Eric yawned and stretched as he came to from yet another dream where he was burning alive. He found it a bloody miracle his friends weren't glaring murder at him, since he slept three times a day with his training regimen. And if two of those sleeps were blissful, the third was always a doozy.

He slumped back in bed as flickering dreams faded to the drone of his friends’ voices in the next room, enjoying a handful of precious minutes spent utterly relaxed, melting into the bed. The one bit of indulgence he allowed himself before beginning his day in earnest. Or, perhaps he should think of it as the first of three days in earnest, each four hours of sleep or meditation a recharge for the training he was learning to take such fierce pleasure in embracing.

Because as frustrating as it had been, from a min-maxer’s perspective, to gain a massive increase to Strength before he had hit his goal, it was an incredible rush to see himself bench-pressing weights that would have left his earlier self in awe, or required so much juicing he'd probably stroke out with zero balls by the time he was forty. Which was a lifestyle choice he'd take a hard pass on, thank you very much.

But Strength earned Conan-style? In the heat of combat? He couldn’t help but feel a fierce surge of pride, every time he lifted. Knowing that in terms of both effort and in the crucible of combat, putting everything on the line, he had earned his now powerful physique. Because it had been exactly what he had needed to assure his foe’s demise, alongside Alice’s deadly lightning bolts and the bloodfeast of crows, when Morlekai had finally been forced to reveal a glimpse of his true power for them all to witness.

And perhaps it said something about how far even his de facto boss had pushed himself, that he was only making his appearance now, two days later, after Eric had done all he could to absolutely maximize whatever insights that embracing the dance of life and death had brought him.

Because the sweet boon of Strength and a fluid coordination that was now downright Olympian had been exactly what he had needed to understand how to unlock all the potential hidden away in the gloriously destructive weapon that might seem clumsy or crude in hands lacking his grace, power, and skill.

Now when he swung his nagamaki-like bardiche, it was done in a way that maximized power, yet flowed so fluidly from twisting moulinets to cleaving swings to death flashing at all angles, he doubted even his former trainer, who still stood so tall and opposing in his mind’s eye, could survive the onslaught. And it was more than just devastating assaults that the weapon was good for, he thought with a smile, having done his utmost to master the technique of pivoting sharply to the side and dodging past imagined lunges or claws by using the inertia of his weapon’s fearsome swings to twist out of harm’s way even as his bardiche rained down blows that would effortlessly cave in their smith’s first generation helmets and the thin steel plate covered PVC armor still worn by nearly the entire town guard.

Such was the power of someone with his stats and skills coming ever closer to Journeyman rank, for all that he still looked more like a really pumped and well-cut version of himself at his prime, than he did any monstrously bulky he-man.

And when each of his thrice daily workouts were done, pushing his body just as hard as he could, that was when he would embrace Burst of Strength, having leveled it and his Bardiche skill to the point that he could not only tear through 1 inch thick enchanted rawhide, but the exquisitely resilient scale armor underneath was well. Armor that their smith had once claimed could stop even an orc’s musket balls from tearing right through them.

Best of all, by using John Smith's reinforced bardiche, according to the man's own request, he stress-tested the weapon to the limits and slowly increased his ability to cleave as he struck, perfecting edge alignment and a tearing jerk at just the right moment in time to tear through even a Greater Giant Lizard's nearly indestructible scales, just as he had torn open the neck of the beast that could have devoured them all… had Morlekai's blood crows not embraced the feast the instant after Alice had stunned the lizard with lightning bolts.

Working together, the three of them had managed to take down horrors that Alex suspected should have been utterly beyond anyone burdened with a bottom tier Conscript class that spite-laden pods seemed determined to give all survivors, at least in this territory.

Even now, Eric was hungry to embrace another session, wondering if today was the day he would actually dare Doom Slice with more than just his saber, having finally pushed his muscles to 92% of what they needed to be to reach the next point of Strength. The only thing he enjoyed more than Strength training and losing himself in a state of zen honing his archer skills, were his daily sparring matches against Louie and a now fully healed Drake, who was finally at the point that he could joke and laugh about how close he had come to kicking the bucket.

