Om detta spel

War didn’t arrive with a speech. It crept in. In DELTAZONE, it’s the background noise of your life—sirens in the distance, power grids flickering, streets emptied in a hurry. The spark? Veilstone. Purple veins running under the earth, torn open by greed. Touch it and it burns the world differently: lights whole cities, or levels them. Everyone wants it. No one agrees on what it should be for.

Lines you thought were permanent keep shifting. Allies today, enemies tomorrow. You learn faces first, flags second. You share rations with strangers at noon and trade fire with them by nightfall. Trust becomes a calculation, not a feeling.

Your crew has a simple brief that never feels simple: take back home. The places you grew up are checkpointed now, renamed by people who don’t belong there. Every block costs something, ammo, sleep, a friend’s voice you won’t hear again. You keep moving because stopping hurts worse.

Veilstone doesn’t just power machines. It leaks into soil and lungs. Gardens turned to glass. Rivers that glow at midnight. Stay too long and people change, skin toughens, eyes shine, tempers break. The map is honest about one thing: everything past the next corner wants you gone. Soldiers. Drones. Things that used to be human.

So you plan. You adapt. You live with the plan failing and make another before the smoke clears. Sometimes Veilstone is the edge you need, a battery in a dead city, a shield that holds one second longer than it should. Sometimes it bites back. You decide how close to stand.

Welcome to DELTAZONE. No speeches. No guarantees. Just you, your crew, and a war that won’t end by itself. What you take. What you save. What you become. That’s the mark you leave.