“They could be in there for another five days. Maybe longer, so I'll drink if I want to,” a double chinned mercenary said, leaning into another sip of his flask.

  A mercenary with an impressive gray mustache dropped a handful of tea bags into a kettle positioned over the fire. “Camping is the worst part of this gig. I'm spending a week at a brothel after we get paid.”

  Rupert, the level two coachman, laughed. “Don't spend it at The Silken Minx. Those whores will give you the best night of your life, then rob you blind.”

  “Sounds like you're speaking from experience.” The chubby mercenary slapped Rupert's back.

  The coachman grimaced. “I'd like to think I get wiser the more I age. Are you sure you brought enough men? They had a fellow with them who's quite strong. En route to the dungeon, he killed two Soul Viper assassins in the blink of an eye.”

  The mustached mercenary took a swig from his flask and rubbed his chin. “Soul Viper, you say?”

  “Aye. I saw the fight unfold firsthand. Honestly, it wasn't much of a fight. They were outclassed.”

  A bulky mercenary draped in chain mail inhaled smoke from a pipe, blowing it into the coachman's face. “Keep exaggerating and you'll lose your tongue.”

  Rupert choked. “I'm not lying. They tried to retreat, and he killed 'em both. Our eyes met for a second and...”

  The bulky mercenary dumped his pipe. “And... What?”

  As the coachman stared off into the distance, the words caught in his throat. “They were vacant.”

  “Real spooky.” The bulky mercenary kicked the coachman's log. “What's his name?”

  “Cyprus,” I said as I took a seat next to the coachman, appearing like a blood splattered phantom, the effects of my invisibility faded.

  Six level three mercenaries jumped to their feet as the coachman tumbled off the log. Shocked and bewildered, they scurried for their weapons.

  I palmed the dagger in my hand, letting the blood drip into the dirt. Their reactions were priceless—a perfect combination of fear and reality warping confusion. They formed a loose net around me but were too nervous to advance.

  “They're here!” the chubby mercenary shrieked as he clutched a two-handed mace. “Lieutenant, get out here!”

  “Does anyone have a moist toilette?” I asked, attempting to wipe the blood from my face, only to smear it across my cheeks like war paint. “Was the level four in that tent your leader?”

  “What nonsense are you blabbering about?” the mustached mercenary asked.

  Then he saw the tents behind me. Sanguine streaks on the tents' inner fabric wove a silent tale of violence and cold brutality.

  The coachman caught on quick enough. He ran, putting a meager distance between us. I flicked my borrowed dagger past the mercenaries, nailing the coachman in the back of his knee. He crashed into the dirt as I poured tea into a tin cup. I blew at the rising plume of steam and took a sip.

  Tea sputtered out of my mouth as I burned my tongue, choking. “Who hired you?” I asked, casually sucking in air to cool my scorched taste buds.

  “Demon Dash,” the mustached man said.

  He lunged forward, sword in hand at a laughably sad speed. I caught the edge of his blade like a hawk plucking a fish from the water. The steel shattered as I pinched it between my fingers. The mercenary abandoned his weapon, striking with his armored fist. His gauntlet crumpled inward as it met the side of my head, presumably mangling his hand. His supposed comrades stood by and watched him falter backward.

  Testing my six points in strength, I gently swiped at his head. It was like opening a poorly wrapped gift—the kind where the tape clings to the paper, and you end up tearing both in frustration. The poor fellow's nose went one way, his left ear cartwheeled off, and his cheeks hung on by a thread. I stared at the mess I'd made, equally impressed as I was disgusted.

  He responded with a gurgled scream, which was surprising considering his vocal cords were now dangling from his neck like party streamers. He staggered over his own lips and collapsed in a heap. I tried flicking his mustache from my index finger, but it clung on like a stubborn caterpillar.

  Five mercenaries remained, all equally horrified.

  “I haven't been here long. But man, this place really is a cesspool. I can't walk three feet without trampling trash like you,” I said, flinging loose pieces of flesh off my hand. “Oh, well. I'll make your deaths quick and be on my way.”

