Ragnar was charging down the dirt road in bear form. The bags strapped to his sides bounced with every thunderous step. Skiff sat on his back, glancing over his shoulder at the five members of the Black Paw closing in on horseback.

  “Shoot them!” the druid’s voice roared like thunder.

  “You’re shaking too much…”

  “Just shoot!”

  The hunter pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, but aiming proved difficult with how violently the bear was moving. Then he remembered the day he’d trained his muscle memory.

  That day, Ragnar and he had spent hours in the pastures near where they’d once found the Megalotaur. The druid had shown him a series of videos of professional hunters in action. Their shots were unreal, grabbing arrows and firing without pausing to aim.

  Skiff took a deep breath and lowered the bow, breaking his aim. Gathering his courage, he repeated the exercise. He drew the bowstring back and released it immediately. The projectile whistled through the air toward the pursuers, but flew a meter above their heads.

  Instead of showing disappointment, Skiff relaxed and tried two more times. The first arrow met the same fate but came closer, and the second struck the arm of the hunter riding on the far right of the pursuing formation.

  The wounded man cursed, only to be scolded by the sorcerer leading the group, who told him to stop whining and start shooting.

  Terrified, Skiff saw the enemy archer take aim at him. The arrow that followed was fired with surgical precision. Skiff tried to dodge, but the projectile hit his leg, taking 25% of his health.

  “Oh no,” he groaned. “He’s strong!”

  “Stay calm, don’t give up,” Ragnar said, trying to reassure him. “That was just a lucky shot.”

  As soon as the druid finished speaking, an arrow struck his hind leg, but it was deflected thanks to the layer of iron.

  “I think he really is good…” Skiff muttered.

  “Then be better.”

  As strange as it sounded, Ragnar’s voice was calm and full of confidence.

  Skiff promised himself he wouldn’t disappoint his friend. He didn’t prepare just one shot, but a sequence of three.

  The first arrow flew straight toward the head of a horse carrying a warrior, making it neigh in panic. The second hit the red hat of the enemy archer. The third pierced the breastplate of the cleric riding at the rear.

  Despite the success of those shots, the Black Paw had gotten close enough for their leader—the sorcerer in a moss-green cloak—to begin casting spells.

  A beam of bluish light grazed Ragnar’s right flank by mere centimeters.

  “Great. He’s an idiot.”

  “Why?” asked Skiff, readying the next shot.

  “He could’ve pinned us down with a spell similar to my roots.”

  Skiff aimed three arrows at the sorcerer, two of them hit. The enemy’s health dropped to half, but a golden circle shone around him, restoring it to full.

  Ragnar’s fear came true as ethereal chains burst from small portals around them, wrapping around his legs, neck, and torso, nearly immobilizing him.

  Within seconds, the pursuers surrounded them. Skiff jumped off Ragnar and aimed an arrow straight at the face of the moss-cloaked sorcerer.

  A sudden explosion drew everyone’s attention. Where the bear had been moments before now stood a druid surrounded by eight red bags scattered on the ground.

  Skiff knew one thing: any bag left on the ground could be looted by anyone. He also knew Ragnar had done this to fight freely in human form—but if they slipped up, the Black Paw could reclaim all the iron they’d worked so hard to steal.

  ***

  At the foot of Wolf’s Lair Fortress, Havoc stared up at the blue sky with melancholy-filled eyes. In her right hand, she held Salazar’s Blade. At her feet lay the bodies of the assassin called Niki and the knight named Artic.

  It had been a hard but satisfying duel. Both opponents fought well; they were familiar with the basics of virtual-reality combat—but failed in technique and execution.

  Aside from famous or professional players, only two had ever defeated her: Zed—because he was nearly thirty levels higher—and the druid Ragnar, who was now fleeing with all the guild’s iron.

  Overcome with sorrow, she sheathed her sword. The sound of steel sliding into its sheath always calmed her as it meant another battle won.

  Now more composed, she walked toward the fortress. A group of players ran past her. Moments later, a notification chimed—Malorn, the sorcerer leading the pursuit, had sent her a message.

  She opened it, and her sadness vanished, replaced by an optimistic smile.

