Several minutes later, the town square was chaos. Greg was clearing away system notifications as fast as he could, but bad news kept pouring in.

  SHADOW WAVE 1:

  [BLUCLIFFE TOWN SQUARE]

  Killbox Status:

  Sub-optimal

  Extremely Metal

  The Sun Veil stretching over the square was a fading, patchy dome of pale light. Outside it, the corruption seethed. Shadow slicked across cobbles, pooled in doorways, and crawled along the walls in slow, hungry tendrils.

  Ratlings clustered at the edges of the light, claws scraping against the invisible boundary. Some had grown new, wrong bits: crystal sprouting from shoulders, extra jointed fingers, eyes like silver coins sunk into tar. A hulking shape Greg didn’t recognize hunched near the fountain, its body a fused knot of charred flesh and feathers all held together by black veins.

  A wet, guttural cluck drifted in from the dark, too slow and heavy, too… hungry, to belong to anything that was still a bird. Something shifted beyond the Veil, and a silhouette bobbed forward on bent-wrong legs, dragging a swollen body that scraped the stones like a sack of meat. Greg’s stomach dropped. Not out of fear; but because he knew that gait, that attitude… that stupid, hateful confidence.

  “No,” he whispered. “Of all the fucking—it can’t be!”

  Greg’s HUD disagreed, helpfully. It was that fucking chicken.

  MINI-BOSS

  Chicken Emperor

  Race: Corrupted Fowl

  Class: Monster

  Level: ???

  Vitality: 499 (499)

  Essence: 199 (199)

  This time, it’s for real!

  “Positions!” Doran barked. Greg flicked from the boss popup to his Quest Journal.

  Bonus Redemption Subquest:

  HOLD THE LINE

  (Blucliffe Defense Protocol)

  Objectives:

  ? Help Barnaby and Shelly set up kill zones

  ? Coordinate townsfolk:

  – Talk to Tavers (traps/barricades)

  – Talk to Marla (organize spear line)

  – Talk to the Mayor (coordinate / motivate)

  ? Survive multiple waves of corrupted enemies to stabilize the immediate area. Keep as many villagers alive as possible.

  They’d prepped for this. Tables, carts, and barrels had been dragged into rough barricades across three of the square’s side streets, just like Barnaby’s makeshift battle-map. Farmers with spears stood behind them in bristling rows, Marla stalking along the line, correcting grips and stances. Tavers flitted between two of the narrow alleys, piles of junk and hastily rigged tripwires in casual piles around him, like a dragon’s hoard of bad ideas.

  Nars sprinted for the upper windows of the Gorge. Violet, already halfway up the stairs, yelled back over her shoulder, “Try not to die before I get something impressive queued up!”

  Barnaby and Bartholomew slammed the tavern door behind the last villager, then took station by the main barricade, shields up, faces set.

  The Giant Fucking Sword settled into Greg’s hands like it belonged there.

  He checked the corner of his vision, flipping from Quests to Tasks.

  Quests | Tasks | Codex

  Current Tasks:

  · Capture/Defeat the Chicken

  · Read your first Codex Entry

  · Deliver Garlic to the Grocer

  · Sweep the stables

  · Pee for 30 consecutive seconds

  (...) click here to see previous entries

  The Task was separate from the Quest, but if they planned to survive multiple waves, if they planned on surviving at all, that fucking chicken had to be the priority target. He could deal with whatever the mayor needed after that cock was Kentucky-fried.

  Rage Available!

  Last Use: Catastrophic!

  Recommendation: Do it!

  Greg didn’t trust himself to Rage, but he also didn’t trust himself to best that fucking chicken. They’d both… leveled up, in different ways. It had been a draw last time. He might burst into Rage just looking at that cocky fucking cock.

  Another system ping, more obnoxious than usual. It was glitched out again; there was no X to close it.

  Greg – Level 2 [Barbarian] ??

  Progress ??to Level 3 → 87%

  Subclasses Available at Level 3:

  [Berserk??er]

  [Stormbreaker]

  ※ [Rage Warden] //UNVERIFIED?

  The entry for Rage Warden opened without prompting.

  Upon obtaining Level 3, you may choose a specialized Subclass, based on your Primary Class. Rage??Wardens are able to control their P??rimal Rage, specializing in defense over offense. It turns the Barbarian from a Burst Damage// Specialist into a Battlefield Controller, capable of protecting the innocent and smiting the wicked! //UNVERIFIED?

  Never e??xperience Unwanted Rage ??again! Doctors hate this si??mple trick!11! ??

  The message faded without warning. Thankfully, Greg was a fast reader. The game… or someone in it… was trying to help him. He understood the assignment.

