The world came and went in fragments.

  Cold.

  Light.

  Pain.

  Barrett felt himself dragged through wet sand, his limbs heavy as lead. Water spilled from his lungs in ragged coughs. Somewhere above, the twin suns blurred into one bright smear. His vision flickered.

  He lay on the riverbank. Soaked, trembling, breath sawing in and out like broken machinery. Every muscle screamed. When his vision finally steadied, he saw the figure crouched beside him: a man in a sun-bleached Aloha shirt, palm-tree ghosts barely clinging to the fabric. Bare feet. Hands like driftwood. A battered Panama hat shadowed sharp eyes that studied him without pity.

  That shirt. That damn hat. Of course.

  The man struck flint to tinder. Sparks jumped.

  Soon, a fire crackled to life, orange licking against the river’s mist.

  Barrett drifted in and out of consciousness, catching glimpses through the blur: the man gutting a fish with mechanical precision, threading it on a stick, holding it over the flames. Not a wasted movement. No noise but the hiss of cooking fat and the whisper of rain far upstream.

  When Barrett stirred again, the man’s voice cut through the wind.

  “Eat.”

  The fish was shoved toward him.

  Barrett scowled, too weak to stand but not too weak to be difficult. He looked down and saw that his chest, where the knife had been, was bandaged and didn’t hurt as badly anymore. He wondered what kind of healing skills the old man was capable of.

  “Don’t give me that look,” the man barked. “You’re the one who got dusted by a bunch of nobodies.”

  “I was outnumbered,” Barrett rasped. “Outgunned. One of ’em used a skill gem.”

  That made the old man pause mid-bite.

  “A gem, huh? How’d they get their hands on one?”

  “They took mine.” Barrett spat the words like broken glass.

  The man watched him for a long moment, then leaned back and laughed, a deep, rolling, world-weary sound that didn’t match his frail frame.

  “That’s rich. You really are as big a screw-up as your grandfather said.”

  Barrett sat up despite the ache in his ribs. “You’re lucky I lost my machete, you old bag.”

  The man smiled faintly and tossed something into the dirt. Barrett’s machete hit the ground between them, still stained with bear blood.

  “You were saying?”

  Barrett clenched his teeth. “Bah. Let me rest for a bit.”

  [Iron Reflex] screamed.

  He rolled hard to the side. Just in time to see the old man standing where he’d been, a long knife glinting in his hand.

  “You crazy bastard!” Barrett barked.

  The man crouched and tossed the machete back to him. Barrett caught it reflexively.

  “That bloodline of yours is sharp,” the man said, grinning. “Still, reflexes alone don’t make a fighter.”

  Barrett sprang to his feet, eyes narrowing. “Let’s test that theory.”

  He lunged, slashing in fast, precise arcs. The old man dodged each one effortlessly, weaving through the attacks like he’d been expecting them.

  Barrett shifted, feinted, spun, aiming a brutal elbow toward the man’s ribs.

  The old man sidestepped, let the blow pass, and kicked Barrett square in the chest.

  Barrett hit the ground hard, air exploding from his lungs.

  “Not bad,” the man said, still smiling. “Looks like you remembered some of my lessons.”

  Barrett coughed, spitting dirt. “It’s my first week on this damn world, old man. I’m starting from level one!”

  “Aww, poor baby,” the man teased. “You gonna cry about it? You a victim now?”

  Barrett roared, charging again. Each swing came faster, harder, wild with pride and fury. The man didn’t break a sweat, slipping between the blows like smoke.

  “Easy now,” the man said between dodges. “Remember what I taught you. You’re a fighter, not a brawler. Keep your head.”

  Barrett gritted his teeth and tried to focus. His body remembered the patterns even if his mind didn’t. He fainted left, pivoted right, saw a brief opening — and swung.

  The old man ducked under the arc and drove a sharp knee into Barrett’s jaw.

  All Barrett saw was that maniacal grin before darkness swallowed him.

  —

  He came to with rain in the air, and the fire burned low to coals. The old man was packing his things, hat low against the dawn wind.

  Barrett groaned. “Where the hell are you going, Tony?”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not calling you Sensei Baha, you old coot!”

  “Master Baha?”

  Barrett threw a pebble; the man dodged without looking.

  “A few things I need to take care of,” the old man said. “Storm’s coming, and we’ll need every advantage.”

  Barrett blinked, shaking off the fog. “I can’t even be mad at you. I love that vague tough-guy talk.”

  A chuckle. “Need to check on some other prospects. Probably warped in with different groups.”

