So, that was fun—right?

I’ll say, while it was pretty death-defying, there were some silver nuggets of goodness to be gleaned in the immediate aftermath of the fight. For one: I Leveled up, baby!

More than that, though, because I’d accrued enough Experience during the battle royale to Level up twice—and qualify for Level Fourteen. Which meant taking a nice, long glance at my character sheet and grabbing a gander at all my glorious gifts.

You know the drill, right?

Loon

Race: Orc*

Class: Barbarian (Frenzied Saboteur Path)

Level: 14

Profession: Unassigned

Health: 550 / 550

Arcana: 115 / 115

Max Stamina: 233

Reputation: Untested

Sodality

Assignment: Cult of the Capricious

Cult Rank: Initiate

Pacts

Rexen Gravetongue

Attributes

Remaining Points to Allocate: 6

Strength: 15 Constitution: 41 (+3 Ring of Redoubt) Dexterity: 15 Wisdom: 11 Intelligence: 12 Charisma: 11 Luck: 3*

Skills

Acrobat (E-Rank Level 6) Camp (F-Rank Level 1) Deception (F-Rank Level 1) Hunting (F-Rank Level 1) Improvised Weapon (E-Rank Level 3) Improvised Shield (F-Rank Level 3) Insight (E-Rank Level 5) Intimidate (F-Rank Level 2) Knowledge [Nature] (F-Rank Level 1) Knowledge [Infiltration] (F-Rank Level 1) Knowledge [Ignition] (F-Rank Level 1) Knowledge [Sabotage] (F-Rank Level 1) Leadership (F-Rank Level 4) One-Handed Weapons (E-Rank Level 2) Perception (F-Rank Level 4) Simple Weapon Proficiency (F-Rank Level 6) Simple Armor Proficiency (F-Rank Level 1) Sneaking (B-Rank Level 4) Survival (F-Rank Level 1) Two-Handed Weapons (F-Rank Level 6) Throwing Weapons (E-Rank Level 3) Unarmed Fighting (E-Rank Level 5)

Active Abilities

Armorless Defense (D-Rank Level 6) Battle Born I Darkvision I Enduring Perch II Eye of the Saboteur I Primal Rage (E-Rank Level 5) Pernicious Volley I Natural Resilience (F-Rank Level 2) Nightfall Strike I Super Berserking I Uncommon Consumption (F-Rank Level 1) Wanderlust II Warchant II Blackout Warchant

Passive Abilities

Friendship Strategy Inciter Outsider Unfaltering Wildling

Perks

Adventurous Tastes (First Perk Bonus) Aegis Synthesis Old Ironsides

Aegis

Calden’s Hang Time Loon’s Bombastic Beatdown

Boons

Bone Warrior Imprint

Esper Nodes

Emerald: 3 Sapphire: 3 Topaz: 1

I found that now, for whatever reason, it seemed like my ability to reason as to which of my traits had improved was easier to pick out—maybe I was getting used to the information, or maybe something in my internal advancement was helping with that. Either way, my ballin’-outta-control-barometer was pointing my eyes right at the spots where I’d done the best upgrading.

During the fight, I’d utilized a ton of zany maneuvers to outlive and outlast the spiders, especially up in them trees as I did. Apparently, it was to great effect—cuz ya boi’s Acrobat Skill was now at a solid E-Rank Level 6. One-handed weapons had—to no one’s surprise—shot up as well: E-Rank Level 2. Throwing Weapons was now at E-Rank Level 3, and more surprisingly, I’d raised my Leadership Skill to F-Rank Level 4. I checked back through my notifications to see when that had happened, and the best I could tell, it was right around the time I was dolin’ out delicious directions before we launched back into the fray from the outskirts of the camp.

At this rate, I’m gonna be king of this joint in no time.

Wanderlust I had grown, too, advancing to Wanderlust II. According to the display, this allowed me to do more damage, while gaining more uses per charge in a veritable BOGO bonanza. Now, as long as I was rapid-firing the sons o’ bitches, I could essentially double-cast whatever was inside them for the price of a single slot of Spell sauce. I was torn about this development, because it seemed stupid to rely on magic when I could just be carving fools up or punching their brains into particles. However, the other side of the coin was…well, it was really fucking easy to just pop an enemy right in their stupid fucking face with a well-timed blast from one o’ my handy-dandy witchcraft pistols. I mean, they weren’t actually guns—they were wands—but my point stood.