  If they cleared the square fast, they might survive this wave… and walk away with just enough XP to still be stuck at “almost.” There weren’t enough bodies on the field to ding them all the way to three in one clean sweep; they needed this to drag, to stack kills across multiple waves. Greg didn’t know what lay waiting for them after this fight, but whatever it was it was certainly going to be the worst thing they’d faced yet.

  They would need his Rage. But they also needed an ally they could trust. They needed a leader.

  The plan wasn’t just about holding Blucliffe anymore. It was about turning the town square into an XP farm and wringing every last level out of the apocalypse. They were going to need it for whatever lay beyond the minions.

  He tightened his grip on the Giant Fucking Sword and let the Rage knock on the inside of his ribs without opening the door.

  “On me,” he said to Doran and Shelly. “We keep to the center and make them come to us. Focus on what’s in front of you, Nars and Violet will handle what we can’t see. We have to trust each other for this to work. We do this right, we all hit a milestone here. And maybe survive longer than just this fight.”

  Doran grunted. “About time you started talking sense.”

  Shelly just nodded once, jaw clenched, one huge hand white-knuckled around his hammer. The kid he’d been carrying was cowering inside now; that seemed to have flipped some internal switch from “gentle giant” to “killer for hire.”

  Greg led them to the center of the Killbox, right in front of the mayor’s ridiculous fountain statue. He stabbed his blade into the ground dramatically, cupping both hands around his mouth to make sure he was heard.

  “?Hey bendejos!” He bellowed to the monsters. “Come taste this ass, if you dare!”

  The first Ratling lunged through the veil.

  Corruption hissed where it crossed, shadow burning away in little bursts. What emerged still looked wrong and pale, but less solid. That was enough. Greg met it with a low horizontal cut, catching it as it landed. The blade took it through the midsection. Viscera that wasn’t quite physical splashed the ground and evaporated.

  Greg used Basic Attack… (hit)

  Ratling A takes 23 slashing damage.

  Ratling A is banned from the gene pool.

  Two more followed. Shelly intercepted one with his hammer, smashing it down into the cobbles like a particularly ugly nail. Doran sidestepped the second and chopped at its legs, dropping it for the spear line to finish.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Spearmen used Poke!… (hit x 4)

  Ratling B is destroyed by the power of friendship.

  More poured in.

  The Chicken Emperor moved at last, lurching its mass across the stone, leaving grooves that hissed and sparked. It reared, limbs unfolding from its body like stop-motion origami. If it was trying to freak them out, it was super effective.

  Tavers’ voice floated from his alley, thin and gleeful. “Wait for it… wait for it…”

  The Chicken’s front limb crashed down and hit one of his junk piles. Two barrels collapsed, spilling a tangle of broken glass and nails. The limb sank in; dark ichor splattered. The creature bellowed, the sound grinding like a millstone.

  Tavers’ Trap Triggered:

  [Garbage Surprise!]

  Effects:

  Piercing

  Slowing

  Profound Disrespect

  “Ha ha! Suck on it!” Tavers shouted. “Lick my filthy, old ass and suck on my fat, nasty balls!”

  Greg let himself grin for half a second. That was a hell of a battle cry; Tavers must have been wanting to shout that for years. Then a Ratling, freakish teeth bared, got inside Shelly’s guard.

  It leapt, claws latching onto the blacksmith’s arm, teeth sinking into the leather bracer. Shelly roared and swung his arm, trying to dislodge it, but the thing clung. Black veins started crawling along the leather toward his skin.

  Greg stepped in and brought the sword down, clean and fast. The Ratling’s head popped off. Its body stayed latched for a second longer, then slid away bonelessly.

  Greg used Precise Strike…

  (hit! – decapitation)

  Friendly Fire: Avoided

  Corruption Exposure: Minimal

  “Thanks,” Shelly grunted. He didn’t stop moving.

  XP trickled in the corner of Greg’s vision every time something dropped. Tiny bumps of assist XP. 88%. 89%.

  He could feel it. One or two good pushes and they’d ding. But he needed to land some killing blows and soak up more XP for himself.

  The Rage paced, delighted. Let me, it murmured. You know what to do. One swing, two, and all of this melts.

  He ignored it and scanned the square instead.

  Ratlings had started testing the barricades. Marla’s line held, spear hafts braced, feet planted. The first wave that tried to bullrush them hit a forest of points and broke. A couple climbed the walls instead, scrabbling for the upper windows, but Nars was on it. They dropped one at a time, pin-cushioned.

  Nars used Volley… (hit x 3)

  Ratling C dies.

  Ratling D also dies.

  Ratling E dies the most.

