Welcome. We'll explain.

One day — we won't tell you which — your planet was added. MAW is not an invasion: MAW is infrastructure. An airlock between worlds, a signal passing through, an audience watching. Your world became an address. What happens there can now be broadcast.

An airlock picked you up, a contract enrolled you — or someone signed it for you. You are now a candidate of an Allocation: read a dungeon, a world, a season. Your actions are broadcast. Somewhere, a mass pays to watch you die or succeed. Neither outcome makes them look away.

Throughout the season, a voice will speak to you. She describes, she judges, she resolves the rules. She serves the Syndicate, not you. She will not cheat — it's against her protocol. She will not save you either. Listen to her: resolving wears her down, and what she says changes.

The world you are on is called Terre — a rocky remnant under commercial contract. The walls look administrative; they are still dungeon walls. A company named Altoriane Inc. Corporated holds the concession: it pays the Arbiter, the lighting, the posters. It signed you. You did not see the contract.

You start at the bottom. Corridors widened into administrative zones, uniform grey walls. Locals patrolling, a few luckier crawlers who arrived first. You'll overhear odd phrases — "47 worlds this quarter, next one will be 48 minimum" — and you're not obliged to pay attention. Those who do sometimes live longer.

A trading zone and written traces. You might read your first tax receipt — if you dig enough. The operator is named there: Altoriane. You'll also meet a man who'll swear to you, very quietly, that MAW employees don't blink. He might be mad. He might be right. The two aren't mutually exclusive on Terre.