  “Stay back,” the chubby mercenary cried.

  Their formation shifted into a hopeless semi-circle of shaking blades.

  Dagger Step.

  I appeared behind them and ran the edge of my left hand through the sides of their necks like a make-shift guillotine. In quick succession, five heads rolled from five shoulders. That only left the coachman, who was crawling away through the brush.

  Target: Rupert

  Level: 2

  Karma: -215

  Additional Data: Retired Aclanian Guardsman. Age, 54. Male.

  Twigs snapped beneath my boots as I approached. Rupert struggled, desperately dragging himself away from the slaughter grounds. I towered over the pitiful old man, almost feeling sorry for him as a light breeze carried the aromatic scent of iron through the forest that not even the rain could mask.

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  “Well, it seems things couldn't have gone much worse for you.”

  Rupert rolled over on his back, snot running rampant down into his beard. “Stay back!”

  “My acquaintances are waiting for me. So, let's make this quick. Answer my questions truthfully if you wish to live.”

  “I'm sorry. It was a foolish mistake. Please forgive me. We were just planning to steal the loot. We weren't going to hurt you.”

  “I thought it might have been something like that. But as I gutted that level four lieutenant and those napping mages back in those tents, I realized how strange it was that a little old coachman like you had the resources to orchestrate this.”

  “That's right. I swear I was only following orders.”

  I palmed my forehead. “What a lousy excuse. I would've respected you more if you admitted doing this for a fat paycheck.” I crouched over him, staring into his trembling pupils. “Did Soul Viper outsource their grudge against me?”

  His mouth hung agape; words frozen in his throat like a dread flavored Popsicle. Instead, Rupert shook his head, tears welling in the corner of his eyes. “No…”

  “Was it a tiny, pale-skinned, chocolate bar eating douchebag that put you up to this? Is he after my quest reward? Maybe he used a proxy.”

  Rupert's panicked gaze shifted to my feet, lips quivering as he choked out, “No... Please... I-I-I don't know what you're talking about.”

  He reached under his jacket and retrieved an off-white envelope stamped with an azure seal of a pearl centered inside of a waving banner. It sure didn't take an expert in cryptology to decipher what the obvious logo implied. I snatched the envelope, unfolded the letter, and read it.

  The Black Diamond Mercenary Company will assist in eliminating The Twilight Rangers and retrieving all valuables, including gems, currencies, trinkets, potions, and a potential chaos shard.

  There was no signature, and the phrase 'potential chaos shard' sent shivers down my spine. Somebody was privy to more information than what should've been possible. As far as I knew, nobody suspected that we'd find a chaos shard.

  Everyone laughed when I gave up my cut of the loot to call dibs on such an outrageous item. Was this the work of another marionette manipulated by Chaos? I didn't want to entertain another unknown variable.

  “Who delivered this?”

  “A nameless envoy, I swear it.”'

  I crumpled the letter up and shoved it in my pocket, endless possibilities running through my mind. “Thanks. You've been somewhat helpful.”

  Rupert balled his hands together, body language suggesting he was about to beg for his life.

  “I hate to sound like a cliche villain, but you're the definition of a loose end.”

  Before Rupert could object, I euthanized him with a humane strike to the face, killing him instantly.

  +105 XP

  +95 Karma

  ***

  A tranquil drizzle fell from the sky as storm clouds temporarily halted dawn's advance. Raindrops gently tiptoed atop the canopy before they streamed down the cherry-colored leaves, forming delicate micro waterfalls throughout the forest. With my palms held open, I washed the blood from my hands. Killing the mercenaries quelled my lingering frustrations of getting manhandled by Derulo. Underestimating the dungeon had nearly cost me everything.

  As I strolled through the woods, back to the carriage, I spotted a white hare hopping across a mossy series of rocks and deactivated my Filter.