And on that note, that was a fucking dope idea. I had to image it would actually be pretty fucking choice to have a pair of magic six shooters or something strapped to my ample hips while surviving in this world. You know, trawling around, gettin’ into seventeen kinds of dirty, devil-may-care diablerie, being cool…and stuff. If something like that existed here, I’d be willing to be bet you’d have to pretty wealthy to afford it.

Hm. Maybe it’s a possibility? I’ll ask Arjee—or, actually, on second thought…maybe Edwig’s the better call.

Eh, regardless, I was more of a beat-’em-up brawler type, and arcane firearms would just bring the world down around me. Way too OP, most likely. In the meantime, I had these damn wands. Which weren’t bad at all, as previously established—other than bringing me closer and closer to an eventuality where I played Quidditch. Lame. The wands were good, though, seeing as how they could also create some distance or utilize said space when I couldn’t get up close. I could definitely see the benefits, but it was really starting to become a downer how often I relied on them.

I looked over at the rest of my shit some more, noticing that Primal Rage had unsurprisingly gone up. Distantly, I recalled how, during my aggressive tapping of that particular powder keg, I’d been way more effective. Even considering Loon’s Bombastic Beatdown—which harnessed the power of insomnia to yank my physical abilities into the stratosphere, I’d completely spaced that I had the Abilities granted to me by Rexen’s social engineering and utter disregard for the system. Super Berserking—hilariously and appropriately named—pushed me even further into “no, fuck you,” territory, and I’d been healing the whole time as well. Which was probably good, because I was a magnet for pain and misery—and it wasn’t always my fault. Man, some of this shit was really starting to…as I’d heard Rua refer to it, “come online.” I was always a bit of a slow learner—surprise, surprise—but the more time I spent exercising these magic muscles, the better I began to grasp it. So, I wasn’t a complete lost cause. That gave me hope.

Another sick-nasty, fuck-around feature was something I hadn’t really thought about much: Armorless Defense. Really, I’d kind of been running around assuming that my luck was protecting me, when I hadn’t stopped to consider the fact that there was a fat, gnarly Ability sitting on deck, assisting me in absorbing some of the worst damage. Now, it seemed, Armorless Defense had come back from summer camp with a girlfriend who conveniently lived in another town. It had rocketed up to D-Rank Level 6, which, alone, would have been pretty impressive. However, gaining that altitude had also blessed me with a bonus. A Perk, actually.

Congratulations! You have gained a new Perk!

Perk: Old Ironsides

Due to reaching D-Rank in Armorless Defense, you now bear a 25% resistance to piercing! Blows that typically puncture flesh now have more difficulty getting through your rough and tumble exterior into your soft, moist and mushy interior! Additionally, this also increases your Natural Resilience:

+15% Resistance to Insects

+8% Resistance to Weather Conditions [Cold]

+5% Resistance to Weather Conditions [Heat]

Aces, my friends—aces all around.

Finally, as if I could even fit anymore double-chocolate sprinkles on this confetti cake, I’d finally gained another Rank to Warchant, bringing it to Warchant II. Which meant that I was allowed to choose another hot-button battle scream.

Rallying Warchant

The user, in an incredibly heartfelt and genuine display of encouragement, unleashes a mighty roar that inspires up to [1] of their allies to reach new heights in an area of [Intimidate + Charisma quotient] feet for [Intimidate + Charisma quotient multiplied by 200 %] minutes. All nearby allies, caught up in the awe-inspiring sound waves of the Warchant, experience a surge of adrenaline that enhances their combat prowess. They tap into their inner warrior spirit, boosting their attack power, defense, and resistance to fear effects over duration.

Select Rallying Warchant?

[Yes/No]

Serpent’s Warchant

The user releases a viscous, deadly bellow that has a chance to poison all targets within an area of [Intelligence + Wisdom quotient], causing deleterious effects for [8] Health over the course of [Intelligence + Wisdom quotient] minutes. All enemies suffering from the effects of Serpent’s Warchant will surely wish themselves to be anywhere else, oftentimes crying for their mother’s and purging violently at the same time.

Cost: 50 Arcana

Caveat: This Warchant requires the use of Arcana.

Select Serpent’s Warchant?

[Yes/No]

Warchant of the Void

With a haunting chant, the user brings the chill of the void into their vicinity. It's like a cool, refreshing breeze for the soul, but instead of relaxing goodness, it serves up a cold emptiness that saps the energy from enemies and makes them reevaluate their lives. Those within an area of [Intelligence + Wisdom quotient] feet may start to question the life choices that led them to this point, experiencing a drop in attack power and speed for a disconcerting [Intelligence + Wisdom quotient] seconds.