  Barrett stared into the dying fire. “Need a hand?”

  The old man’s eyebrow lifted, “what about your crew?”

  “They’d be better without me. I wasn’t strong enough. Didn’t prepare them. I was too damn impatient.”

  The man nodded slowly. “Then fix it. Get stronger. Train harder. Shouldn’t that be obvious, even to an ignoramus like yourself?”

  Barrett looked up, a grin breaking through the exhaustion. “You’re right. I was being a weenie.”

  The old man’s smile creased the corners of his mouth. “Your words, not mine.”

  He adjusted his hat. The scent of rain rolled off the mountains.

  “You still got that gift from your grandfather?”

  “In my pack,” Barrett muttered. “Which means it’s probably back at their camp.”

  The man frowned. “It’s rare. Don’t lose it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Barrett stretched until his spine popped. “I’ll see you at the ships?”

  “You better.” He held out a calloused hand. Barrett clasped it tight.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Harder,” he whispered.

  Barrett’s squeezed, his bicep vein growing.

  “Good, now let me see the fire in your eyes.” The old man asked.

  They held on for a beat too long, then the old man let go, nodding.

  “Make sure you’re stronger next time.”

  Barrett smirked. “Damn right I will.”

  They stood a moment, the last sparks hissing out between them. Then the old man turned, Aloha shirt fluttering like a tattered flag as he disappeared into the trees.

  Barrett watched him go. The first heavy drops began to fall, dimpling the river’s surface. His reflection wavered there, tired, beaten, but not broken.

  He clenched his jaw. “Next time,” he muttered, “I’m the one doing the ass-kicking.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The river carried the words away into the storm.

  —

  Barrett pushed himself up with a grunt, one hand braced against the wet earth. Every part of him throbbed. His ribs aching from the old man’s surprise boot, muscles burning from yesterday’s madness, skull humming with leftover adrenaline. The rain had dwindled to a gentle drizzle, tapping softly against leaves and fallen branches, steaming where it hit the dying embers of their fire.

  He wiped his face with the back of his hand. Mud streaked across his cheek. His breath fogged faintly in the chill morning air.

  “Status.”

  The familiar window bloomed into existence.

  [Name: Barrett Donovan]

  Race: Human (Earth-Origin)

  Level: 4

  Free Points Available: 3

  Strength: 20

  Endurance: 15

  Dexterity: 10

  Intelligence: 7

  Skills:

  – [Iron Reflex] [Bloodline Ability] (Passive: Detects danger moments before it occurs.)

  He stared at the numbers for a long moment, rain dripping steadily from his chin, the scent of wet pine and moss all around him.

  He chuckled dryly.

  “Like I give a crap about some numbers.”

  He jabbed a thumb through the interface, distributing the points almost at random. Two to Strength, one to Endurance. It blinked in confirmation.

  He closed it with a swipe. The hologram faded back into the mist.

  The forest yawned wide before him, dark and wet and breathing. Tendrils of fog curled low along the ground. The air smelled of moss, wet bark, and the metallic tang of blood that wasn’t entirely washed away by the storm.

  He caught his reflection in a puddle: mud-slick hair, eyes rimmed red, scratches across his jaw, machete hanging loose at his side.

  A stranger.

  A dangerous one.

  Barrett let out a low laugh. Once upon a time, he was too nervous to make eye contact with the 7-Eleven cashier. If that version of him saw the man in this puddle?

  He’d run.

  The thought cracked something open inside him. The laugh bubbled up again, hoarse, too loud for the quiet woods. He forced himself to breathe, stretching out his limbs, shaking off the lingering fear. He hopped in place, rolled his wrists, tapped his boots together like a cage fighter warming up backstage.

  “Alright,” he muttered, eyes gleaming.

  “Things are heating up.”

  He stepped into the trees.

  —

  The first kill came almost too easily.

  A goblin burst from the underbrush on his right, shrieking high, frantic, and desperate. Barrett didn’t even tense. His arm moved automatically, muscle memory kicking in before thought. The machete swept out in a clean, practiced line, slicing through skin and sinew like wet paper.

  The goblin’s momentum carried it a few more steps before its knees buckled and it folded into the mud like a puppet with its strings cut.

  [You have slain a Goblin Warrior — Level 4]

  Barrett exhaled through his nose.

  “Next.”

  The forest obliged.

  He moved forward, boots sinking into soft ground, the mist swirling low around his ankles. Raindrops dripped from branches with soft, deliberate ‘plinks’. Every breath tasted like wet bark and iron. He pushed deeper into the trees, machete dangling loosely from his fingertips.

