Eric feigned sleep when Alice knocked on his door, which wasn’t that hard since he had been asleep two minutes ago. “Get up, sleepyhead! Bro wants a talk with you!”

Ten minutes and one quick sponge bath later, Eric found himself sitting across from a contemplative looking Morlekai peering intently at him as he sipped from a snifter of brandy, looking debonair as always, his frock coat replaced by tight black slacks, a tailored charcoal grey vest, and a shirt of crimson silk. All of which somehow went so perfectly with his knotted silver ring and the brandy snifter reflecting light from the crackling fire in the fireplace.

Eric couldn't help smiling under Morlekai's considering gaze, looking as handsome as any vampire lord or young mafioso prince, complete with hardwood bookcases filled with volumes on everything from history to negotiation to the occult.

The master of the house quirked an eyebrow. “Something amuse you, Eric?”

Eric grinned, toasting the man before him with his own snifter. “Let’s just say I admire your stage presence. You’d look so damned good on the big screen with your glossy curls and too fucking handsome features that have to be Japanese Italian, and maybe some really old Welsh bloodlines thrown in the mix somewhere. Can you say 'vampire prince?'"

Eric laughed at his host's expression. "If my mother could get a look at you… if this were even two years earlier, we’d have a project bankrolled in a month.”

Morlekai flashed a tight smile. “You know what? I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

Eric dipped his head when his brain finally caught up with his mouth, wondering why the hell he was being so cheeky with what was effectively the don and kingpin of this tiny little city, whose roof he lived under, and who was eyeing him like a butcher trying to figure out if he was worthy of the king's table or the kennel feed, but either way, change was a-coming.

Eric held tight the shiver racing down his spine.

He sensed no malice, just… intensity. And maybe a bit of trepidation for whatever was to come.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, these last few weeks, Eric, and I gotta say, I’m damned impressed. And I don’t really give a fuck who the hell your mother was, or wasn’t.”

Eric flashed a relieved smile. “Thank god for that. Because those days are long fucking gone. If my family even survived this long… I couldn’t ask for anything more than that.”

Morlekai immediately raised his glass in toast. “To those who have fallen, and those we hope live on.”

They both drank to that, then Morlekai’s gaze grew thoughtful once more.

“You have no idea what I’d give to have all the people living under my roof training as hard as you do. And three times a day, at that.”

Eric smiled but kept his mouth shut, electing not to go on about the virtues of 20 Vitality.

Morkelekai gave a slow nod. “And your Strength is getting damn close to Fifteen, isn’t it? Whatever the hell you’re doing with the weights, it’s paying off.”

Eric flashed a genuine smile. "I'm now about 80% of the way from fourteen to fifteen in Strength. And I can't tell you what a rush it is, seeing my stat go up 2% of a point after each workout, knowing that, if it doesn't plateau like my combat skills have, I'll be at fifteen Strength in less than a week."

“Good,” Morlekai said with an approving nod. “If only my boys could still gain Strength like that. I tell the assholes to at least pump it three times a week, and they do, as if their bodies hadn’t changed at all, and they do get maximum recovery within hours, not after days of rest. Even so, at best they’re getting a fraction of a percentage point with each workout now.”

He favored Eric with a thoughtful half-smile. "Hell, I should thank you. My sister's taking her training seriously again; weights, sprints, and fencing. She's finally willing to accept a future where nothing's promised, but where we can still forge ourselves to meet the challenges ahead like never before. Because crying for a past that we can do nothing to change? It's allowing those damned orcs to live rent-free in our heads, and those porcine motherfuckers have stolen too much territory as it is."

Eric couldn’t help chuckling at that. “I agree completely, sir.”

The man before him smiled. “No need for fucking formality, Eric. Not till we’re hunting in the fields. In the house, in town, Morlekai is fine.” He settled back in his stuffed leather chair. “And your earlier comment is part of why I’m talking to you now.”

Eric looked questioningly at the man before him. “I’m sorry, what comment was that?”

The man grinned. "You said it yourself. Your absurd rate of weapon proficiency is finally leveling off. Almost makes you seem human, like the rest of us. Well, those who survived the pods, anyway. And we all know that the Gilton City pod is a fucking man-devouring monster."

Eric nodded politely, still curious about the background of all four of his associates, but sensing that this was neither the time nor the place.