But none of them were stupid. All of them had spotted the flinch in the former jock’s eyes whenever they spoke of the mission to come.

A mission that Eric was now more eager than ever to embrace.

Because even with his hyper-intense regimen, his growth had once more leveled off. Which only made sense. He was pursuing a degree of fluidity and mastery of his weapons that he was increasingly certain took most athletes years to achieve, if ever, before the world had ended in tragedy and despair for most, and interfaces implanted in the minds, or perhaps, souls, of a very lucky few.

Regardless, there was no way he would be hitting Journeyman with bow or bardiche anytime soon. Not without another massive shot of beast kill experience he was grateful he had directed the System to prioritize his skills with above all else.

Yet there were insights to be had. Revelations he was just on the cusp of understanding. He could all but taste them! But unless he wanted to spend months practicing the same forms, over and over, he could think of only one way forward.

To embrace whatever perils awaited him in the tunnels once more, and allow the crucible of battle to enlighten his soul with insights that only staring into the face of death could bring him.

The rewards would be, as always, immense.

And the cost, should he fumble, would always be the same.

The loss of all his potential as he too became an object lesson for whichever foe eventually took him down.

But until that day…

He shook his head and sighed, completely giving up on meditation, his ears far too finely attuned now not to immediately hone in on what everyone else in the house was saying.

I’m telling you, Morlekai, that kid’s a machine. You see the way he was working out? His intensity’s kinda fuckin’ scary,” said Drake.

“Boy’s getting pretty good with the nagamaki bardiches as well," Louie replied. "Before, he used to be so cautious, it was like fencing a clever mouse who just might get in a lucky shot. But now, his movements are so fucking fluid, the weapon so fucking light in his hands, that he slips right out of any bind you try, laughs off your attempts to hook and winch free his weapon, and always seems to strike during the half-second you're off balance or shifting grips."

Drake gave a rueful chuckle. “Or maybe you catch a flash of your girl waving and cheering you on… or you get caught up in the dizzying way he twirls his weapon shaft like a fuckin’ showoff... I swear, my eyes get tired just looking at him! Because if you even blink when fighting Eric, he’ll have struck you twice and wrenched your weapon right out of your hands with that Strength power of his that he swears he only uses during the last match. You sure he doesn't use blood magic like you and Alice, boss? Because sure as shit, it ain’t natural.”

A cold chuckle echoed through the house. “You speak of natural as if it were some unassailable truth. You, who less than two days ago, were a couple pints of blood away from death, missing your entire right arm. An arm I now see you flexing, just to prove its there.”

Drake gave a sheepish laugh. “Ah, yeah, there is that. Of course you’re right, boss.”

Eric couldn’t deny the warmth he felt, flattered that his friends thought so highly of him, or at least highly enough to exaggerate things just a bit, and put in a good word for him with the head of their little crew. Though to Eric, he seemed increasingly like a cross between the cold, distant father he never knew, and the bemused, know-it-all older brother he never had.

His lips twisted in a fierce grin as he twirled his bardiche before pinning his imagined opponent with his gaze once more, the armored pel laughing at his paltry attempts to rupture its shimmering scales, now wearing a completely fresh piece of scrap armor. Because some people, at least, appreciated how vital a role Morlekai's gang played in assuring the safety of the entire community.

And other people, it seemed, didn’t appreciate it at all.

Eric froze before he could swing his weapon, testing out the brand new pell Johns Smith swore would resist even his best efforts, and Eric had so looked forward to trying it out.

But he was no fool.

When he sensed the weight of almost a dozen hard-eyed gazes sent his way, he calmly stepped back and traded one tool of death for another.