  Something shifted in the undergrowth.

  A faint tremble of leaves.

  A ripple of muscle beneath fur.

  A low, rolling growl like thunder caught in an animal’s throat.

  Barrett stopped walking.

  Yellow eyes materialized through the gloom. Six pairs, circling, and patient.

  Wolves.

  Not regular wolves. These were larger, shoulders thick with corded muscle, pelts wet and clinging, steam rising off them in ghostly tendrils. They paced around him in a loose crescent, their breath fogging in the cold air.

  Barrett rotated his machete in a lazy figure-eight, testing his footing on the slick leaves.

  “You guys remind me of my squad mates online,” he said, voice casual.

  The wolves answered with snarls.

  “I’d tell ’em ‘go A-site,’ right?” Barrett snapped his fingers. “And right before the damn door—womp. Whole team bunches up like clowns in a tiny car.”

  One wolf crept closer, lips curling, breath coming in slow, rhythmic puffs.

  “Nobody wants to be first in.”

  Barrett’s grin widened.

  “Except me.”

  He lunged.

  The nearest wolf didn’t even have time to flinch. Barrett drove the machete straight into its chest like a spear, the force knocking the creature backward into the mud.

  [You have slain a Dire Wolf — Level 4]

  The others reacted instantly.

  One launched itself from his left in a blur of snarling teeth and whiplash muscle. Barrett pivoted, caught it mid-air with a brutal boot to the jaw. The crack echoed through the trees. Before the wolf hit the ground, Barrett’s machete hacked downward, splitting its skull.

  The corpse slammed into the mud, limbs splayed.

  [You have slain a Dire Wolf — Level 4]

  The remaining wolves circled tighter, breath hissing, paws sinking into the wet moss with soft squelches. Their growls were lower now, wary.

  Barrett rolled his neck, shoulders loosening.

  “No volunteers?”

  He shrugged.

  “Fine.”

  This time he charged them.

  Boots tore up mud and leaves as he barreled into the next wolf, blade punching deep into its ribcage. The creature was still trying to snarl when its legs gave out and it collapsed in a heavy heap.

  [You have slain a Dire Wolf — Level 4]

  Something twitched in the corner of his vision—

  [Iron Reflex] flared like a warning bell in his skull.

  Barrett spun. A wolf’s jaws snapped shut on empty air where his arm had been a heartbeat before.

  “Too slow,” he muttered.

  His elbow slammed into the wolf’s snout with enough force to crack bone. It yelped, stumbled backward.

  Barrett didn’t give it a chance to recover. He stepped forward and stomped down hard, feeling the crunch travel up his leg like a shudder.

  [You have slain a Dire Wolf — Level 5]

  Silence.

  The last two wolves froze, ears pinned back. Their growls evaporated into thin whines. They locked eyes with Barrett for a single trembling heartbeat—

  —then turned and bolted into the mist.

  Barrett spat into the dirt.

  “Oh? Don’t wanna play anymore?”

  He cupped a hand around his mouth.

  “Forgot to turn the oven off?”

  No answer but the rustle of bushes as the cowards fled.

  He twirled his machete once, letting droplets of blood flick outward into the leaves. Then he cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders again, and stalked deeper into the forest with a predator’s confidence.

  The fog swallowed him whole.

  —

  Barrett cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and felt that familiar warmth coil in his chest, the one that preceded a good workout. He really wished he had his headphones; those “big cans” on his head would really get him in the zone. If anything, the kills so far had only whetted his appetite.

  He dashed forward.

  The forest blurred past him in streaks of green and brown until he spotted another cluster of goblins milling around a half-dead campfire. Six of them. Rusted blades. Patchwork armor.

  “Bingo.”

  He hit them like a truck.

  The first goblin barely had time to squawk before Barrett’s machete carved a wide arc through its chest. The creature spun away, limbs flailing, crashing into a pile of wet leaves.

  [You have slain a Goblin Warrior — Level 4]

  Another lunged at him with a shrill war cry, brandishing a chipped cleaver. Barrett caught its wrist with his free hand, twisted, and drove his knee into its gut, folding it like cheap luggage. He didn’t even need the machete for that one, he just slammed the goblin’s skull against a tree trunk until it stopped twitching.

  [You have slain a Goblin Warrior — Level 4]

  A spear shot toward him from the side.