  A bright flare bloomed above the fountain. Violet had taken over one of the upper corner windows, a bandolier of prepped vials across her chest. She hurled one down at a cluster of Ratlings harrying the left barricade.

  The vial burst mid-air and unfolded into a storm of glittering dust. Wherever it touched, Ratling flesh sizzled and sloughed off.

  Violet used Sun-Baked Caustic

  Targets: [Ratling x4]

  Damage: Moderate

  [Corrosion] – ongoing

  Greg ducked another leaping Ratling, planted his boot in its chest, and kicked it back into the spray. It dissolved into a puddle of shadow and teeth.

  XP: 90%.

  If he let his swing speed tick up, if he let the Rage bleed into his muscles, he could clear them faster. Safer. The spear line would be less likely to crack if the front pressure disappeared.

  But then they’d be stuck at 91% or 92% when whatever bigger, nastier thing the system was cooking up came through the next wave.

  “Hold the pace!” he shouted. “Don’t chase them down! Nars will pick off the wounded. Violet: more slows and burns, less nukes. Doran, only go for the big one when we’re sure we can finish it.”

  “Look at him,” Nars called, loosing another arrow. “A few callous murders and one tiny apocalypse and suddenly he’s an experienced raid leader.”

  “Less talking!” Doran snarled. “More hitting!”

  The Chicken Emperor dragged itself closer. Tavers’ trap slowed it but had not stopped it. One of its limbs snapped out, longer than Greg had expected, a whip of fused plank and bone. It smashed one of the side barricades, sending two spearmen sprawling.

  “Left flank!” Marla yelled. She thrust her spear into the gap, body angled, planting herself like a wedge.

  Greg started toward them, then stopped himself.

  Elowen. Where was—?

  A flicker of gold by the well.

  She moved in a careful circle, maintaining the Veil in a wider radius now that more bodies were spread across the square. The light around her was thinner, stretched. She walked beside the mayor, who gestured as he talked, taking them from group to group.

  Greg caught snatches as he fought.

  “…everyone at the forge if this breaks…”

  “…listen to her, she keeps the shadows back…”

  “…your town needs you; if you don’t fight now, there won’t be a later…”

  Elowen’s voice wove through his, quieter but steadier. Blessings, minor wards, a touch on a shoulder that lit someone’s eyes with enough hope to hold a spear a little longer.

  She glanced toward Greg once, pausing for just a moment. She took in the way he was fighting: measured, controlled, leaving kills for others when he could. Leading the monsters into Violet’s zones, into Tavers’ junk, into Marla’s spears. Not giving in to the easy, bloody trance.

  The system chimed, and for once it didn’t sound smug.

  Elowen liked that +1

  Approval [Elowen]: Cold → Warming

  Dialogue Restrictions:

  Partially Lifted

  Greg almost took a Ratling claw to the face reading that. He bisected the offender and told himself he’d process the emotional part later.

  “Eyes front!” Violet yelled. “Less introspection, more disembowelment!”

  XP: 91%.

  The Chicken Emperor decided it had had enough of their bullshit. It hauled itself fully into the Veil’s light, corruption sizzling away from its surface in slow, smoking strips. Underneath, the thing was worse. Pieces of plow, sections of fence, half a door, all crushed into horrifying new shapes.

  It lifted, rising onto three main limbs, and slammed one down at Shelly.

  Shelly raised his hammer to block. The impact knocked him flat. His hammer went skidding. The limb smashed into the cobbles, inches from his head.

  Greg lunged, driving his sword into the limb’s joint. The blade bit, wedged, then tore free in a burst of splintered chitin and shadow. The creature shrieked in that grinding way again and staggered.

  Doran was there a half breath later, axe hacking into the exposed joint.

  Doran used Stonebreaker Combination… (hit x 2)

  Chicken Emperor: Limb Integrity –30%

  Stability Rating: Wibbly-wobbly

  “Shelly!” Greg shouted. “You good?”

  “Fine,” Shelly coughed, rolling to his feet. “Mad. But fine.”

  The mayor and Elowen were moving toward the right barricade now, where one of the spearwomen had taken a hit and was bleeding. Greg saw the mayor put a hand on Elowen’s elbow, guiding her toward one of the narrower alleys.

  “This way,” he heard faintly. “There are more injured in the back. Away from the worst of it.”

  The alley was deep in shadow. Something in Greg’s gut twisted. He started to move after them, but another wave of Ratlings poured through the front, drawn by the Veil’s thinning edges. The Abomination lashed out again, catching the barricade that Tavers wasn’t currently booby-trapping and hurling debris and people alike.

  A farmer tumbled, screaming.

