CHAPTER 13

  Black Hound

  Before the camp could organize, Bash was in their midst. His fist snapped out and hit one of the bandits in the left eye. Cartilage popped, and the man dropped back, screaming.

  Barely slowing, he dodged a sword strike meant for his neck and countered with a knee, folding his target completely in half, the sound of breaking ribs barely audible over the thud of the blow.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. Patrick and Luis were fifty yards behind, sprinting to catch up but falling further back with every second.

  Too slow, Bash thought. Guess I'm doing this solo.

  Another bandit panicked and swung in a sloppy overhead chop that Bash easily stepped into. Hooking the man's wrist, Bash redirected the blade into his ally's chest, then shoved them both into a nearby tent.

  Two more rushed him from his left flank. Lines of prediction narrowed, collapsing into one perfect opening. Bash dropped low and twisted. Blades clashed where his body had just been, bouncing off a tent pole instead of cutting into flesh.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, a calm voice was narrating the correct moves before he even made them. Feeding him angles for maximum penetration, telling him exactly when and how hard to strike.

  His fist came up hard following those directions. Spikes punched right up under the jaw with a wet crunch. The elbow followed through, fast and brutal, shattering a nose and most of the attacker's front teeth. Blood sprayed as both hit the ground in a tangled mess.

  Two for one, awesome start.

  Something burned across his shoulder, silencing the whispers. Bash spun to find a bandit holding a bloodied knife. Shit. His skill hadn't even seen that one coming. The cut wasn't deep, didn’t hurt, but it made him angry enough to choose something less optimal.

  Bash dodged the next swipe and grabbed the knife-wielder by the back of the neck and headbutted him hard enough to feel the crunch through his own skull. The man dropped, and Bash kept moving.

  An archer loosed from atop a wagon. Bash snatched a plate from the nearest campfire table and swung it across his body. The arrow cracked off the metal and spun away harmlessly.

  Bash vaulted up towards the archer, both fists striking in tandem. The crunch of a sternum folding inward was followed by his target flying backwards. Bash rolled through the strike and bounced back to his feet on the other side.

  Another blade caught him across the ribs. Not deep, but it stung like hell. Blood seeped warm against his skin.

  Getting sloppy, he thought. There goes my perfect score.

  Around him, the camp was chaotic. NPCs broke scripts, stumbling in fear. Bash weaved through them all, dealing punishment without hesitation, but he was accumulating damage now. A cut here. A bruise there.

  He caught a glimpse of Patrick finally reaching the edge of the fight, spear whirling in controlled arcs. Luis was behind him, moving slowly, hesitating.

  Bash's path of destruction led him into the center of the camp, where half a dozen bandits now surrounded him.

  “Come on, who's first!?” he taunted.

  His words may have projected confidence, but as the circle tightened, Bash was starting to doubt the wisdom of rushing through a camp of killers and cutthroats.

  The cuts on his shoulder and ribs throbbed in silent agreement.

  ***

  A roar boomed across the camp. “ENOUGH!”

  From the shadow of a half-collapsed tent, a massive shape detached itself and stepped forward.

  Bash didn't need the metadata to know who this person was. No broken edges here, no desperate fear like with Luis.

  This must be the so-called Black Hound. A mountain of flesh gone rancid, arms swollen, layered under fat that rolled across his bulk.

  But Bash's Investigator was already working, pulling data, scanning for weaknesses. The overlay painted the fat man in harsh lines of information:

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  Carl gave a broad smile, showing off a row of half-decayed and yellow teeth. His eyes glinted with the confident glee of a man who enjoyed the Shard's cruelty.

  “This little pipsqueak is mine!” Carl bellowed.

  The bandits scattered, clearing space around them.

  Carl swaggered closer. “So you're the new player. The one Maximus warned us about.” His smirk widened. “He will be so happy when I bring him your corpse. Maybe I'll even get a Christmas bonus this year, or even a promotion!”

  Bash didn't answer. Didn't laugh. Didn't give Carl the satisfaction.

  He simply stood motionless, chest rising and falling, brass knuckles dripping in crimson arcs. His vision turned his enemy into a lattice of ghost-light threads, every muscle and bone of his opponent outlined in shades of green.