"Anyway, the point, Eric, is that yes, you're damn right your skills are going to level off. You've pushed them about as far as they can go, System-wise, at least, without tempering all your lessons and practice in the crucible of combat."

Morlekai's gaze grew intent. "When's the last time you've even been out in the corridors, hunting? From what I can tell… you haven't left once since you've gotten here. Like you feel no urge to level up at all. But your desire to master the bow and bardiche? Undeniable." The man chuckled and shook his head. "Truth is, you're a bit of an enigma."

“I can see how it may seem that way,” Eric said. “But the truth is, I just wanted to achieve Journeyman status with a few weapon classes that I hope will give me some sweet stat boosts, and squeeze out a final Strength point the hard way, before going all out on what it truly means to be an adventurer.”

Morlekai flashed a lazy smile. “Oh? And what would that be?”

Eric smirked. “To level up and grow strong by feasting on the spiritual potential of our enemies. Because when you get right down to it, as much as they were glorified in every game I’ve ever played, the bottom line is that adventurers are basically vampires growing ever stronger on the power and potency of their kills.”

For half a second, Eric felt an icy cold chill encircle his body as crimson eyes flashed.

Then all he felt was warmth as Morlekai raised his glass with a sultry chuckle. "I couldn't have said it better myself, Eric. A toast to adventure, adventurers, and forging ourselves into the most powerful fucking vampires this world has ever seen.”

They both happily drank to that. And how strange it was that Eric only now noticed the pair of crows eyeing him from the bookcase, tilting their ruby red eyes his way, with wing feathers the color of the midnight sky and underfeathers the color of blood.

“So. You ready to push up those skills you’ve been training so damn hard these past few weeks?”

Eric grinned. “You know I am.”

“Good. Kit up. Bring everything you need. We head out in an hour.”

Eric dipped his head at the easygoing don before heading back to his quarters, feeling a delicious sense of anticipation for what was to come.

The last two weeks of concentrated training had been absolutely glorious. He had had a chance to solidify earlier gains, as well as gain proficiency in a number of different weapons at what he now realized had been an astounding pace. But if he were to truly master those lessons in the hopes of achieving Journeyman status and further benefits, he had to use them in live combat, just as he had used spear, crossbow, and saber. Because only by forging himself in the crucible of battle could he hope to evolve into the killing blade he hoped would one day be capable of wiping out every single cursed orc that had ever dared raise their hand against his kind.

And he would get there, one step at a time.

He smiled with a certain sense of pride and satisfaction with how far he had already come as he gazed about the small room with the bed he had just made, covered in fresh linens cleaned by the pair of former college cheerleaders who had claimed Drake as their own, the entirety now covered in Nova Wars wallpaper with a colorful burgundy rug, with a small hardwood bookcase and clothes trunk of his own, in addition to the corner locker. And how odd it was to live in a world where he needed neither, having an Interdimensional storage space that could comfortably hold a volume well exceeding a pair of multiton Greater Cave Lizards.

He couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself, smiling at the charcoal grey slacks and vests, white collar shirts, several with ruffles, and a burgundy trench coat that had somehow been scrounged or put together for him. And no one had ever said why. Hopes for a Junk Town that one day evolved into a city with a proper nightlife? He shook his head in amusement at the thought.

Still, a part of him couldn’t help already thinking of this place just a bit as his home as he took a moment to embrace one of the most important lessons he had learned so far: Checking and double-checking all his gear, including the shorter bardiche that looked like someone had taken a wicked reinforced scimitar blade and fastened it to a hardwood shaft like an elongated axehead, the end of the blade curving back to ensure the most wicked slashes imaginable, assuming one’s target wasn’t completely chopped in half.

It was a glorious weapon that embraced hack and slash to the utmost and yes, as Eric had found, if you were graceful enough, strong enough, and fast enough to master its momentum, you could whip it around in terrifying moulinets that would do any longswordman proud. It was perfect for knocking enemy polearms or sword blades completely off line as the thing tore through all resistance, hitting with enough force to send even a man in full plate harness crashing to the ground, stunned, and anyone in lesser gear to the grave.

It was a weapon that John Smith had reinforced to an absurd degree, after Eric had had the temerity to crack the shaft once more. But never again, thanks to the smith, no matter how many times Eric enhanced the blows of his weapon with his Burst of Strength, finally having found a way to channel and make use of his Essence of Wrath, now being able to give a good four swings before risking exhaustion that would imperil him on any actual battlefield.