“May I help you gentlemen?” Eric said, double-shot crossbow held in a casual grip as he eyed the motley collection of crossbowmen and spearmen with one hard-eyed man carrying a full brace of javelins. All of them had the rugged look of survivors, but only a few of the larger spear wielders gave Eric the aura of an actual adventurer who had dared the pods.

But he sure as hell wasn't about to underestimate anyone, especially not three crossbowmen with their recurved bows fully cocked, one of whom he actually recognized. "John, what the hell?" Eric said aloud before thinking better of it, and the bearded spearman who Eric recalled coming to the aid of not that long ago, flinched, before shaking it off with a scowl.

"Sorry it has to be this way, kid. How about you get your boss? We'll get this over with nice and easy, and no one gets hurt."

Eric couldn’t help smirking at that. “No one gets hurt. I like that.”

“You heard the man! Get your boss, unless you want to get shafted!” Roared the largest among them, a nearly seven foot tall bear of a man, mostly fat, but with a fair amount of muscle as well, and definitely someone who had survived the pods. He, along with two others, held throwing spears in the form of ancient roman pilums with narrow, armor-piercing heads attached to iron shanks socketed onto hardwood shafts.

Eric's mind raced with what little he recalled about the deadly weapon. Specifically designed to punch through shields almost effortlessly, the two-foot-long iron shank prevented the pilum from losing momentum sliding through the shield due to friction, assuring that the full power behind the spear throw would tear right through most forms of ancient armor.

His heart began to pound, more aware than ever of just how perilous his situation had suddenly become. Because all three of the classers were wielding weapons that stood the best chance of defeating even his armor. And their protection was no joke either, kitted up in the armor favored by the towns’ most competent guards, PVC plastic covered in a patchwork of thin steel plates.

The rest, including the designated spear carrier who had positioned himself right behind the giant, were wearing armor more in line with what most had access to; two or three pairs of blue jeans and boots for the legs, and a crude breastplate of PVC for the torso at best. Fine against clubs, glass bottles, and switchblades. But against a crossbow or bardiche?

Eric flashed the scowling giant of a man a lazy smile, taking a moment to scan the grounds around him out of habit more than any sense of…

Shit.

A cold sliver of tension shivered down his spine.

Understanding the trap about to be sprung as he caught the calculating light in the brutish blowhard’s face.

Eric’s bemused smile turned hard and cold, instantly crushing the desire to taunt or test… knowing that any delay only played into the hands of his enemy.

And the sudden hot glare in his enemy’s eyes made it clear the bastard sensed Eric knew it too.

“Kill him!” The man roared, no longer even playing at being just a gruff bully looking to make a name for himself, but the hardened killer he truly was.

The three crossbowmen nodded, only one flinching at the order.

But two crossbow bolts were already streaking through the air in the time it took the closest pair of archers to raise their weapons to eye level and lock their sights on Eric who was now taking shelter behind what was, after all, just a stuffed pel.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Hiding behind a pel? What a fucking little bitch!" said one of the spearmen with a chuckle, before frowning down at the wide-eyed crossbowman prone on the ground, crossbow discharged, gazing up at death after a bolt tore through his skull.

“Shit!”

A word echoed by several others when the second crossbowman went down with a groan, crumpling around the bolt lodged in his sternum, already coughing up thick, frothy blood.

Their leader snarled, eyes turning red. “You think you get to take out my men? You little piece of sh..." His eyes bulged in sudden pain as a bolt tore through his ankle, his well-armored torso and the pilum radiating a power Eric didn’t fully understand, held as if the giant actually thought he could deflect Eric’s bolt, was completely deferred for a shot Eric knew the would-be killer wasn't expecting. And the moment he stumbled was the moment his spear-carrier crashed to the ground with a fresh bolt between his eyes.

