[POV: Sora Amano]
[Location: The Whispering Woods - Off the Path]
[Time: 6:15 PM]
Sora moved like a ghost. Or rather, he moved like a glitched NPC trying to avoid the player's detection cone.
The underbrush was thick, tearing at his clothes, but he kept his profile low. He had smeared mud over his face to cut the shine of his skin. It was a trick he learned from a survival horror game, but it worked surprisingly well in reality.
He crept toward the flickering orange light of a campfire about fifty meters off the main road.
He stopped behind a massive oak tree, peering around the bark.
Reconnaissance Mode: Active.
It was a small clearing. A makeshift camp.
Three men sat around the fire. They were dressed in mismatched leather armor—classic bandit attire. One was sharpening a dagger. Another was drinking from a skin. The third was poking the fire with a stick.
And there, tied to a tree on the far side of the clearing, was the source of the crying.
A girl.
She looked young, maybe twelve or thirteen. She had ears—long, pointed, twitching ears that drooped with exhaustion. An Elf. Her clothes were torn, and her face was bruised.
Sora's stomach twisted.
Enemy Count: 3.
Equipment: Leather armor, short swords, daggers.
Target: Rescue.
Odds of Success: 40%.
Three on one. With the element of surprise, maybe he could take out one, incapacitate the second, and duel the third. It was risky. Stupidly risky.
Then, the bushes on the other side of the clearing rustled.
Two more men walked in. One was carrying a dead deer over his shoulders. The other, a towering brute with a scar running down his nose, carried a heavy mace.
"Got dinner," the brute grunted, dropping the deer.
"Took you long enough," the one by the fire spat. "The merchandise is getting noisy."
Sora froze.
Enemy Count Updated: 5.
Danger Level: Lethal.
Odds of Success: 0%.
Sora pulled back behind the tree. His breathing was shallow.
Five armed men. Against him.
He had a rusty machete. He had no armor. He had a Strength stat that was probably barely in the double digits.
Logic: Walk away.
Reasoning: You are F-Rank. You are not the Protagonist. If you engage, you die. If you die, you can't save anyone.
It was simple math. In an RPG, if a Level 1 player wanders into a Level 10 zone and sees a mob of five Aggro enemies, you don't fight. You run. You grind on slimes until you're stronger.
Sora turned around.
He took a step back toward the path. The crate of iron ore was waiting. The 6 silvers were waiting. A warm bath. A bed. Survival.
Just walk away, Sora. You're not Ren. You don't have a holy sword.
He took another step.
...please... someone...
The girl's voice drifted through the trees. It was a broken, jagged sound.
Sora stopped.
His foot hovered over a dry twig.
He closed his eyes.
Suddenly, he wasn't in the forest. He was back in the damp, dark tunnel of the Howling Caverns.
He saw the Elf woman lying in the pool of her own blood. He saw her eyes—glassy, fading, desperate. He felt the coldness of her hand as he failed to pull her to safety.
I'm sorry, he had told her. I'm weak.
And she had died. Because he ran.
Sora opened his eyes. He stared at the dirt.
"God damn it," he whispered.
His logic was screaming at him. You're going to die. This is suicide. It's irrational.
But the guilt... the guilt was a heavy, suffocating weight in his chest. It was heavier than the iron ore. He could walk away, sure. He could survive. But every time he closed his eyes to sleep, he would hear that girl crying. He would add another ghost to his collection.
"I hate this game," Sora hissed.
He turned back toward the camp.
He wasn't going to fight them. Fighting was for heroes.
He was going to murder them. That was for rats.
Sora checked his inventory.
Rusty Machete (Sharpness: Low. Tetanus Risk: High).
Pouch of Stink-Shrooms (volatile spores).
Rag (dirty).
Flint and steel.
A sack containing a confused, angry Demon-Cat (Mr. Fluff).
A grim, twisted smile touched Sora's lips. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a player who had found an exploit in the code.
"Alright, boys," Sora tied the rag tightly around his nose and mouth. "Let's see how your immune systems handle bio-warfare."
The bandits were laughing, carving up the deer. The Brute was yelling at the one drinking wine. They were loud. Comfortable.
They didn't see the shadow creeping through the ferns upwind of the fire.
Sora held the pouch of Stink-Shrooms. He had gathered twenty of them. Concentrated, they were potent enough to make a bear vomit.
He waited for the wind to gust toward the camp.
Now.
Sora threw the pouch.
