The tattooed bandit rushed to the attack before Osmark could stop staring at the dead wolves, much less prepare himself for the brutal onslaught. The Wode charged through the tall grass with his gleaming axe spinning over his head. A chilling hunting cry burst from his open mouth as he brought the axe down at Horan’s face. For a split second, Osmark thought his guardian NPC was as good as dead.

But Horan was an experienced soldier, steeped in discipline and technique.

The barbarian’s reckless attack cleaved the empty air left as the mercenary pivoted away, and the axe buried itself in the earth instead of Horan’s skull.

Horan darted forward with a grimace, his sword whistling out in a tight arc, slicing through the off-balance Wode’s unprotected throat. A fountain of blood gushed from the wound, painting the evening air with a vivid crimson mist. The barbarian warrior leaned heavily against the haft of his axe, a stunned look sprinting across his face, then keeled over onto his side to vomit up his last, bloody breath.

“We should get clear of these maniacs, sir,” Horan said, his voice gruff and no-nonsense. He wiped his blade on a fistful of green grass and shoved his weapon back into its sheath. “I was hired to keep this caravan and its passengers safe, and this place is a hell of a long way from that.”

The thieves continued to loot and slaughter as they prowled through the burning remnants of the caravan. It was clear they intended to take anything valuable, kill anyone who opposed them, and burn whatever they didn’t feel like dragging away.

Horan was right. This place wasn’t safe.

But Osmark didn’t give a shit about safe. Who did these animals think they were to attack an Imperial caravan? A cold rage stuck in his chest like an icicle through his heart. “We’re not leaving.”

Horan glanced at Osmark, lips pressed into a tight, thoughtful line. “Then you’d best grab a weapon, lad. The killing ain’t over for those who stay here.”

A weapon, Osmark thought. He padded back toward the caravan with Horan beside him, stealing along the treeline to avoid detection. But it can’t just be any weapon. Every choice made in VGO had consequences, especially during the opening sequence. Most players didn’t understand the scope and depth of the game’s analytical tools. Even those who did know that every action, even every word, was recorded and picked apart by VGO’s AI gods, didn’t understand just how much their choices changed the world around them.

Osmark, on the other hand, knew exactly how his decisions affected VGO. The Master Artificer character class would give him an edge over his enemies, but qualifying for it was extremely difficult. To even have a chance of gaining that class, he’d first have to find a trainer. And then he’d have to convince that trainer he was a good candidate for a student. If he didn’t make just the right choices now—including which weapons to use—he’d never have a chance of passing that test.

Horan elbowed Osmark in the ribs to knock him clear of an attacking Wode who burst out from behind a fat elm. An axe as long as Osmark was tall whooshed through the air over his prone body.

The golden-haired berserker howled in rage at his missed attack, spinning with the momentum of his wild swing, redirecting the axe blade toward Horan’s face. The veteran fighter staggered back to let the hungry crescent sweep past his eyes.

“Get a weapon, man!” Horan shouted, his sword flashing out, batting aside another attack.

Osmark scrambled away from his guardian NPC in search of a crossbow. The engineered weapons relied on brains rather than brawn, and its mechanical design would earn Osmark faction points with the Master Artificers. Plus, he’d much rather stand at a distance and pepper his enemies with streaking black bolts than go toe to toe with the filthy warriors.

An enormous Risi charged at Osmark from behind a burning cart. The massive ogre wore spiked, black platemail and wielded heavy black blades in each hand, the weapons poised for both offense and defense. The barbaric creature snarled at Osmark, its face a rictus of rage, its tusks dripped with foaming saliva. Osmark knew instinctively that even with a weapon, he was no match for that thing. Not on his best day. Osmark was many things, but a brawler wasn’t one of them. Without a weapon, though, he’d be sliced into bite-sized chunks before he could so much as kick the Risi in the shins.

He did the only reasonable thing.

He ran for all he was worth.

This is getting to be a habit, he thought.

The ambush had been a disorganized charge. The wolves had terrified the horses, which sent the wagons spilling in every direction. Most of the overloaded carts had splintered their wheels and shattered their axles as soon as they left the road. Once overturned, their contents had scattered across the grass and dirt, ripe and ready for looting, pillaging, and burning. Not every cart was getting the same amount of attention, however, and the one ahead of Osmark was still upright. Its right wheel was shattered, true, and the horses had burst from their traces, but the bonnet was still intact, and it wasn’t on fire.

Best of all, the dead guard was still on the bench with a fistful of arrows punched through his face and chest.

Osmark beelined for the crippled wagon and prayed he would be faster than the Risi on his heels, eating up the distance between them.

Behind him, Horan shouted in victory or pain, it was impossible to tell which, and Osmark didn’t have the time to stop and check on his only ally. Osmark knew his guardian NPC was a grizzled fighter with years of experience, but there were a lot of bandits still in the fight. Osmark silently prayed Horan was skilled enough to hold off their attackers until he could contribute to the fight.

