t play, you stayed in the Backyard. If you stayed in the Backyard, you rotted here. You died here. At least The Game gave a chance. Kiel sighed. ¡°Guess that¡¯s why I¡¯m coming with you.¡± Au blinked. ¡°What?¡± ¡°I mean, what the hell else am I gonna do?¡± Kiel grinned, though there was something tired in his expression. ¡°Someone¡¯s gotta keep your ass alive.¡± Au chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°Then I guess we better start training.¡± A big toothy grin spread across his face. The Backyard scaffolding dump were their training ground. Beneath them, the world was a labyrinth of decay¡ªcracked streets, rusted stairwells, skeletal remains of once-thriving infrastructure. But above? Above was freedom. Or at least, a taste of it. Au and Kiel stood at the edge of a whining scaffold in their makeshift gear, the city stretching out before them in jagged steel, crisscrossing scaffold and blocks and neon haze. Night had fallen, but Corona never slept¡ªthe distant glow of the upper districts painted the sky in eerie gold and violet. Up there, people lived in luxury. Down here, people ran. ¡°Alright,¡± Kiel exhaled. ¡°Rules are simple. You fall, you die.¡± ¡°Good pep talk,¡± Au muttered. Kiel grinned. ¡°Just don¡¯t mess up.¡± And then, without hesitation, they ran. Feet pounded against concrete. The wind howled in Au''s ears. His muscles tensed and released as he leaped, vaulted, and twisted through the air, flipping over an obstacle ducking below another, keil at his side also weaving, flipping and bobbing through the obstacles with finesse. The world blurred around him¡ªa rush of adrenaline, movement, momentum. A rooftop edge. A split-second decision. Jump. Airborne. For a brief, fleeting moment¡ªweightless. Then¡ªimpact. A roll. Fluid. He was already moving again. Ahead, Kiel spun mid-air, catching the edge of a rusted scaffold before swinging onto the next platform. Au smirked. Good, they were doing thud far. He pushed harder. A tighter jump. A sharper turn. A steeper slide. A faster roll. Cutting corners, pushing and pushing. And then¡ªa misstep. His foot barely clipped the edge of a ledge. His body lurched a moment of wrong weightlessness. Shit. His fingers snapped out, grasping for something¡ªanything¡ª thunk. A rusted pipe. His body slammed against the wall violently his arm straining as he dangled over the drop. The darkness below yawned, deep and endless. A second slower, and he¡¯d be dead. Kiel¡¯s face appeared above him, grinning. ¡°Little sloppy, ''mas¡± Au gritted his teeth. "Noted". With a grunt, he swung his legs up, using his core strength to flip over the ledge. Landing in a crouch, he exhaled, his heart pounding. Kiel patted his back. ¡°Be gentler, you do better when you flow, don''t rush" Au wiped sweat from his brow. ¡°Then we go again.¡± The hours passed in a blur. Training. Running. Fighting. Preparing for The Game. The world of the Rich wasn¡¯t built for them. It never had been. But Au¡¯Mas wasn¡¯t looking for permission. He would take what was his. And he would run until the city had no choice but to watch. Because this time, the Backyard wasn¡¯t just sending another desperate player into The Game. This time, it was sending a boy hungry for his due, and he would take what belonged to ceasear. The peek. The finish area was nothing special. Just another flat rooftop, cracked and weathered by time, with the distant neon lights of Corona¡¯s upper districts flickering in the background. But up here, the view stretched far, giving them a rare moment of stillness after the relentless sprint. Au¡¯Mas collapsed onto his back, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto the warm concrete. His lungs burned, his breath stung, and his muscles ached. But despite it all, he smiled. Kiel dropped down beside him, equally exhausted. ¡°We¡¯re improving,¡± he muttered between ragged breaths. Au let out a dry chuckle. ¡°Yes we are, not much of a choice there." For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply watched. And then¡ªit happened. The sunlight broke through the mesh of rust, fog, and haze. It was fleeting, just a few minutes at most, but it was precious. A soft golden glow spilled into the Backyard, stretching over the rusted rooftops and shattered windows, painting the ruins in brief, fragile beauty. It didn¡¯t belong here. The Backyard wasn¡¯t meant for light. But sometimes, just sometimes, the sky forgot that. Kiel exhaled. ¡°You ever think about what it must be like? Living up there?¡± Au tilted his head, following his friend¡¯s gaze toward the distant skyline¡ªwhere the rich lived, where the city was still whole. ¡°I guess? It¡¯s more like I imagine the freedom they must have. It¡¯s enviable. It must be nice.¡± Kiel smirked. ¡°Guess we¡¯ll find out soon.¡± The light faded. The sky shifted back to its usual dull haze. And just like that, bleak, dreary reality returned. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Au muttered, pushing himself up. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Kiel groaned but followed. ¡°Back to the garage?¡± ¡°Yeah. We need to close up.¡± They started the walk back, weaving through narrow alleys and rusted stairwells, their boots crunching against old debris. As they walked, the conversation shifted¡ªnaturally¡ªto The Game. ¡°So,¡± Kiel started, stretching his arms, ¡°what¡¯s your plan? What class do you plan on choosing?¡± Au didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Sprinter.¡± Kiel chuckled. ¡°Figured. Fast, sharp, direct¡ªmakes sense for you. You¡¯ll be the one making the runs.¡± "And you?" Kiel scratched his head. ¡°Not sure yet. Scout, probably. I¡¯m good at spotting paths, keeping pace, and adapting to terrain.¡± Au nodded. Kiel had quick reflexes, an eye for movement, and instincts sharp enough to find the best routes mid-run. It made sense. In The Game, every player had a role. Choosing the right one meant the difference between victory and failure. Every team needed a balance of roles. A team with no Goliath had no frontline presence. A team without an Ichcor lacked battlefield control. And without a Sprinter, there was no one to score. Kiel glanced at Au. ¡°You sure? Sprinter¡¯s the hardest role. You¡¯ll be a target every single game.¡± Au smirked. ¡°That¡¯s what makes it fun.¡± Kiel shook his head, laughing. ¡°Of course you¡¯d say that" ¡°What about weapons?¡± Kiel asked. Au thought for a moment. ¡°Something light but strong. A pair of tonfas, maybe. Easy to carry, fast to strike, good for close combat.¡± Kiel raised an eyebrow. ¡°Tonfas, huh? Didn¡¯t take you for a martial arts type.¡± Au shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll adapt.¡± ¡°And support gear?¡± ¡°A grappling line¡ªfor sure. Can¡¯t be a Sprinter without one. Maybe shock traps to slow down pursuers. Something to disrupt, to create openings.¡± Kiel nodded. ¡°Not bad. I¡¯m thinking daggers for me. Lightweight, fast, easy to throw. For support¡­ probably holo-masks. Could be useful for distractions and quick escapes.¡± They kept talking, refining their ideas. Team composition. Suit designs. Battle strategies. Their suits needed to be flexible, lightweight, and reinforced for high-speed movement. Something sleek¡ªlike a fusion of carbon-fiber bodysuits and combat-ready gear. Streamlined plating over vital areas. A suit built for endurance and adaptability. No flashy designs. No unnecessary bulk. Just efficiency. ¡°We¡¯re gonna kill it out there,¡± Kiel grinned as they neared the garage. Au smirked. ¡°Damn right we are.¡± They split up a few blocks later. Kiel headed toward his place, while Au took the long way home. Not because he needed to¡ªbut because he wanted to take it in. The Backyard. His home. His grave, if he failed. The air was thick with the scent of damp rust and mildew. Moss crawled through the cracks of crumbling buildings, water dripped from broken pipes, and distant figures moved like ghosts through the alleyways. People survived here. Not lived. Survived. Everything in the Backyard had weight. The weight of crushed dreams. The weight of a city that had turned its back on them. Au stopped on a broken bridge, looking out over the sprawl of decay. One day, I¡¯ll leave this place behind. Not just for himself. But for everyone else who couldn¡¯t. With that thought, he turned and continued walking. Home was a small, one-room shack built into the side of an old factory. Barely enough space, but it was theirs. Inside, a boy sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a tattered book. Taro. Au¡¯s younger brother. At thirteen, Taro was small for his age, with sharp green eyes and an even sharper mind. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± Taro muttered without looking up. ¡°Training,¡± Au replied, setting his bag down. Taro rolled his eyes. ¡°You mean running across rooftops until you break your legs?¡± Au smirked. ¡°Something like that.¡± He walked over to the tiny, barely-functioning stove and started preparing food. A simple meal¡ªboiled rice, scavenged vegetables, and a bit of dried meat. Taro closed his book. ¡°So¡­ are you really entering The Game?¡± Au glanced at him. ¡°You already know the answer.¡± Taro was silent for a moment. Then¡ª"You could die." Au didn¡¯t respond immediately. He knew that. He understood that. But staying here? Living this half-life in the Backyard? That was already dying. ¡°I have to,¡± he finally said. Taro clenched his fists. ¡°Why?¡± Au placed a bowl in front of his brother, then sat down across from him. He met Taro¡¯s gaze. ¡°For us. For you.