  Barrett twisted his body sideways, feeling the air split by the spear tip. He seized the shaft, ripped it out of the goblin’s hands, spun it once, and rammed it straight into the chest of its nearest friend like a pool cue.

  The goblin was pinned to a tree before it realized it had been impaled.

  [You have slain a Goblin Warrior — Level 4]

  “Three down,” Barrett muttered, breath steaming in the cool air. “Come on, where’s the hustle?”

  Footsteps scraped behind him.

  Barrett didn’t even turn. He sidestepped, letting the goblin’s dagger sail past his ribs. Then he pivoted, low and smooth, and split the creature’s back open in one clean, downward stroke.

  Green blood spattered across the leaves.

  [You have slain a Goblin Warrior — Level 3]

  He exhaled, the impatience building under his skin. He craved the opportunity to go all out. Just this once.

  Then he spotted three more goblins patrolling a few yards ahead, trudging through the mud with their spears upright and eyes half-lidded.

  “Finally,” Barrett whispered. “A real set.”

  He sprinted toward them, boots slamming into puddles. At the last second, he veered sideways and planted a foot against a thick tree trunk. The bark groaned under the force. Barrett used it as leverage, kicking off and launching himself through the air.

  He came down like a meteor.

  His machete cleaved straight into the top of the first goblin’s skull, splitting it clean to the teeth. The creature dropped without a sound.

  [You have slain a Goblin Warrior — Level 3]

  The other two froze — slack-jawed, wide-eyed, brains desperately trying to catch up.

  Too slow.

  Barrett ripped his blade free and surged forward, swinging twice in a tight, practiced cross.

  Two heads flew in opposite directions, landing with twin wet thuds in the mud.

  [You have slain a Goblin Warrior — Level 4]

  [You have slain a Goblin Warrior — Level 4]

  The forest went still again.

  Barrett stood in the clearing, chest rising and falling, surrounded by twitching bodies and pooling green blood. Steam lifted off his skin, mixing with the mist drifting between the trees.

  He lifted his machete and flicked his wrist sharply downward, sending thick droplets of goblin gore spattering across the dirt.

  The blade gleamed again, cleaner, eager.

  “So,” Barrett murmured into the quiet. “What’s next?”

  —

  [LEVEL UP!]

  Congratulations, you are now Level 5.

  Free Points Available: 3

  The notification faded like an echo in his skull, leaving behind a ringing quiet.

  Barrett stood in the middle of the carnage, chest heaving, steam curling off his skin where the cool mountain air kissed sweat and blood. The rain had eased into a misty drizzle, tiny droplets clinging to his eyelashes and sinking into the torn fabric of his coat.

  The forest around him was still. Unnervingly so. No chirping insects. No snapping twigs. Just the soft patter of water dripping from leaves and the low rumble of distant thunder rolling over the ridge.

  He exhaled, long and slow.

  Blood trickled from the tip of his machete. Green and red. Warm and cold. It hit the mud with a soft pat… pat… pat… joining the spreading puddles underfoot.

  Barrett glanced down.

  His reflection stared back at him from a shallow pool, distorted slightly by ripples, framed by floating leaves stained with gore.

  Same face, same jawline, same dumb blond hair plastered to his forehead.

  But the eyes…

  They weren’t the same.

  They were sharper now. Focused. Like something inside had clicked into place, or woken up, or crawled out from whatever ditch it had been hiding in all these years. There was a steadiness there. A calm bordering on dangerous.

  A man who’s been tested and didn’t fold.

  Barrett smirked at himself.

  “Sensei Donovan,” he whispered to the reflection.

  He paused, then shook his head with a small laugh.

  “Nah…Coach Donovan.”

  A crack of lightning split the sky beyond the ridge, illuminating the treetops in a pale white flash. The air seemed to vibrate, a faint electric charge rolling over the wet forest floor. For a moment, Barrett swore he felt it inside him too. It was a hum beneath the skin, a pulse, a restless beat like something waiting to be acknowledged.

  He flexed his fingers.

  Something was changing.

  A soft chime interrupted the moment, faint and hollow, like a bell underwater.

  Barrett blinked.

  A new notification hovered at the edge of his vision, its red glow pulsing like a heartbeat.

  [Skill Update Available]

  He tilted his head, raising a brow.

  “Well,” he muttered, voice low, amused curiosity edging in.

  “That’s new.”

  Thunder rolled again, deeper this time, as if the world itself was reacting.

  Barrett tightened his grip on the machete and straightened up.

  He wasn’t sure what came next.

  But whatever it was…

  he felt ready.