The Risi’s rasping breaths echoed in Osmark’s ears. The barbarian was close—and getting closer every second—but so was the wagon. Osmark thought he had enough of a lead on his enemy to gain the high ground on the driver’s bench before he was cut down.

It was the only chance he had.

A yellow bar flashed in the upper corner of Osmark’s vision. The thing was almost empty, which meant Osmark was running out of stamina. He’d exerted himself to the edge of his low-level capabilities, and if he didn’t stop running soon, he’d end up exhausted. And if that happened … Well, he’d be even more helpless than he was now. Unable to run, or fight. Unable to so much as stand. He’d be an easy target.

He was only feet from the wagon when a sharp pain ripped across his shoulder.

Between the crash, the wolf’s bite, and the Risi’s sword stroke, Osmark had lost close to half his hit points. He wasn’t out of the fight, but another hit like the last one might be the end of him.

Pushing through the pain, Osmark scrambled up onto the wagon’s driving bench. His hands and boots slipped on the wet blood coating the wood, and he fell hard onto his back on the floorboards. Sparklers of pain erupted through his spine and burst behind his eyes, his teeth bit down hard on his tongue, and Osmark tasted blood in his mouth. He groaned, clutching at his shoulder, which burned like a red-hot poker. Maybe installing a one-hundred percent pain threshold had been a mistake. The pain was meant to be a deterrent to reckless play, but this? This was too much.

He shoved the thought away as the Risi clambered up onto the bench and raised both blades overhead. The barbarian grinned and angled his weapons until they were aimed straight at Osmark’s chest, then howled in victory and plunged the blades down. Without a thought, Osmark tucked his knees up to his chin and drove them forward in an explosive kick. His ragged boots slammed into the Risi’s fat belly and pushed the ogre off balance. The Risi tottered uncertainly, his arms windmilling in a valiant effort to keep from falling, but the swords were throwing him off balance. After a long beat, he let the weapon in his left-hand clatter to the ground as he grasped for the edge of the bench to stay upright.

Osmark didn’t wait to see if the Risi would fall. The moment he landed his kick, he twisted and scrambled across the floor of the wagon. The dead guard stared down at him, his torso littered with arrows.

“Rest easy,” Osmark said as he ripped the crossbow from the loop on the man’s belt. He also snatched a steel-tipped bolt from the quiver on the bench next to the corpse. Osmark held the bolt between his teeth to free both of his hands for the crossbow.

Osmark glanced right, muttering under his breath as he worked. Unfortunately, the Risi had regained his balance, and worse, he seemed to recognize the danger Osmark now posed. He lunged with a roar, his heavy fur boot slamming down on the wood between Osmark’s legs. The Risi switched to a two-handed grip on his remaining sword and cocked it over his shoulder like a major leaguer readying for a home run blast.

Osmark braced the crossbow against his knees and seized the string with both hands. He knew he’d needed a tool to cock the weapon properly, but there was no time to search the wagon for it. So, with a shout, he yanked back, manually cocking the crossbow and leaving skin and blood along the coarse string for his reward. The injury was just the price he had to pay for his haste.

It was a hell of a lot better than taking a sword to the face.

The Risi’s blade fell like a streaking meteor aimed at Osmark’s skull. The massive creature’s wide eyes glowed with a ferocity Osmark had never seen before. He was amazed the ogre hadn’t fallen on him with tooth and claw instead of a weapon.

Time slowed to a crawl as Osmark dropped the bolt into the crossbow’s channel. There was no time to aim—no time to think. He hefted the weapon with quivering hands and squeezed the firing lever. Twang.

The crossbow’s string hummed as it hurled the bolt through the air, moving so fast Osmark wasn’t sure it had even fired.

A heartbeat later, the Risi’s sword smashed into the wood next to Osmark’s head and sprayed his face with blood-stained splinters. Then, like a felled tree, the bandit collapsed on top of Osmark, and its blood splattered across his chest in a hot, red stain. A message flashed across Osmark’s vision, momentarily blinding him.

Skill: Engineered Weapons

Engineered weapons, such as crossbows, ballistae, muskets, and flintlocks, require a great deal of skill to use to best effect. Though the simpler versions of these tools of destruction can be found in the hands of common soldiers, the more advanced weapons are suitable only for experts trained in their use and maintenance.

Skill Type/Level: Passive/Level 1

Cost: None

Effect: Increases engineered weapon damage by 5%.

Osmark dismissed the new notification as he struggled to breathe. The impact of the creature’s body slamming into him had driven the air from his lungs, and he suddenly had a terrifying vision of dying under the Risi’s filthy bulk.

Not like this, he thought, panicked.

With an effort that drained almost all of his remaining stamina, Osmark shoved against the enormous body with his arms and legs, his muscles straining against the immense weight. Slowly, the Risi’s body tipped to the side but hung up on the wagon’s front and started to sink back down onto Osmark. With a pained shout, he shoved the barbarian’s corpse up again, wedging it against the front of the driver’s bench, allowing him just enough space to slither free.

Osmark used the wagon’s seat to haul himself to his feet, then wheeled around, stealing a look toward Horan to see if the old man was all right. Of course, his NPC was battling a Wode wielding a burning flail. The spiked weapon shrieked through the air like a comet with a flaming tail.