It sailed through the air, a dark arc against the twilight sky. It landed directly in the center of the bonfire.
Poof.
The heat burst the fungi instantly. A thick, yellowish-green cloud exploded outward, carried by the wind directly into the faces of the three men sitting by the fire.
"What the—"
"Guh!"
"My eyes! My throat!"
Chaos erupted. The three men fell backward, clawing at their faces. They were retching, coughing violently as the spores burned their lungs and mucous membranes.
The Brute and the Hunter, who were standing further back, stared in confusion.
"What happened? Is it magic?" The Brute yelled, raising his mace.
Target Priority: The Archer.
The Hunter reached for his bow.
Sora broke cover.
He didn't scream a battle cry. He didn't glow with holy light. He sprinted low to the ground, a silent black blur.
Before the Hunter could nock an arrow, Sora was there.
He slid on his knees through the mud, dodging a panic-swing of the bow, and drove the rusty machete into the Hunter's thigh.
Crunch.
The Hunter screamed. Sora didn't stop. He yanked the blade out, spun, and kicked the Hunter behind the knee, dropping him. A swift, brutal strike with the pommel of the machete to the temple silenced him.
One down.
"You little rat!" The Brute roared.
He swung the mace. It was a clumsy, powerful swing meant to crush bones.
Sora rolled forward. The mace smashed into the earth where his head had been a second ago, sending dirt flying.
Sora scrambled up. He was small. He was fast. But the Brute was huge.
Inventory Check: The Sack.
Sora grabbed the burlap sack from his belt—the one containing the angry Demon-Cat—and hurled it at the Brute's face.
"Have fun!" Sora yelled.
The sack hit the Brute. Mr. Fluff, furious from being trapped and shaken, clawed his way out. The demon-cat latched onto the Brute's face, hissing and scratching wildly.
"GAAAH! Get it off! Get it off!" The Brute thrashed, dropping his mace to tear at the cat.
Two down (temporarily).
But the cloud was clearing. The three bandits by the fire were recovering. Their eyes were streaming, faces red and blistered, but they were drawing their swords.
"Kill him!" one of them wheezed, coughing up bile. "Kill the bastard!"
Sora stood alone in the center of the clearing. He was panting.
Three angry bandits. One blind Brute. One unconscious Hunter.
This was the hard part.
The three bandits charged.
Sora didn't block. He couldn't. His weapon would shatter.
He ducked under a wild slash from Bandit A. He felt the wind of the blade cut his hair. He stabbed Bandit A in the stomach—shallow, just enough to make him fold—then shoved him into Bandit B.
Bandit C, a wiry man with a dagger, lunged from the side.
Sora saw it too late.
Slash.
A line of fire erupted across Sora's left arm. The dagger cut deep, slicing through his cheap shirt and into the muscle.
"Nggh!" Sora gritted his teeth, suppressing a scream.
He backpedaled, clutching his bleeding arm. The pain was blinding. It wasn't hit points dropping on a screen. It was hot, wet, searing reality.
"I'm gonna gut you!" Bandit C hissed, moving in for the kill.
Sora stumbled back, his foot catching on a root. He fell.
Bandit C grinned, raising the dagger.
Sora's hand landed on something cold in the mud. A rock. About the size of a grapefruit.
Improvise.
As the bandit dove, Sora didn't roll away. He lunged forward.
He smashed the rock into the bandit's face.
There was a sickening crack of cartilage. The bandit collapsed, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Three down.
Sora scrambled to his feet. His vision was swimming. The blood was soaking his sleeve, dripping off his fingers.
The Brute had finally thrown the cat off. His face was a mess of scratches. He looked demonic in his rage.
"You're dead!" The Brute roared, picking up his mace.
The other two bandits (A and B) were hurt but still standing. They circled him.
Three on one. And Sora was bleeding out.
Adrenaline reserves: 20%.
Blood loss: Moderate.
Strategy: Desperation.
Sora looked at the campfire.
He ran.
"He's fleeing! Get him!" The bandits chased.
Sora sprinted toward the fire. But he didn't run past it. He slid.
He kicked the burning logs.
A shower of sparks and burning embers flew into the faces of the pursuing bandits. It wasn't lethal, but it made them flinch.
Sora used that second. He tackled Bandit A, driving him into the ground. He didn't use his blade. He used his forehead.
Headbutt.
Sora's skull cracked against the bandit's nose. Stars exploded in Sora's eyes, but the bandit went limp.
Four down.
"Die!"