  “Finish him,” she replied.

  The stolen iron could be replaced, but a Black Paw’s pride could not.

  She dashed to the fortress stables, mounted the fastest horse, and galloped toward the coordinates sent by Malorn.

  ***

  Nicole stared at the timer flashing “11 hours and 58 minutes” on her virtual reality display. It was the penalty for dying in the game — twelve long hours before she could log back into the virtual world.

  With a sigh, she flopped onto her bed, her eyes wandering over the neat furniture and the walls covered in murals and posters of professional players she admired.

  Her favorites were Anika and Juliet, the two featured on the largest posters. But Anika was her biggest inspiration — the leader of Starfall, the team from Fortaleza, and the fastest-rising force in the national competitive scene.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Looking at them always reignited her motivation. She grabbed her phone and messaged Artur, who replied quickly, suggesting that he, too, had been eliminated by the swordswoman.

  They chatted until Artur mentioned something interesting: Skiff had added him on social media to say he’d also been eliminated—and that Ragnar was now fighting the pursuers.

  In Artur’s last message, Nicole laughed because it revealed Skiff’s real name: Samuel.

  ***

  Havoc arrived too late. The last member of the group chasing the druid had just fallen, his heart pierced by Ragnar’s spear.

  She tried to save him, commanded her mount to go faster, shouted orders, lashed the poor beast, but the horse couldn’t reach Malorn in time.

  Havoc could only watch helplessly as her friend’s avatar fell to the ground beside the others.

  She rode up to the traitor, who stood there motionless. When they were only a few paces apart, Ragnar pointed toward the eight red bags around him.

  “It’s over. The iron is mine now,” he said.

  “Not if I defeat you. You need your bear form to carry all that weight.”

  “Even so, you’ll have to beat me first.”

  Havoc dismounted, stepped closer, and placed her hand on her sword’s hilt.

  “I didn’t want to admit it,” she said, “but I’ve trained hard since the day you defeated me. I meant to challenge you once I was sure of victory, but I let my guard down for you and your friends.”

  Those words piqued Ragnar’s interest.

  “You think you can beat me?”

  “I’ve grown stronger, and more skilled. I defeated your two little friends not long ago. So yes, I’m confident I can.”

  “You’re forgetting that since our duel, I’ve grown stronger too. Now I have a full spell rotation.”

  The metallic whisper of her blade being drawn echoed through the open field.

  “How about we make this duel more interesting?” Ragnar suggested.

  Havoc eyed him warily. “How?”

  “A wager. If you win, you get all the iron and my spear. But if I win, you leave the Black Paw and join my guild.”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “My answer is no, but I’d like to know why you want me in your guild.”

  Ragnar pointed his spear at her.

  “Because I do believe you have what it takes to go pro.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, but only a few incoherent sounds came out. Havoc shook her head, drew a steady breath, and replied with her usual cool composure, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m not. We might not know each other well, but I’ve seen how dedicated you are to the game. I just want to know: why do you play?”

  “I play because…”

  Havoc was about to answer sincerely but then realized he could just be stalling while waiting for reinforcements. After all, he was a traitor. Grinding her teeth, she changed to a combat stance.

  “This conversation has gone on long enough. I came for my revenge and to restore my guild’s honor, not to chat.”

  The druid made a calming gesture. “That guild is a waste of time. I know I might look weak right now, but trust me,” Ragnar pleaded.

  “Trust a traitor? I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve had enough. Prepare yourself!”

  Ragnar gripped his spear and braced for battle.

  The swordswoman dashed forward, then lunged, narrowly dodging a Lightning Bolt Ragnar had just cast.

  “This is your spell combo?” she mocked, now only a few meters away.

  But as Havoc prepared for another move, a Water Jet blasted her backward, drenching her head to toe.

  “What the—?” she muttered, charging again as the druid struck his spear against the ground.

  He’s going to summon roots, she thought, and leapt right as they burst from the ground, clawing at the air and missing her by a few millimeters.

  Havoc grinned, only to be struck by Ragnar’s Frostwind spell. When she realized the elemental interaction he could cause, her heart was gripped by fear.