“Dammit, Horan, can you stop finding fights every five seconds?” Osmark gasped.

Horan fended the blazing weapon off as best he could, but it’s flexible chain bent around his sword, ripping it from Horan’s hands as its burning head slammed into his chest like a wrecking ball.

Osmark watched in horror as his NPC stumbled and then fell onto his back, his sword now lying in the dirt to his right. The Wode spun his weapon in a blurring circle overhead, preparing to crush Horan’s skull into the mud and end him for good. Though players could respawn, NPCs only had one life to live. And this was it for Horan—unless Osmark could do something.

Osmark grabbed another bolt and shed yet more skin from his fingers to cock the crossbow. The pain was intense, but he had no other option. He lifted the crossbow, pressing the rough buttstock to his shoulder, and rested his cheek against its wooden length. He needed to act fast, but he also only had one chance to get this right. Osmark sighted down the bolt and did a rough mental calculation to account for the distance between the crossbow and his target. After careful consideration, he raised the end of the crossbow just a hair.

A new message floated into view:

Ability: Engineered Weapon Precision

You understand the proper use of Engineered Weapons. Whenever you make an attack, you may use your Intelligence bonus in place of your Dexterity bonus for both to-hit and damage.

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level I

Cost: None

Effect: Substitute your Intelligence bonus for your Dexterity bonus whenever using an Engineered Weapon.

“Not today,” he whispered, squeezing the crossbow’s lever.

The string twanged for a second time and the bolt shot free. Osmark held his breath and prayed the Wode would fall.

But instead, he fell.

Strong hands grabbed his ankle and flipped him forward. He lost the crossbow and tumbled free of the wagon to land in the grass, face first. The taste of green blades and blood-soaked earth flooded his lips as his open mouth scooped up a bite of the ground. Before he could catch his breath, Osmark’s attacker flipped him onto his back. The wounded Risi—with Osmark’s bolt still jutting from the left side of his chest—screamed into his face and threw a wild haymaker.

A keen survival instinct spurred Osmark to roll to one side, and the attack just missed his head as a fat fist sank deep into the loamy soil where his head had been moments before. He was far from in the clear, though. The bandit grabbed Osmark by the throat with his other hand and dragged him up to his knees. “Die, Imperial!”

Osmark’s fingers scrambled through the grass looking for his crossbow, but the Risi’s meaty fingers kept him from turning his head to search for the weapon. All Osmark could see was the man’s fat gut and the belt that held the barbarian’s loincloth in place.

A warning flashed across his vision.

WARNING: You are suffocating. You will suffer 10 points of Stamina damage each second until you can breathe once more.

If your stamina reaches 0, you will die.

Current estimated time of death: 25 seconds.

Osmark’s fingers clawed at the thug; his nails raked at sweat slicked skin in a desperate attempt to free himself from the man’s deadly grip. Osmark drew blood, but his opponent was relentless, driven on by blind fury and consuming hate. His thick fingers were like iron bands clamped around Osmark’s throat, pinching off his air and the flow of blood to his brain. He only had seconds to live.

And then Osmark’s fingers brushed against something at the Risi’s belt. A handle.

A dagger’s handle.

With the last of his stamina flickering away, Osmark drew the creature’s knife from his belt and put it to use. The bandit was so focused on choking his prey, there was no chance for defense. Zero. Osmark stabbed the creature, again and again, punching the blade into the Risi’s belly in a rapid flurry of wild strikes. Blood soaked through Osmark’s clothes and turned the dagger’s handle into a slippery rod. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. A fifth strike and a sixth followed.

Osmark’s Stamina bar was down the slenderest of slivers, flashing a neon yellow in warning.

The Risi stumbled, but he wasn’t letting go of Osmark’s throat.

Just die, Osmark thought as he desperately thrust the dagger up under the Risi’s heaving ribs one more time.

Finally, the Risi’s fingers went slack, and he collapsed backward, blood gushing from its many wounds.

Osmark drew a great, whooping breath into his lungs, and his Stamina bar began to refill. With a strangled shout, he rose to his feet, raised the stolen dagger high over his head and fell on the Risi’s body, driving the knife into its chest.

Rough hands landed on Osmark’s shoulder and dragged him off the dead bandit a moment later.

Osmark spun with the bloodied weapon in his hand and glared at whoever had dared to touch him.

Horan stepped back, a worried frown on his face, his hands raised in defense. “That’s enough. That un’s good and dead, I’d wager.”

Yes. Right. Of course. Perhaps he’d overdone it a bit there in the end. The black rage of battle slipped away from him in fits and starts, leaving him shaking and weary. “You’re all right?” Osmark asked.

“Thanks to your shot.” Horan clasped Osmark’s shoulders. “These rebel hooligans are retreating with their spoils, lad. We need to be on our way as well. Best to get as far from here as we can before they decide to come back and finish off the survivors.”

Osmark shook his head, wiping the bloody blade on his trousers. He had another plan.