The Brute was there. The mace came down.
Sora rolled, but not fast enough. The metal shaft of the mace clipped his ribs.
Crack.
Sora screamed. He felt ribs snap. The air left his lungs. He rolled into the mud, gasping, unable to breathe.
The Brute stood over him, heaving.
"Annoying... little... pest," the Brute growled, raising the mace for a skull-crushing blow.
Sora looked up. He couldn't move. His arm was useless. His ribs were broken.
He looked at the Brute's legs. He wasn't wearing greaves. Just leather pants.
And hanging from the Brute's belt... was a flask of high-proof alcohol.
Sora's hand trembled. He still held the flint and steel from his pocket.
One chance.
As the Brute raised his arms, exposing his waist, Sora grabbed the flask on the Brute's belt. He didn't try to steal it. He smashed it with the hilt of his machete.
Glass shattered. Alcohol soaked the Brute's trousers and legs.
Sora flicked the flint.
Spark.
The alcohol ignited.
"AAAAHHH!"
The Brute became a torch. Blue flames engulfed his legs. He dropped the mace, dancing and slapping at his burning thighs, screaming in high-pitched agony.
The Brute turned and ran blindly into the woods, crashing through the bushes, searching for water.
Silence fell over the clearing.
Sora lay in the mud. He was covered in blood—his own and others. His ribs felt like they were stabbing his lungs. His arm was burning.
He slowly, painfully, pushed himself up.
The remaining bandit (Bandit B) was still on the ground, groaning, trying to crawl to his sword.
Sora walked over to him. He dragged his machete in the dirt. He looked like a nightmare—a dark silhouette dripping with gore, eyes void of any mercy.
The bandit looked up. He saw Sora's face.
"No... stay back..." the bandit whimpered.
Sora kicked the sword away. He didn't say a word. He just pointed the rusty tip of his blade at the woods.
"Run," Sora rasped.
The bandit didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled up and sprinted into the darkness, abandoning his comrades.
Sora stood alone. He had won.
Victory?
Reward: Pain.
Sora coughed, tasting copper. He turned toward the tree.
The girl was huddled in the corner of the cage, shaking violently.
Sora limped toward her. Every step was agony. He felt dizzy. The blood loss was getting to him.
"Hey," Sora croaked. "It's okay. They're gone."
He reached the cage. It was a crude wooden structure tied with ropes. He used his machete to hack through the ropes. It took three swings because his arm was so weak.
The door swung open.
Sora knelt down. He tried to smile, to look reassuring.
"You're safe now," he said, reaching out a hand.
The girl looked up.
Her eyes went wide with pure horror.
She didn't see a Savior. She didn't see a Hero in white armor with a glowing smile.
She saw a boy drenched in blood. His face was smeared with mud and gore. His clothes were shredded. He smelled of vomit, burning flesh, and death. He held a rusted, jagged blade that dripped red onto the grass.
To her, he wasn't a human. He was a monster that had just slaughtered five men.
"Demon..." she whispered, pressing herself against the bars. "Blood Demon..."
Sora froze. His hand hovered in the air.
He looked at his reflection in a puddle of water near the cage.
She was right. He looked terrifying.
"I'm not..." Sora started, but his voice broke. He lowered his hand. "I'm not a demon. I'm just... the janitor."
He sighed, wincing as his ribs protested. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the rest of the stale bread he had bought that morning. It was squashed, but edible.
He tossed it to her.
"Eat," he said. "Then we go."
The girl looked at the bread, then at him. She hesitated, then grabbed it, eating ravenously.
Sora watched her.
Elf. Female. Level... maybe 3?
His eyes drifted to her neck.
There, half-hidden by her matted hair, was a collar. It wasn't leather. It was metal. Etched with glowing red runes.
Sora's blood ran cold.
A Slave Collar.
This wasn't just a kidnapping. She was property. Runed collars were bound to a master. If she went too far, or if the master commanded it... pop.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Sora whispered.
The world suddenly tilted to the left.
Sora blinked. The ground was rushing up to meet him.
"Hey..." Sora mumbled.
His knees buckled. He fell forward, face-planting into the soft, mossy earth.
The last thing he heard before the darkness swallowed him was the girl screaming—not in fear this time, but in panic.
"Mister! Mister Demon!"
At least she didn't call me a rat, Sora thought as his consciousness faded.
The woods went silent, save for the crackling of the dying fire and the heavy breathing of a boy who had fought a war for six silvers and a ghost.