During the precious pair of seconds that the giant roared and stumbled back to his feet, eyes glazing with a primal hate that transcended mere words, Eric had calmly pulled out a single shot reverse-draw, casually drawing a bead on John, the third crossbowman, who had been stumbling back, yelling “Fuck, Fuck, I don’t want this, I’m out of—“

But it was already too late when Eric's finger caressed the trigger for the fifth time in just a handful of seconds, and the guard Eric had once walked beside and even traded jokes with, guarding a caravan of refugees with Alice and several others, collapsed with a gurgle. Wide, terrified eyes gave silent voice to his terror as frantic hands desperately tried to stem the spray of blood erupting from his ruptured neck.

Because Eric had had enough compassion to extend mercy to cowards who had almost sold him out, once before. Once, but never again. No matter how wide their eyes pleaded as they clawed and scrabbled at the ground. Not when instead of gratitude or friendship, mercy would bring only agonizing death, bitter regret, and mocking smiles, when the treacherous rat you had spared before learned only to strike you when you least expected it.

The hell with that.

“Get me that fucker’s head!” the giant roared as he sprang back to his feet, thinking nothing of pulling out the bolt with a snarl Eric was almost certain did more damage going out than in. Then in a single fluid motion, he was hurtling a massive spear right for Eric. A weapon vibrating with killing intent, blasting right into the pell Eric had been hiding behind.

But Eric was already moving as the spear tore through the air… before smacking against the pell with a crack, then soaring back through the air as it spun in wide, lazy arcs, to land dozens of yards behind the stunned bandits, their leader's weapon unable to pierce even the smith’s newly improved Greater Lizard scale armor, first forged into a second pell covering, with an invitation and challenge from John and Hobbs to see if Eric or anyone else could pierce their new, improved armor.

It was a challenge happily accepted. And so far, the armor was holding.

Even against an enchanted spear.

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” the giant roared.

But Eric didn't even bother to smile as he raced for the far side of the house, knowing that man was just a feint as he turned the corner, heater shield raised high, third double-shot summoned as well in the seconds he had sped into position.

Crossbow bolt deflects off shield! You have suffered no damage! You resist being startled!

Crossbow bolt pierces shield! Your wrist has been pierced!

Willpower check made. You have saved versus distraction!

And Eric would never again doubt the usefulness of the System and his proficiencies raising his Perception so high. Not when that infravision bonus had allowed him to ping the location of his foes so well, so quickly, bracing himself for the crossbow bolts he knew were coming from the pair of frustrated would-be assassins, eager to kill the thorn at their back.

Eyes widening when bolts either skipped off or failed to bring their man down.

They exchanged hard glances, before unsheathing Hot Steel 1796 English Cavalry Saber replicas, and charging Eric in tandem.

“Die, you fucking prick!”

Unprofessional words and the last thing the closest archer would ever say when his throat sprouted a crimson blossom spurting his lifeblood away, Eric’s bolt streaking out with such force that it lodged in the cavern wall behind the crumpled would-be assassin as the second crossbowman’s eye lit up with a mixture of terror and triumph. For Eric had discharged his weapon, his hands now filled with a useless piece of aluminum and fiberglass that would do nothing to keep his head from being caved in by a fierce overhand blow.

Eric didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know the sense of thoughts flickering across the man’s face, to the extent the asshole was thinking at all, and not being compelled by an animal's desperate need to survive.

Before the would-be assassin’s eyes bulged as he crumpled to the ground with a horrified whimper, and Eric was content to leave him there, not even bothering to finish him off.

He doubted the man had the heart to stab anyone at all.

Not after a crossbow bolt had just torn through his groin.

“Weren't expecting a double-shot, were you?" Eric shook his head at the writhing man. "You and I are going to have a long talk when I get back. In the meantime, I'll leave you to dredge up all the details about this little coup attempt that you can. If you give me enough juicy details about who's really pulling the strings? I might actually let you live. Or you can hold out like a bitch, and I'll make a recording of your screams." Eric flashed a final cold smile. "Your choice, asshole. I'm cool either way."