  Greg’s cursor wavered.

  PROTECT ALLY? [Multiple Targets]

  Rage Activation: Recommended

  On your head be the consequences.

  [Y/N?]

  He breathed through his teeth and chose [N]. Keep calm and carry on, he told himself. Keep. Calm.

  “Doran!” he shouted. “Take the big bastard’s right side! Shelly, left! Tavers, trigger everything you’ve got in front of it!”

  “And behind it!” Tavers yelled.

  “Fine, all of it!” Greg snapped. He planted his feet and met the next wave of Ratlings head-on, grinding them down one by one instead of spinning up into a frenzy.

  XP ticked up.

  92%. 93%.

  The Emperor buckled under another combined hit. One of its limbs sheared off completely, crashing to the cobbles in a shower of black shards.

  Chicken Emperor HP: Critical

  Threat Level: Desperate

  His old foe looked shocked. It hadn’t expected to lose. It twisted Greg’s stomach the way its flailing, ugly panic read so human-like to him, in a way he could not put words to. What had once been its beak split wider, hinger-joints cracking, and a spray of shadow-slick bile slorped across the cobbles as it lurched toward Greg with a fevered desperation.

  If he’d been Raging, his Giant Fucking Sword would already be balls deep in the Emperor’s guts. But he was holding back. And he was distracted. Where is the mayor taking Elowen?

  A broken spur of bone and splintered talon whipped out of its mass and caught Greg across the face with sickening, organic thud. He felt resistance, then a tearing surrender of flesh; heat flooded his cheek, and his vision on that side went white, then red, like someone had poured paint into his eye.

  Greg staggered back, one hand flying up too late, fingers coming away slick. He tasted pennies. He already knew what his headache was screaming at him: the eye was gone. Replaced by a kickass, legendary battle scar. Depth perception was going to be an issue moving forward, but at least he could cut his glasses budget in half.

  The Chicken Emperor lurched again, trying to slice off something else vital, but now Shelly’s hammer took it in the side and Doran’s axe bit deep, and the thing collapsed into a twitching heap of feathers and wrongness, still clawing in frantic disbelief.

  Greg didn’t fall. He wanted to. He stayed upright on spite alone, blinking with one working eye while the other streamed down his face, and somewhere in the back of his skull the Rage laughed, delighted, and whispered, See?

  The fucking chicken reared again, drawing in shadow from every crack in the square. The Veil sizzled around it. For a moment, it looked like it might explode.

  Violet swore from above. “Ohhh no, the fuck you do!”

  She hurled a squat, ugly bottle. It burst right on the creature’s core and spread a thick, syrupy coating over its surface. Where the shadow tried to rush in, the syrup seized it, solidifying.

  Violet used Binding Resin

  Effect: Movement –80%

  Shadow Channeling Disrupted

  Side Effects: Sticky, Smelly,

  Surprisingly good for smoking.

  “Hit it,” she shouted. “Hit it a lot.”

  They obliged.

  Greg, Doran, Shelly, even Barnaby stepped in with a shield bash or two. The creature’s body shuddered under the combined assault, then collapsed in on itself, leaving a crater lined with cooling, tarry muck.

  Assist XP Awarded!

  Chicken Emperor Defeated

  Progress to Level 3 → 95%

  Loot!

  [Weird Chunk of Something] x1

  [Field Report Material] x3

  When the smoke cleared, an ordinary (cocky, shitty, evil fucking) chicken remained behind, head tilted askew, as if they were the fucking weirdos.

  ??BETTER L??CK NEXT TI??ME//

  The voice came from his own head, and then the chicken was gone. There’s a sentence that could land him in therapy for decades.

  Still not enough XP.

  “More,” Greg groaned through gnashed teeth. “We need to kill more mooks before the waves dry up.”

  Elowen screamed. It cut through the roar of battle like someone had yanked a cord in his chest. He spun.

  The alley the mayor had led her toward wasn’t dark anymore. It was lit by the sharp gleam of reflected light off steel.

  The mayor had Elowen pinned with her back against the warped stone, one arm across her shoulders. The other hand held a knife pressed to her throat. The blade shook, not from effort, but from how hard he was trembling.

  Greg froze. Something hot and familiar slammed into his ribs, like a fist from the inside. Elowen was in danger. That was simple. That was the one thing in this whole mess that made sense: she was his cleric, his anchor, and he was supposed to be the wall between her and everything trying to kill her.

  The Rage fought to escape harder than a teenage boner. If he let it loose, it would probably ruin everything, also like a teenage boner. But at least she would be alive to disapprove of it.

  The prompt was still waiting.

  ACTIVATE RAGE: [Y/N]?