¡± Taro hesitated, then picked up his bowl. They ate in silence. Classes. Taro was now asleep, while Au cleared up but the anticipation wouldn''t let him sleep so he decided to review the manual, the classes of the game; The Sprinter The heart of the team, the Ace, the one responsible for reaching objectives first¡ªwhether it be capturing a flag, activating a checkpoint, or finishing a run before the opposition. Speed is their religion, and every fiber of their being is honed for momentum. Agility, dexterity, flexibility, stamina, and raw acceleration are paramount, but a true Sprinter is more than just fast. To survive, they must have evasive mastery, twisting their bodies mid-air to avoid incoming projectiles, leaping through impossibly tight gaps, and breaking momentum into controlled slides that let them snap into a new direction instantly. Some train in breakneck acrobatics, using walls, ceilings, and even their opponents as footholds. Others develop speed-based abilities that allow them to seemingly bend time¡ªdouble-jumping off thin air, vanishing from sight in the blink of an eye, or leaving afterimages to confuse pursuers. They are untouchable¡ªor at least, that¡¯s the goal. The Goliath Where the Sprinter is a blur, the Goliath is an unmovable force. A walking, breathing shield, the Goliath does not stay too close¡ªso as not to disrupt the Sprinter¡¯s movement¡ªbut never strays too far. Strength, endurance, and spatial awareness are their greatest weapons, allowing them to predict and intercept incoming threats before they can reach the core players. Some Goliaths are brutal enforcers, built like walls, taking direct hits that would crumple lesser players. Others are dynamic juggernauts, hurling obstacles, smashing through barriers, and reshaping the battlefield with sheer force. The best of them can react in milliseconds, turning themselves into living shields for the team. A Sprinter without a Goliath is exposed. A Goliath without a Sprinter is a wall without purpose. Together, they are unstoppable. The Scout Every pathfinder knows: the fastest route isn¡¯t always the safest route. The Scout¡¯s job isn¡¯t just to be quick but to know where to go before anyone else does. They analyze terrain, routes, hazards, and enemy placements, finding paths that others wouldn¡¯t dare to take. But a great Scout doesn¡¯t just find paths¡ªthey make them. Whether it¡¯s triggering environmental shifts, setting up temporary escape routes, or baiting opponents into dead zones, the Scout is the key to navigating the chaos. They use drones, sensory enhancements, and hyper-awareness to control their surroundings. Some can see patterns in the way a course shifts, predicting when and where paths will change. A good Sprinter is fast. A good Scout makes them faster. The Nullcloak Where others run, the Nullcloak waits. Where others seek, the Nullcloak vanishes. This is the assassin-type, trained in ambush tactics, stealth, and sabotage. The Nullcloak¡¯s greatest weapon is uncertainty¡ªtheir presence is a question mark, a threat unseen but always felt. They strike at high-value targets and disrupt enemy formations through ambush kills, disabling key players before they even realize the fight has begun. Some Nullcloaks are masters of silence, moving through the game unseen. Others are ghostly hunters, flickering in and out of visibility, attacking from impossible angles before slipping away like a shadow. Their gear often includes cloaking tech, silent mobility tools, or even perception-warping abilities. The best Nullcloaks make an enemy paranoid. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. And in The Game, paranoia is as deadly as a blade. The Ichcor If the team is a living organism, then the Ichcor is the brain. They are the strategist, the coordinator, the one watching from above while others run below. An Ichcor sees everything. Every movement, every shift in terrain, every pattern in an opponent¡¯s strategy. They don¡¯t just react to what¡¯s happening now¡ªthey predict what will happen ten steps ahead. Using advanced tactical software, drones, or raw intellect, they guide the team¡¯s actions in real-time. A Sprinter might run into a trap. A Goliath might waste energy on a fight they don¡¯t need. A Scout might miss an unseen path. An Ichcor makes sure none of that happens. The greatest Ichcors don¡¯t just play The Game. They manipulate it. The Doppel The Doppel is the shadow of the Sprinter, a near-perfect double, running alongside them, mirroring their movements, acting as both cover and deception. Their purpose is twofold¡ªthey create openings for the Sprinter while being ready to replace them if the worst happens. But a Doppel is not just a second-rate Sprinter. They are a wildcard, using misdirection and adaptive movement to force the enemy into split-second choices. Attack the wrong one, and you¡¯ve wasted your chance. A skilled Doppel knows how to be indistinguishable from their Sprinter¡ªcopying not just their style, but their mindset, making it impossible to tell them apart until it¡¯s too late. And if the Sprinter falls? The Doppel becomes the new Ace. The Ghost A false lead. A trick. A lure. The Ghost is the expendable illusion, designed to mislead. Unlike the Doppel, who mimics their Sprinter, the Ghost exists purely