If you want DBD+100 by next month, you cannot ignore the calendar.
Do not use your best items (BNP, Syringes, Iridescent Heads) during the grind. Save those for when you actually reach P100 and want to play seriously. During the grind, use nothing but brown medkits and brown toolboxes.
If you must play Survivor, altruism is king.
Perk Loadout:
Strategy: Body block, take protection hits, and unhook in the Killer’s face. You want the "Benevolent" and "Lightbringer" emblems maxed.
They called it the Hundredth Gate.
Rumors had grown up around the acronym long before anyone really knew what it meant. To some, DBD was a dead protocol — Distributed Blockchain Daemon, or Donor Blood Drive, or Don't Be Distant — the letters were a Rorschach test for people's fears. To the people who lived in the low towers that ringed the old river, DBD meant two things: an impossible job and a single way to get out.
Juno had been a Gate Runner for eight years, long enough to know that numbers had teeth. You started at DBD+1 and, if you were clever and lucky, you crawled forward: DBD+7, DBD+13. Each step brought a different task: calibrate rusted ion pumps, babysit humming datastacks that dreamed in cold light, carry messages through the Underflow where signals died like moths. The thousand-work orders that sat on the city’s edge called them "maintenance operatives." The kids in the alleys called them "numbers."
DBD+100 wasn't a job you applied for. It was a door that opened when the city decided you had paid enough in small favors and quiet debts. The ones who reached it were thin with the kind of patience that sharpens with habit: late-night chess players, seamstresses who stitched the same impossible seam for decades, hackers who preferred fixing other people's mistakes to leaving their own. Juno hadn't planned to get there. The city had done the planning, by culling the rest.
The Gate itself sat on a basalt plateau outside the light of the new towers, where the air still tasted of river. It was a ring of black metal the color of old bruises. A soft blue seam traced its inner face, like the pulse of something breathing. There were no guards; the Gate knew you before you knew it. You could stand before it for years and it would not blink. But when it chose you, the seam would bloom and the world would squeeze into a throat.
They told stories about what lay beyond: a clean city that smelled of oranges, a single great machine that could balance the ledger of lives, a lake in which everyone's debts dissolved. None of the stories matched the way Juno felt when the seam opened; a small, precise light like a paper cut.
The Require used to read like a ledger: pay off your hundred tasks, and the Gate will patch one thing from your life. "Patch" was a bureaucratic term; in practice, it meant you could step through and choose one fragment to rewind, repair, replace. People mended marriages, erased one night of fear, returned a child from a hospital bed. But truth had a way of becoming myth when people needed it. The Gate never promised what exactly would happen; it promised an accounting. DBD kept its books, even if it had its own sense of justice.
Juno didn't want to erase anything big. The job had taught her to carry the weight of small things: a neighbor's forgotten birthday, the tone of voice she'd used by accident, an apology she tucked into the pocket of her coat and never gave. At DBD+99, she had thought carefully and made a list. The Gate had a cruel meter — the smaller the thing, the more likely it was to be accepted. You could plead to trade a single stolen hour for a life saved; DBD did not bargain like that. It sorted.
When the seam opened, Juno stepped forward with the list in her pocket and a coin she had saved from broken vending machines. The light pressed in and indicated options in the language Juno always half-heard in the electricity: numbers, small and stacked like pebbles. DBD offered her three ledger lines. Each was a small thing — not the grander stories but the honest ones people told late at night.
Line one: the laugh she had not given her brother the year he left.
Line two: the apology note she had never slid under Mara's door.
Line three: the song she had stopped singing on the tram, because someone had told her to be quiet.
The Gate did not present a choice that would fix the accident on the bridge, or the city's failing food pumps. It gave pebbles. Juno's hands closed around them. The coin felt warm with someone else's palm.
She thought of Havel, the old man who traded poems for batteries on the fourth floor; of Mara, who kept the bakery's flame alive and folded pastries like matters of religion; of the tram where once, long ago, a child had smiled at her and she had looked away. The ledger's economy was stubborn: small truths built out of enough small acts.