  The druid raised Viper’s Ruin high, invoking the Storm’s Wrath and a Lightning Bolt that dropped through the sky, striking Havoc’s frozen chestplate and triggering Shatter.

  Shatter occurred when lightning hit a frozen target. It amplified electrical damage, caused a small explosion, and removed the frozen status.

  The three-spell combo ripped away 15% of her health. Panic crept into her as Ragnar charged, still under the Storm’s Wrath buff.

  With heightened speed, he unleashed thrusts, slashes, and kicks that broke through her defenses. Desperate, Havoc dodged frantically, barely avoiding his strikes.

  Ragnar knew that unless she turned the tide soon, she’d be down again.

  But I can’t hold back, he thought as the storm’s power faded.

  She saw the sparks die around him and smiled. It was her turn.

  Havoc lunged in, closing the distance, then pulled back her sword and used Rend, propelling herself two meters forward. The blade slashed Ragnar’s side, triggering an instant reactivation of the skill.

  Using Rend again right away would be predictable, so she turned, lowered her sword, and unleashed Crescent Moon Slash, lowering his defense. Then, just before Rend expired, she used it again, this time cutting across his chest.

  Havoc chained her next moves with precision: a Double Cut across his arm, followed by Slice, a downward blow that unlocked Pierce, a triple attack that paralyzed the target when used after Slice.

  There he was, the infamous druid, bringer of chaos, on the brink of death, unable to move. The effect wore off, and she cursed under her breath for missing the timing for a second combo.

  Ragnar’s expression hardened. “I admit it, you’ve improved… a lot. I’m sorry for underestimating you. That won’t happen again.”

  He placed his hand on his chest and cast a healing spell.

  Havoc gritted her teeth and lunged again. Ragnar fired a lightning bolt; she dodged, then he summoned roots, which she avoided with a quick sidestep. She used Charge, but Ragnar anticipated it; knowing she couldn’t chain Rend for another second, he hurled his spear and charged, shifting into his Iron Bear form just as she dodged the throw.

  As expected, she used Rend to escape his empowered form, buying time for her cooldowns to reset. But Ragnar didn’t let up. He charged in fury, red eyes locked on his prey. She was fast, one of the quickest classes alongside Thieves, Assassins, and Fighters, but she was panicking, glancing back too often.

  When she turned forward again, Ragnar reverted to human form and unleashed his full rotation: Lightning Bolt, Roots, Water Jet, Frostwind, and one last Lightning Bolt.

  When the barrage ended, he reactivated Storm’s Wrath, shifted back into Iron Bear, and closed the gap to strike with the class’s signature move: Stunning Paw.

  Havoc hit the ground hard, her eyes filled with fading hope.

  Ragnar felt pity for her. She was good, full of potential, but lacked the game knowledge to evade his combos. She covered her eyes with her arm and whispered, “How?”

  Maybe it was time to reveal a little about himself. “I used to be a pro.”

  “Go to hell.” Havoc sniffled.

  He sat beside her.

  “What do you want?” she asked, still lying there, her arm over her eyes.

  “You,” Ragnar replied without hesitation.

  Havoc lowered her arm and stared at him. “Huh?”

  “You’re talented, like seriously talented. But you’re missing experience. I beat you because I know every ability your class has, except for the unique and unreleased ones.”

  “If you’re that good, why’s your avatar so weak?”

  “That… I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

  She sat up, swallowed hard, and finally answered the question from before the duel. “I play because I want to go pro.”

  “I figured,” Ragnar said with a smile.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you in my guild whenever I create it.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Ragnar stood, walking toward the stolen iron bags. “Please, think about it. You’ll get nowhere staying with the Black Paw. I may not have been with you long, but it was enough to see how weak and careless they are, especially that idiot, Zed.”

  Havoc sat silently as Ragnar opened his menu, scrolled through his friend list, and sent her a friend request.

  “The duel was great, and the talk’s been good, but it’s time to stash the loot. Havoc, think about my offer. I’ll reach out once I hit level twenty.”

  “Fine.”

  Ragnar gathered the eight red bags, transformed back into a bear, and left.

  truly grateful.