Demonic Po*nstar System Chapter 699: Regret

Brittany and Trisha paced forward in complete silence for the opening half-minute. The mountain trail remained so constricted that their shoulders frequently brushed, while the biting chill pierced through the gaps in their armor and settled deep within their aching joints. Nearby, the competition grounds were windling down as evening approached. Medics paced between the rows of tents, and officials were busy cataloging the destruction. In the distance, the rhythmic thrum of a helicopter’s rotors drifted southward before dissolving into the air.

Trisha finally broke the stillness, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

"She is truly gone."

Brittany offered no reply.

"Britt."

"I heard you."

"She is really dead. Stacy is dead."

The words struck with the same crushing weight as they had the first time, and the second, and every instance following that notification on their interfaces an hour prior. Competitor termination confirmed. Team member removed from the active registry. Status: Deceased. The digital hologram had reduced Stacy to a mere statistic while her blood remained fresh upon the basin floor, yet regardless of how often they repeated the tragedy, the reality refused to anchor itself.

Brittany’s throat constricted. "I know."

"We spent three years training with her every single morning," Trisha noted, her voice cracking on the final word in a way she hadn't intended. She frantically swiped at her eyes with the palm of her hand and forced her feet to keep moving. "Every single morning, she was right there by our side. She was always there, yet now she is just gone, and for what reason? Tell me, Britt, for what?"

"Keep your voice down."

"For points?" Trisha’s whisper turned jagged. "For the footage? For Ash’s ranking?"

"Trisha. Lower your voice immediately."

Trisha gulped hard and clamped her mouth shut. They trudged on in silence for several more paces, their boots crunching against loose gravel, as the trail steered past a supply depot where a pair of Association techs dismantled a sensor array without sparing them a glance.

Once they had cleared the area, Trisha spoke once more.

"Everything about this was a mistake."

Brittany’s jaw tightened visibly.

"Every single bit of it," Trisha persisted, her tone quieter but radiating absolute conviction. "The guild, the content, these contracts. We initially signed up because they promised us financial security if we were willing to surrender our dignity. Now Stacy is dead, Ash is sitting in a cell screaming for his mother, and here we are heading to answer a summons from that same woman as if we were the ones who committed a crime."

"We have ventured too deep for regrets now," Brittany declared, the lack of inflection in her tone surprising even her. "We signed the papers. We filmed the content. We completed every task they demanded. You cannot simply walk away from something like this."

"I realize we cannot walk away! That is exactly my point!" Trisha’s voice dropped further. "We are in too deep to quit, but we are also too perceptive to pretend everything is normal. So, what exactly are we?"

Brittany felt the familiar sting behind her eyes and attempted to blink it away.

The effort failed.

The tears welled up, quiet and searing, tracking down her cheeks before she could regain control. She wiped them away with her gauntlet, the metal scraping against her skin, but at this point, the pain was irrelevant.

"I sold my body," she confessed. "On camera. For metrics. My father can no longer look me in the eye. My mother acts as if she is ignorant, but how could she not know? I am the awakened whore moaning on screen despite being an A-tier fighter. Even those old neighbors of hers know the truth."

Her voice buckled. "I told myself it was worth the sacrifice because we were constructing a future, because the income was substantial, because Ash had a vision and the guild possessed structure; it seemed like we were heading toward something. Now Stacy is dead, everything is collapsing, and I cannot even mourn her properly because we must answer a business call for the woman who placed us in this position to begin with."

Trisha remained silent for a moment.

"At least we received our pay," she finally said, her bitterness so absolute it transformed into a state of hollow acceptance. "Seriously. The currency is real. It is sitting in your vault right now. You could retire if you truly wished. Walk away, purchase a home, and never be forced to contemplate any of this ever again."

Brittany’s head snapped toward her associate. "I have no desire to retire! I am an awakened fighter with a brilliant future! I have the potential to become one of the most powerful beings in America! Am I supposed to just spend the rest of my life knitting scarves?"

The outburst was much louder than she intended, raw and furious. She caught herself and glanced around, ensuring no one had overheard the outburst.

Trisha watched her with eyes that looked red-rimmed, weary, and far too insightful.

"No," she stated quietly. "We are not awakened fighters."

Brittany just stared at her blankly.

"We are awakened celebrity prostitutes, Britt." Trisha said it plainly, locking eyes with her. "Harem playthings for a loser who wept for his mommy after being arrested on live television. That is how the internet labels us. Look at the forums, the clips, the compilations. It has been three hours of this, and do you know what the most tragic part is?"

Brittany’s lips trembled.

"They are not incorrect. We sold it all for a few easy gains."

Her vision blurred again, with increased intensity this time. Brittany pressed her hand over her mouth and forced herself to walk forward. Stopping now would mean losing her composure, and falling apart was a luxury she couldn't afford—not on this path, not with cameras potentially lurking, and certainly not with a summons awaiting her at the destination.

Trisha placed a steadying hand on her shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. They covered the remainder of the path in total silence.

The command tent loomed, far larger than the standard field tents, consisting of reinforced canvas stretched over a folding frame with the Ashbound crest stitched prominently onto the entrance flap. A pair of guards stood sentry, eyes staring forward with the clinical, empty gaze of men instructed to ignore anything transpiring within.

Elias, an old friend from Brittany's youth, waited near the entrance as he always did, standing slightly removed from the others with his spear resting against his arm. Upon noticing their approach, he pulled himself to attention.

His gaze found Brittany’s face instantly, and whatever greeting he had prepared withered away.

"Hey." His voice was cautious. "How are you holding up?"

Brittany looked at him. Her eyes appeared puffy, and her cheeks remained stained with tears.

"I cannot do this," she whispered. "I simply cannot speak right now, Elias."

He studied her for an extended moment, and the quiet resignation that usually sat behind his gaze deepened into a profound, suffocating grief. He stepped aside without uttering another word.

Brittany and Trisha pushed through the heavy tent flap.

The interior was Spartan and utilitarian: a folding table, two chairs, and a holographic display mounted on a tripod. Logistics charts and maps were pinned across the canvas walls. The workspace clearly belonged to someone who valued raw efficiency above all else.

Maeve Ashbound stood on the far side of the table.

She was a tall woman with sharp features and silver-streaked hair pulled back so tightly that it appeared painful. She wore the formal grey of the Ashbound clan, a high-collared jacket tailored with military precision, and the crest pinned to her lapel glinted under the holographic light. Her presence was stifling, making the already cramped room feel even smaller.

She offered no pleasantries.

Her gaze shifted from Brittany to Trisha and back again, her expression solidified past anger into cold arithmetic—the detached assessment of someone cataloging losses rather than mourning the dead.

"Sit," she commanded.

They obeyed.

Maeve placed both palms flat against the table and observed them with the disciplined patience of someone who had already determined the parameters of this discussion and was merely waiting for the formalities to conclude.