to waste the enemy¡¯s time. Their movements are unpredictable, their tactics erratic, their entire presence designed to force opponents into chasing shadows. Some Ghosts use holographic decoys, making enemies fight nothing but air. Others specialize in high-risk evasive maneuvers, leading pursuers into traps before vanishing at the last moment. The most dangerous of them are also trained killers, assigned one or two elimination targets they must take out before disappearing into the chaos. A Ghost is a phantom of war¡ªthe enemy never knows if they¡¯re real until it¡¯s too late. The Chameleon The Chameleon is a reality-breaker, a player who does not move through The Game so much as they change the Game itself. Their unique ability allows them to alter the course¡¯s terrain, but only under certain conditions. Whether by fulfilling specific in-game objectives, solving hidden puzzles, or exploiting glitches in the system, a Chameleon has the power to reshape the battlefield in ways no one else can. Some create shortcuts, others close off enemy routes, and the best of them turn the very environment into a weapon. A wall suddenly appears where there was none, a bridge collapses at the perfect moment, an entire section of the map is rewritten in their favor. To an untrained eye, their power seems like magic. To a master strategist, it is the ultimate tool. The Bungee. The Bungee is the mid-air specialist, a player who barely touches the ground. Walls, ceilings, railings, moving vehicles¡ªeverything is a foothold to them. Where others are bound by gravity, a Bungee dances above it, twisting, rebounding, and flipping through the sky like a bolt of lightning. Some Bungees use tethering wires to swing between structures at impossible speeds. Others manipulate momentum shifts, performing double or triple aerial redirections mid-flight. The best of them never land unless they choose to. If a Sprinter is fast, a Bungee is untouchable. The Jester Where most players rely on movement, the jester relies on impossible precision. They use ricochets, environmental rebounds, and split-second calculations to land shots from angles that should be physically impossible. A Jester doesn¡¯t need direct line of sight¡ªthey can bounce a projectile off three surfaces and still hit their target. The best ones use multi-angle prediction software or hyper-reflexive instincts to make every bullet count. A Jester rarely fires twice. Because the first shot is all they need. The Juggernaut While the Goliath and Bastion are defensive titans, the Juggernaut is an unstoppable force. A wrecking ball of sheer momentum, they use unrelenting forward movement to tear through anything in their path. A Juggernaut doesn¡¯t just break through walls¡ªthey carry entire teams forward by smashing through obstacles, sending enemies flying with sheer force, or turning their own bodies into high-speed projectiles. You don¡¯t stop a Juggernaut. You get out of the way. The Riftwalker The Riftwalker is an enigma, existing on the edge of space and time distortions. They manipulate blink movement, phase shifts, or localized wormholes to bend reality in their favor. A Riftwalker might teleport short distances, shift between parallel layers of a map, or even momentarily phase out of existence to avoid damage. The best of them can leave afterimages, create false echoes of their movement, or temporarily exist in two places at once. Fighting a Riftwalker is like trying to punch a ghost made of lightning. The Mirage The Mirage is misinformation given form. A player who thrives on illusions, distractions, and perceptual manipulation, making enemies question what is real and what is deception. Unlike the Ghost¡ªwho is a physical decoy¡ªa Mirage distorts reality itself. Some use light refraction to create copies of themselves, while others hack The Game¡¯s visual systems to shift the appearance of terrain, players, or objectives. A Mirage doesn¡¯t run from a fight. They make you doubt that the fight was ever real to begin with. The Renegade Most players follow the rules of The Game. The Renegade ignores them. A brutal wildcard, the Renegade uses off-meta strategies, illegal modifications, or chaotic unpredictability to destroy carefully structured playstyles. Some break weapons in half to create dual blades, others hijack enemy comms, and the most infamous ones rewrite their own class mid-match. No one knows what a Renegade is going to do next. Not even them. The Game Has No Limits Classes define how the game is played, but they do not define the players. The best competitors know how to bend a class beyond its original design¡ªto push limits, rewrite the rules, and turn a role into something entirely new. Because in The Game, there is one truth: Adapt or fall. Because The Game is not just about running, fighting, or surviving. It¡¯s about playing smarter. And in a world where the rich control the rules, the only way to win... Is to break them.