Survival Queen of the Frozen Wastes novel Chapter 4

Riley woke to the kind of soreness that made you reconsider ever moving again.

She'd slept like the dead—no dreams, no blizzard, just nothing. When she opened her eyes, the first things she saw were the logs she'd stacked as a windbreak and the steady glow of the campfire.

She tried to stretch.

Big mistake.

Every muscle in her body lit up at once, screaming in protest.

"Sh*t."

Riley sucked air through her teeth and pressed a hand to her aching shoulder. Her lower back felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it.

Yesterday's work had been too much. She wasn't weak—far from it—but she was still human. The lactic acid had settled in overnight, and now she moved like an arthritic tin man.

At least she was alive.

She stowed the windbreak logs back in her inventory and looked around.

The world hadn't changed. Same dull gray sky. Same swirling snow. Outside the six-foot radius of the fire, the drifts looked deeper than yesterday. The wind had been busy.

Riley pulled out the half-empty water bottle and wet her throat. Then she retrieved the white bread she'd traded for yesterday.

Compared to that dense, flavorless black bread, this was practically cake. She tore off small pieces, letting the faint sweetness dissolve on her tongue, and habitually opened the "Server Channel".

She stopped chewing.

The number in the top left hit her like a physical blow.

"Current Online Players: 4968/10000"

"Five thousand..."

Riley's eyes went wide.

In a single night, that number had been cut in half.

Five thousand people. Gone. Winked out of existence on this frozen ice field while she slept.

"Ding."

The system notification cut through her thoughts—cold, emotionless, like it was announcing the weather.

"Global Announcement: Congratulations to all survivors for successfully surviving the first day.

"This was a culling. Last night eliminated those fools who failed to add fuel to their fires or refused to gather wood. Remember: in this place, tears mean nothing. When you die here, you're dead-dead.

"You who remain are the lucky ones.

"Grace Period: A five-day 'New Player Support Period' now begins. For the next five days, your initial supply crates will refresh daily with a fixed amount of food.

"Special Reward: Each survivor receives one pair of "Standard Issue Snow Boots (Common)". Be grateful for this mercy. Enjoy the game."

The words sat there on her screen.

Fools. Mercy. The system's tone dripped with contempt.

The math was simple. Starting package: five hours of fuel. Initial gift: five units of wood, another five hours. Total ten hours, if you did absolutely nothing.

The ones who'd frozen to death last night—they were the ones who'd clung to hope. The ones too scared to move. The ones who'd told themselves someone would save them.

Five thousand people. One night. Gone.

This wasn't a game. It was a slaughter.

In the channel, the survivors who'd made it through were clearly rattled by the numbers too.

Here we go again.

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