Cost: 60 Arcana

Caveat: This Warchant requires the use of Arcana.

Select Warchant of the Void?

[Yes/No]

Titan's Warchant

Channeling their inner Troubadour, the user's voice booms out like a particularly angry mountain, echoing with the power and pent-up resentment of the earth. It's not so much singing as it is geological upheaval put to sound. The very ground takes offense at this blatant impersonation, shaking in indignant response within a radius of [Constitution + Strength quotient] feet. This might throw enemies off their rhythm, possibly knocking them on their tails for an undignified [Constitution + Strength quotient divided by 2] seconds.

Select Titan’s Warchant?

[Yes/No]

Well, huh. This was a real noggin’ scratcher.

Rallying Warchant? I mean, it had its merits. It sounded like it was basically screaming at your pals so hard that they went into overdrive. Like the head coach of a doomed…sports team in the final…quarter? Anyway, I was already a well-established hell-raiser, but with that, I could really get their blood pumping—but instead of the usual way, I’d use my powers for good, I guess. I pictured myself, smack in the middle of some world-ending monster scrum, letting out a bestial holler that could shatter ear drums and suddenly my crew…well, they're tearing shit up like they're goddamn possessed. Feral and shit. Just…wreckin’ kneecaps and bashin’ skulls inside out—straight up riot mode, ya know? I’m not gonna lie, it was kind of a cool thought, having that much sway on the battlefield. Not to mention, if I timed it right, I could probably drown out Rexen's godawful singing.

Serpent’s Warchant, though...that thing seemed nasty in a whole new way. I imagined myself bellowing so damn loud and venomous that enemies would start puking their fuckin’ guts out. That would goddamn rule, and no one could tell me otherwise. Although…as appealing as that image was, the cost was a sticking point. It would burn through fifty Arcana like it was nothing. And I didn’t exactly have Arcana to burn. Plus, I was trying to move away from going full Merlin, not exacerbate it.

Next in line for my discerning perusal was the Warchant of the Void. Now, there was a name that would make a grown man question his underwear choices. It had this terrifying ring to it, like the eerie silence just before a violent storm, or the quiet seconds after you tell a particularly crude joke during a job interview.

Just thinking about the sound of it, I could practically taste the fear it would spread. Some shit-scared spider thing hearing my call, looking into my eyes, and seeing not just your everyday, bloodthirsty, wild-eyed wall of all-that-is-unfuckwithable, but the embodiment of cold, endless nothingness. A real soul-shriveling terror.

That thought almost had me grinning ear to ear. Almost.

Point was, once again, it relied on Arcana. Fuck that—hocus pocus weren’t my strong suit. In fact, to call it a weak suit would be overstating its place in my wardrobe. More like that embarrassing pair of socks your grandma knitted for you. Yeah, they're warm and all, but you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them in public.

The last contender in this bellow-off was the Titan's Warchant. Right off the bat, the name had my full attention. It sounded like something I'd want to yell while swinging from a chandelier. You know, if I ever found myself in a chandelier-swinging situation. Which, come to think of it, wasn't that unlikely based on my track record. However, this was like an apocalyptic temper tantrum—you know, pitchin’ a fit that could kick-start an earthquake. I smiled. And who better than yours truly—the original-recipe, hot-headed hate machine—to put that kind of power to use?

I could already see it: I’m standing in the middle of the battlefield, looking suave as fuck, dressed to the nines in my finest carnage costume. All eyes on me, the tension thick enough to cover in whip cream. And then I'd let loose, my voice ripping through the air and causing every complaint-wielding dipswitch to take a slapstick tumble.

Eh, but then what? Seemed like the ROI on such a feat was relatively low. I’d have to then run over and, what? Lean down to stab them to pieces? I’m a man on the move, I can’t be stopping every few feet to get in a ground grapple. Plus, I didn't want to be remembered as the guy who made the ground dance.

So, what to choose?

I chewed over the options, my brain wheezing like a worn-out innertube. Not its usual state, I gotta say. Usually I had a pretty good gut feeling about what I wanted. But this wasn't choosing between types of waffle toppings or deciding which unfortunate monster's head to knock off next. This was about picking a feature that'd shape how I fought. I looked at them all again, and with the most amount of analytical fortitude I think I’d ever displayed in my entire existence, made a selection.