And just the thought of one day soon being able to infuse it with Doom Slice, perhaps when he hit Journeyman status, sent shivers of delight racing up and down his spine, painting a silly grin on his face when he imagined just how fucking devastating Doom Slice plus Burst of Strength would be, used in tandem.

Assuming the powers didn't clash horribly and rip his psyche apart with the most hideous of backlashes, it just might be the game changer to end all game-changers. If nothing else, he might soon have twice the options to deliver lethal power blows to his enemies, with twice the reserves to lay his foes low. Though he certainly didn't relish the idea of feeling both weak in the knees and dazed and confused if he overplayed his hand, if done right, the combination might let him snatch victory from the jaws of bitterest defeat in situations when he should be a goner. No way to know until it happened, though. And considering that Alice had implied that weapon feats like his were not at all common, he really had no idea if he'd benefit from ranking bardiche to level 10 at all.

But damn if he wouldn’t try.

He gazed fondly at the weapon he had been insane enough to have a grumbling John Smith further enhance by file serrating the blade, just as he had his 1821 cavalry saber, which he also carefully inspected. And if his saber could tear through beast hide? His bardiche was an absolute beast at cleaving through the equivalent of even thick, enchanted rhino hide. And Eric knew even John Smith thought it a miracle that his 1821 had held out so well, though Eric thought it was because the smith’s own filing and maintenance of the blade that had kept it in such strikingly good condition, having somehow infused at least the tiniest sliver of the essence of Hardness and Sharpness into what was now his favorite sidearm.

His longer, almost naginata-like bardiche the smith had infused with the essence of Hardness and Lightness, Eric far preferring the latter for nimble use in the hands than any extra sharpness, which allowed it to stay light and maneuverable when used for purposes of winding and binding, or getting the best of his opponents while sparring, relative to any other polearm with that much steel at the head. And it could be so gracefully whipped around for cleaving chops from almost any angle, the power of the blow magnified by the 6-foot shaft, able to deliver blows that could easily decapitate a bull, also equipped with a broad angled spear point that seamlessly flowed into the axe blade portion of the weapon, meaning that setting this polearm to meet the charge of any beast would gift them with a gaping rent of a wound superior to any boar spear. Eric gazed in satisfaction at the perfectly smooth, flawless edge of the weapon that he hadn't dared touch with a file, designed for chops and thrusts alone, his other weapons just fine for gut-ripping slashes.

Eric recalled being about to ask Morlekai how the hell they had gained access to a smith who was the farthest thing from a man jury-rigging weapons from secondhand steel scraps. Before the look in the man’s eyes had frozen him where he stood. As if he had known. Before doffing his tricorn hat, so like Eric’s own, clapping Eric’s shoulder, and telling him to train hard while he went to do whatever it was he did while away from their pad.

Eric chuckled and shook away the memory before pouring all his focus on the thirty-plus crossbows he worried about maintaining more than any other tool in his arsenal. Because these were not miraculously sturdy weapons forged by any gifted smith who was tapping into crafting magic of one sort or another, but highly complex marvels of engineering of the old world, far more prone to breakage than Eric’s other toys.

None of them would survive a single sword blow, yet each of them could bring death to opponents in the blink of an eye. Including one that Past-Tense Tim would never need again. And maybe it said something that, as much as he had been willing to let the bastard go when Alice chose to, he shed no tears for the man when it became clear that her brother and his crew had already taken care of him. And when a grinning Drake had offered it as a prize of battle when Eric won their last bout, he had been all too happy to add it to his collection, knowing exactly where his friend had gotten it without a word being said.

Because he remembered all too well the look in Tim's eyes, when he thought he had had both Eric and an exhausted, trembling Alice at his mercy. Had Eric not thrown him off by summoning a metal-plated heater shield a heartbeat before the man gave in to his own power fantasy, either he would have suffered a crossbow bolt in his gut, or Alice would be dead. Somehow, he had known that truth with absolute certainty, seen as clearly as looking two moves ahead in a game of chess.

And the man had been shit about taking care of his own weapons.

Now, fortunately, properly sighted and cared for, it fired like a dream.

Just like all his others.

Eric smiled in satisfaction as he put the last of his crossbows away and turned to face his patiently waiting companions.

It was time.