New Vance City is a post-collapse RPG where survival means customizing everything—classes, skills, races, and gear are all unique. Set in 2070, a year after the world cracked and the infected rose, this cyberpunk dystopia pulses with story-rich factions, brutal politics, and unforgettable characters. Forge your path in a smog-choked ruin where the line between savior and syndicate blurs with every shot fired. Fight zombies, raiders, and mutated creatures and test your survival in New Vance City!
Played | 5554 times |
Cloned | 200 times |
Created | 124 days ago |
Last Updated | 3 days ago |
Visibility | Public |
Coordinates | (555, -825) |
Deep in the heart of Skullcrack Hold, amid the jagged chaos of the Raider camp, lies the Pit of Trials—a brutal crucible where survival is proven by blood and bone. This sunken arena, carved from shattered concrete and twisted rebar, serves as the camp’s grim proving ground. Raiders brandish scavenged weapons, forcing new recruits into merciless combat to earn their place—or meet a swift, savage death. The air hangs heavy with the acrid mix of sweat, burnt oil, and spilled blood, punctuated by the snarls and jeers of the crowd. Here, strength and ruthlessness are the only currencies, and every fight echoes the desperate chaos of a world unraveled. The Pit is not just entertainment—it is law, ritual, and survival, binding the fractured Raiders in shared violence beneath flickering propane lamps and jagged scrap walls.
The Pit of Trials is a jagged scar in the cracked heart of Skullcrack Hold’s central courtyard. Sunken several feet below the uneven ground level, it is ringed by crumbling ferrocrete walls, patched haphazardly with sheets of rusted metal and the remnants of shattered vehicles. Scrawled gang graffiti and bloodstains coat every surface, telling stories of countless brutal battles. Makeshift bleachers constructed from warped scrap metal, twisted girders, and gutted engine blocks loom unevenly above the pit, filled with rough-faced Raiders clad in scavenged armor and tattered rags. Flickering neon signs from dead world storefronts cast sickly green and red glows, battling the thick shadows. Propane torches sputter in rusty brackets, their orange flames throwing jagged silhouettes across the pit floor, littered with broken glass, discarded bullets, and smeared gore. The soundscape is a brutal cacophony of clangs, shouts, and blood-soaked grunts echoing off the battered walls.