Eric didn’t waste another second on the man’s desperate groans, darting back around to the front as fast as he could, now having pulled out his longbow, ready to take full advantage of his Speed, Finesse, and nearly limitless endurance. Because if he thought too hard about how easily he had taken on the role of a bloodthirsty vigilante, just like the character his mother had hammered into his head, he might have to come to terms with how good it had felt, seeing the terror in his foe’s eyes.

And that hadn’t been an act at all.

Because no one was allowed to fuck with his friends. And after captain asshole had given his men the orders to strike him dead? It was either him or them. Sure as hell, he refused to live life on someone's kill list. Not without making that someone pay. And risking a hot-blooded asshole leveling up in the shadows, burning with the need to avenge his fellow cutthroats?

Hell no.

And maybe his hard resolve showed in his eyes, because the pair of panting spearmen racing around the house with triumphant smirks so quickly turned to terror with the snap of Eric’s fresh and fully loaded crossbow. His bolt thrummed through the air for just an eyeblink before bursting through the closer man’s skull in a fountain of brain and blood as eyes rolled back and the would-be killer collapsed in a spasming heap before stilling, moments later.

“Fuck no!” Screamed the second, charging forward for all he was worth, spear in the lead. And who wouldn’t bet on the spearman less than ten feet away?

Lest that ten feet turn to twenty, then thirty, then forty, as the spearman wheezed and came to a trembling stop, while a sprinting Eric's legs tingled with endless reserves, the extra seconds giving his wrist the time it needed to heal from what had only been the narrowest of puncture wounds.

Which meant that when he traded crossbow for bow, he could use it at full strength once more.

And the panicked look on the second spearman’s face made it quite clear he knew what his fate was going to be when Eric calmly eased to a stop, straightened his posture….

“No, man, please… you win. Okay? You win! I—“

Raised his bowstring to cheek, and released

“Fuck!”

Because an arrow, even from a longbow could be seen in flight much better than a crossbow bolt streaking through the air at a good fraction of bullet-time speed, and thus it could be dodged. Assuming one was quick, perceptive, and exceedingly talented.

As the panicked spearman lacking even a class that Eric faced was none of these things, Eric’s arrow pierced his heart, and the man collapsed in death with the same confused, vacant stare as his companion.

But Eric didn’t waste any time glorying in, or feeling horrified by, his kills. Instead he drew a fresh arrow to his cheek as he spotted the giant Classer hammering on the door to their compound, spear reclaimed, as first one, then a second spearman at his back fell to yard-long shafts sprouting from their throats, steel plate covered PVC doing nothing to protect the necks and skulls of men too used to movies and comfort, where no one ever covered a pretty face, no matter what. An ironic truth that even his mother’s studio had been somewhat guilty of. Fortunately, Eric’s trainers hadn’t cut corners, making it clear that, historically, sturdy head protection along with a shield was the absolute minimum protection that almost every ancient regimen had made use of.

As to why that was, all one had to do was look at the growing number of bodies by the giant’s feet as two corpses became four, and Eric found himself slipping into the same zen-like state he did on his best archery days. Only this time, he was filled with an alertness, a fire, that only came from the perfect blend of insight and peril, the fierce rush of fighting for one’s life, and achieving absolute mastery over one’s foes.

“Ignore the house! We kill that fucking archer, now!” the giant among them roared, snarling as powerful strides tore up the loamy grass that the once hard stone cavern floor was slowly transforming into, at least near the lake.

And Eric, being no fool, turned tail and ran, weaving from side to side, already knowing the power of their leader’s spear. The very fact that the giant was completely ignoring the still bleeding wound told Eric all he needed to know.

Heart hammering with something that had nothing to do with fatigue, he felt his foe’s killing intent like an icicle lodged in his spine. Like a whisper of doom so acute it mocked him with its inevitability even as he dodged LEFT!

Almost in time.

You have been struck by Lancing Spear!

Successful Quickness & Perception checks mitigates Lethal Strike to Serious wound!

Bloodloss at 1 hp/second until blood is staunched, or Regeneration seals wound.