  Target: Silvershred Hare

  Level: 1

  Karma: N/A

  My stomach rumbled, kicking off an unspoken race with the hare. I dashed beside it, curious if the little guy would taste like chicken. We bounded alongside each other until I got too close, and it heeled, hissing. Its jaw unhinged, displaying a gaping mouth full of needlepoint teeth. Reconsidering my supper, I skipped the nasty bugger and rendezvoused at the caravan.

  The carriage was tucked away in a clearing near the trail to the dungeon's entrance. It probably would've been guarded had the mercenaries expected us this early. Duskblade was perched up in the coach box, reins in hand. “Hurry up and get in. We need to get Grace to a healer.”

  I nodded and climbed into the luxury carriage, taking a seat on the plush bench across from Grace, who was laid out with what was left of her leg propped up on a stack of pillows. As the carriage began moving, I took a long sip of water from my canteen. The pain in my right arm had mostly subsided, and I could even form a loose fist.

  “It's so quiet,” Grace said, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Sorry about what happened to you and your friends,” I said, offering the maximum extent of my condolences.

  Grace blew a loose strand of hair from her lips. “Yeah, I am, too. At least I still have my life.”

  She handled the loss better than Duskblade, who I heard ugly crying outside between the dribbling rhythm of the rain. Pain and anger lurked underneath her outer layer of stoicism, but she didn't dare let it show.

  “I take it from your appearance those mercenaries won't be chasing after us,” Grace said.

  I sighed, noticing the crimson splotches staining the outside of my gray cloak. “Yeah, they're all dead.”

  “Good, I hope it was painful.” Grace clenched her fist.

  The carriage hit a rough patch in the road. Grimacing from the pain, Grace cursed under her breath and took a quick glance at her ravaged leg. “Damn, I wish I hadn't done that. My knee looks like ground beef.” She forced a laugh, refusing to give into the mounting agony. “Cyprus, tell me something.”

  “Tobias and Oakley seemed like talented youngsters,” I said.

  Grace turned her head, making an expression like she'd just found a cockroach in her salad. “Are you dense? I don't want to hear about the kids who we just saw die horrible deaths in that awful tomb.”

  Direct social interaction was never my strong suit. I thought reminiscing about a deceased person's good attributes was a solid strategy. Though, admittedly, I wasn't well versed in grief counseling.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “I lived under a rock with my master for as long as I could remember,” I lied.

  “What about your parents?”

  I shuffled in my seat. “I never met my mother, and the only interactions I remember having with my father were with his fists. He died when I was eight.”

  The truth stung. Although he was a mean drunk and downright sadistic when he was sober, his death came as a shock. Died in a bar fight, deservedly so. Apparently, he spat in the wrong man's beer, got knocked out, and never woke up. Life only got worse from there.

  “So, your master looked after you after that?”

  “Yeah,” I said, wishing it were true. “He taught me everything I know, but I'm still ignorant of this country and its customs.”

  “That's been obvious. What are you going to do now that you have your chaos shard?”

  I shrugged. “Haven't decided.”

  Grace squinted; eyebrows raised. “I know it's impossible, but were you certain it was going to be there?”

  “No, I was planning on clearing countless dungeons until I found it. Before my master disappeared, he told me to find a chaos shard. I just got lucky,” I said. “Honestly, I don't know anything about them.”

  “Lucky?” Grace laughed, then winced and wiped a tear from her eye. “I suggest selling it to Pearl Banner when they ask. That mercenary organization will come seeking answers and Soul Viper already wants you dead. When word gets out that you have a chaos shard, every blade in Aclana will come for it.”

  I choked on my water. “Only three of us know about it. I didn't want to play the 'I saved your lives' card, but I'm using it. You guys owe me, so don't tell anybody.”

  Grace threw a pillow across the coach. “Duskblade has to file a dungeon report, and he can't leave it out. A dungeon that large, they're expecting quality loot. Falsifying a loot form is a crime punishable by death. You really are clueless.”

  “You think that information will leak?”

  “Leak? Every single report is public information. It'll be in every newsletter from Aclana to Kalistan and Durotai,” Grace raised her hands up like she was surrendering. “I was just offering you some advice, you know, as thanks for saving us.”

  Shit.