"Pick one," the seam said, in the voice of the generators. It did not beg, it did not threaten.
Juno's fingers brushed the laugh. The memory rose at once: a summer storm, her brother's hair plastered to his forehead, his fist raised against the sky as if trying to cup thunder. She had left him that day, angry about a debt. She had never heard him laugh like that again. The ache in her throat thinned to a ribbon of decision. She chose the laugh.
The Gate took the laugh with a sound like pennies pouring into water. For a moment the world cataloged her: places she'd been, bridges she had crossed, the tastes she had liked. Then the seam narrowed, and she was spilling forward into a different morning.
She woke on Havel's doorstep with the summer storm smelling of wet stone. Her hand was around a paper cup—old coffee—and she heard her own laugh sunder the air. It surprised her, a sound she had not made in years. Someone across the alley looked up and smiled, an instinctive wonder that things could still surprise you. Her brother was not there; words in the Gate's ledger had a peculiar partiality. It did not return what was lost. It altered the present so that the past stitched differently.
Back in the city, small effects rippled. Havel hummed a poem with a line that no one could forget. Mara found, by the oven light, a ribbon she had kept from childhood, tied round a pastry as if it had been there forever. The tram driver, an old woman with a chipped tooth, started humming the song Juno had once stopped singing; a child on the tram raised his head and grinned at the sound because music had set him even a little freer.
DBD kept no promises of bang and miracle. Its economy was incremental: a laugh paid with a laugh, an apology traded for a mended day. People learned to spend their credits carefully. Those who treated DBD as a bank learned how to save for the right kind of smallness. Those who treated it as a shrine came with lists of grand, impossible bargains and left with the kind of quiet they had not known how to name.
The Gate's reach grew. More people came, and the city, in the way cities do, adapted. Someone set up a small bureau to help people write their lists in lucid phrases; another person offered tea to runners cooling down from the light. There were arguments about fairness, about who was entitled to cross and whose debts were properly accounted. There were rituals — a coin left at the Gate's base, a song hummed, a letter burned.
Juno kept running. She learned to look for the small things with a new kind of hunger. She began to carry other people's lists sometimes, tucked into her coat like seed packets. She would hand them across the tram bench to strangers returning from the Gate, and they'd trade stories like currency. A laugh, a note, a song — these became the items that stitched the city's ragged seams into something that looked like hope.
Years later, when the river's new pumps hummed with the slow confidence of age, a child asked her what DBD actually stood for.
"Depends on how you feel about banks," Juno said, and then, because she had the habit of telling truth in small pieces, she added: "For me, it's the place that taught me how to spend what I had left."
The Gate did not close. It did not have to. People learned that the Hundredth Gate wasn't an exit so much as a teacher: that lives are counted not only by the mistakes they erase but by the tiny, deliberate offerings they make in exchange for living better days.
Best Killer Farming Build for +100%:
Barbecue & Chilli + Distressing + Hex: Thrill of the Hunt + Beast of Prey.
Strategy: Spread hooks evenly, use your power constantly, kick gens, and break pallets. Extend chases just enough to max out Hunter and Brutality before sacrificing.
In the fog-choked realms of Dead by Daylight (DBD), one resource reigns supreme: Bloodpoints. They are the key to unlocking Perks, Add-ons, Offerings, and Prestige levels for your favorite Killers and Survivors. For years, players have grinded through countless matches, hoping for a decent payout. Then came the feature that changed the economy of the Entity’s Realm: The DBD+100 (formally known as the 100% Bloodpoint Incentive Bonus).
If you’ve seen a strange “+100%” icon next to a specific role (Killer or Survivor) in the main menu and wondered how to abuse it, you’ve come to the right place. This guide will explain everything: how the incentive works, how to maximize your farming efficiency, which Perks stack with it, and the strategic shift required to survive (or slaughter) under the +100% bonus.