You have spun around in your tracks and claimed your opponent’s weapon!

Your opponent is howling in rage!

“Someone hand me a fresh fucking spear!” The giant roared. “There’s no way that asshole’s dodging me a sec—“

Beady eyes widened in horror as massive hairy hands clenched tightly at his own throat.

But not a word slipped free of the wide-open mouth now sprouting a crossbow bolt, the giant suddenly stumbling to the ground, shredded ankle finally giving out on the monster, wheezing and coughing around great mouthfuls of blood.

And it said something about his level, Eric thought, coldly drawing a bead on his target with a second freshly pulled crossbow, that the bolt hadn’t torn completely through his spine.

That feral monster of a warrior was certainly a foe he never wanted at his back.

And he didn't intend to, carefully lining up his kill shot, feeling nothing but cold contempt for the psychopath who had been so hungry to kill him, just seconds ago.

Before the door abruptly burst open, and the remaining pair of spearmen found themselves writhing around bardiches wielded in deadly tandem, two spears effortlessly knocked aside, one shattering, the other flying through the air.

Before either of the flat-footed spearmen could react, their abdomens were ripped open by the finest weapons in Junk Town before they were both sent sprawling in sprays of blood and entrails with vicious jerks and kicks.

Drake and Louie who had been laughing and joking inside the house just minutes ago, were now staring at their prey with the eyes of hardened killers as the fallen spearmen twisted and writhed on the ground, choking on blood and screams as trembling hands tried desperately to hold back the flood of hot blood and slimy grey intestines spraying forth from abdomens that would never close again.

And emerging last of all in a haze of crimson was Morlekai, with his sister just a step behind.

Eric swallowed under the crushing weight of auras that left him breathless, both radiating invisible halos that, to Eric's infravision at least, showed with a heat signature eerily matching the blood pouring from over a dozen fallen foes.

Morlekai flashed a bone-chilling smile before laughing loud and long, the entire cavern seeming to echo with his dark mirth as his frock coat exploded in a swarm of crimson crows.

A murder that leaped and dived through the air, before plummeting down the throat of the giant who had been so keen on killing them all.

A giant whose eyes bulged like a drowning man as he writhed and twisted and bucked, monstrous Strength and Vitality that had allowed the man to push past a crippling bolt like it was nothing, and another that should have killed him instantly, was all that allowed the hairy monster of a man to live on for endless seconds as Morlekai whispered words that trembled through Eric’s soul.

And now Morlekai was looking right at Eric, and he pretended he saw no trace of fangs, or the way Alice shuddered in ecstasy. Moaning as all the fallen men began to wither before Eric’s eyes, infravision catching a crimson heat signature snaking its way toward Alice.

For a heartbeat, he feared an attack. But she spread her arms wide and welcomed the crimson gift as a trickle became a flood, washing over her shuddering form like a lover’s caress. Until every inch of her creamy Irish Italian features were covered in the blood-moon’s gift before fading completely away… leaving not a stain behind as she shuddered in what could only be rapture, no trace of her deed left behind, save for the bright red corona of her eyes.

Because Eric most definitely wasn’t focusing on the fangs she licked before giving him a wink, a languorous hand caressing the ear of a suddenly shuddering Louie.

“Come, my darling. I believe my brother has things well in hand out here, thanks to our delicious little boy scout. Always around when we need him the most." She flashed Eric a too knowing smile before grabbing the hand of a dazed-looking Drake as well. "You too."

The door shut softly behind them, leaving a dozen utterly desiccated corpses and a crippled leader gazing upon horrors Eric couldn't even fathom as the spear chucker was simultaneously desiccated and filled to bursting, every drop of essence leaking from his flesh consumed by crimson crows taking the place of blood that had once burned brightly with life, malice, and naked ambition.

Never again, Eric thought with a chill, when the writhing seven-foot abomination abruptly stilled, head turning very much like a bird's to peer consideringly Eric’s way, before giving a querulous caw.