Rallying Warchant. The name alone had a pretty kickass ring to it. It suggested a kind of strength, a unity in the middle of the chaos that I was usually in the thick of. It wasn't as terrifying as the Warchant of the Void or as gruesome as the Serpent's Warchant. It wouldn't make me feel like a god, like the Titan's Warchant might. But as I ruminated over it, I realized I didn't need to scare the shit out of my enemies or make them physically ill—although, don't get me wrong, both sounded absolutely fuckin' delightful. I already did shit that would take care of that.

No, I realized quite suddenly, what I really wanted was to be that central, unifying figure, the beacon in the shitstorm, you know? Someone you look at tearing off into certain terrible odds and think, "If that dopey motherfucker can keep going, so can I." Plus, the idea of supercharging anyone squadded up with me with a ferocious roar had a certain appeal. It was a step up from headbutting the enemy and swaying around dizzied for several seconds, that was for sure.

And maybe, just maybe, people might start thinking of me as more than the dumbass who charges headfirst into danger, laughing maniacally all the while. Sure, I was that guy, but maybe I could also be the guy who pulled everyone else up with him. That crazy, fearless dumbass who, when the chips were down, you'd still follow into the bowels of hell. Because he was going anyway, and at least it'd be a fucking story.

I mean, who was I kidding? I still wanted to observe total domination over my enemies. But if I could do all that and make my crew fight harder, well, that was a win-win situation in my book. So, with a nod to no one in particular, I made my choice.

Then there was just the matter of Points. Well, wasn't this a fucking conundrum. I was stuck with a choice that was about as fun as choosing between a kick to the balls or a punch to the throat. These damn Attribute points were burning a hole in my metaphorical pocket. Six points to spend, and not a fucking clue where to put 'em.

Especially considering I still had reservations from the last time I’d allocated them and I'd hit Milestones. Which—I didn’t think was going to happen with any of them this time, but I really wasn’t sure. Still, it sticks with you, that memory, even if it fades immediately. They hurt like a motherfucker. I mean, who thought it was a good idea to 'reward' progress with something that felt like getting run over by the entire Tour de France? Hell, if I knew reaching a Milestone was gonna feel like that, I would've slowed my roll and settled for a leisurely jog. But no. Apparently, achievement in this world was measured by how much pain you could endure. Well, I was all about underachieving on that front.

So where to put these six little tokens of torment? I chewed on my lower lip, mulling it over. On one hand, I could keep the dice rollin’ on my original preference and put them all into one stat, really jack up that Con, ya know? On the other hand, spreading the love seemed like a smarter move right now. Constitution was a fucking phenomenal stat to massage…but, I’d been led to believe recently that I should be a little ore discerning in my overall build.

But, I’m not a complete balance-seeking fucker.

Flicking through my stats, I finally settled on the decision. It was time to buff the beefcake. I put two points into Strength, feeling the familiar jolt as my muscle mass got a tiny boost. Seventeen. Not too shabby.

Next up, Dexterity. Two more points. Another buzz, another notch on the stat ladder. Seventeen also.

Lastly, I dumped the final two points into Constitution for a total of forty-three. That was a hell of a figure I was cutting.

And the best part? Next time I popped the Loon's Bombastic Beatdown Aegis, these babies were gonna pump up the jam even further. I couldn't wait to see the look on those ol’ Curly and her goons’ faces when I went all double-donkey punch on their asses. Yeah, these points were well fucking spent.

Then, because I’d already used up all available brain space for the day on that hot little endeavor…I decided to take a load off. The whole fucking place was a mess and I wanted a chance to chill before inevitably diving into duty.

But of course, just as I was sitting down into a comfortable position, my attention was wrangled by Saban.

“Noooo,” I whined, before he even had a chance to say anything.

“Come on, Loon,” he said with a grin. “We’ve won the day, but now we gotta do some work to make this place habitable. You were awesome out there, and I don’t think anyone is going to forget you…completely destroying the hell out of that monster—but, unfortunately, we can’t rest just yet.”

“This is bullshit,” I sulked. “This is like spitting in the face of a war hero.”

“We both know it’s not, man,” Saban said, shaking his head, but still grinning. “Plus, it’ll give you the opportunity to meet more of the gang.”

I stood slowly, grunting with exaggerated effort.

“Alright…” I said. “But if anyone makes a spider pun I get carte blanche to sweep kick them.”

“Sure,” Saban. “Now, come on. The carnage isn’t going to clean itself up.”