  Strength advantage: his. Speed advantage: mine. He's a brawler with bad knees and no technique. If I let him grab me, I'm dead. But if I hit first, hit fast, hit the joints...

  The prediction lines converged into a single, bright path. End it quickly. Don't let him swing.

  Bash moved on autopilot, right when Carl was ramping up the next part of his evil monologue. Closing the distance in an instant. A flying side kick that sliced through the prediction window, landing with brutal precision.

  The joint folded the wrong way, bone spearing out through skin in a jagged white shard. A snap, then a scream. The giant roared, the sheer weight of his collapse making the ground tremble.

  Carl tried to speak, or curse, but Bash didn't give him the dignity of finishing. Without fanfare, Bash raised both fists high and brought them down in a savage arc. The noise was obscene as Carl's skull caved inward.

  Red fountained outward, hot and metallic, painting Bash's chest and face in streaks.

  ***

  Bash stared at the body. Bone and pulp where a face should have been. Blood dripped from his knuckles and face already cooling, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  What have I done? Bash’s mind reeled. He had followed his skill. Chosen the most efficient path. Had erased someone. Not a script. Not a disposable body. A person. Carl had been real. A monster, yes. Still real. And now there was no rewind waiting. No respawn timer ticking down.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered that it had felt good. The crunch. The release. The absolute finality of it. Bash shoved that voice down and locked it tight.

  Patrick and Luis finally caught up, breathing hard. They stopped at the edge of the carnage, taking in the scene. The body, the blood, and Bash, standing at the center of it, drenched in gore.

  Patrick's expression was unreadable. Luis looked like he might be sick.

  “You...” Luis started, then stopped. Swallowed. “You killed him.”

  “Yeah.” Bash's voice came out flat. “I did.”

  Patrick moved closer, spear still ready, eyes scanning the surviving bandits. “It was a clean kill. Faster than he deserved.”

  Bash didn't know if that was meant as criticism or praise. He didn't ask.

  Looking up, Bash saw the remaining bandits on their knees in surrender.

  The NPCs held up their hands in perfect sync, faces blank.

  The Uploads were different. They shook as death loomed in front of them. The weight of mortality suddenly real.

  Bash watched the bravado leave their bodies, replaced by survival instinct. It was one thing to play at being a villain. Something else entirely to be one line of code away from nothingness.

  The hush was heavier than the clash of combat. Uploads and NPCs alike waited for judgment.

  One of the Uploads dipped their forehead to the ground in an almost religious display. A penitent groveling for forgiveness. “I'm sorry,” he sputtered, each word torn from his throat like he was choking. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... pa, pa, please...”

  The pleading was raw and ugly. Naked fear.

  Bash looked at his hands. Still red. Still warm.

  It would be so easy to just end them all. The system would reward him with more levels. A pat on the back for a tiny bit of homicide.

  Maximus would have done it without pause. He would have erased these men like bugs.

  Was that it then? Was this the final step in Bash's tutorial? An invitation to become the same flavor of sociopath that ran this Shard? Just another player treating human souls as disposable loot boxes?

  He looked at the groveling Upload. Saw the tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his face. Saw the way his shoulders shook. This man had done terrible things. But so had Luis, hadn't he?

  Bash knew the score. These people weren’t like Carl. They were victims as much as they were criminals. Forced into servitude, given jobs they never asked for, punished for disobedience with deletion. And all he saw now was someone afraid. Afraid of dying. Afraid of Bash.

  This is what you want, right? The thing people are afraid of? That same voice that had been guiding him asked. His own voice, Bash realized, not some system or skill… His.

  No! He thought, rejecting the idea. No, it isn’t!

  Bash stepped forward and knelt in front of the Upload and placed a steady hand on the man’s shoulder.

  Bash's voice came out quieter than he expected. “It's okay. It's over now. Surrender, and maybe we can start to untangle this mess together.”

  The bandit's throat worked. His lips trembled. Finally, the words tumbled out, cracked and thin: “I... I surrender.”

  Bash stood and raised his gaze over the rest of the camp. The remaining bandits, all wide-eyed, watched. A ragged chorus of surrenders followed the first, uneven but loud enough to trip the system flag.

  Behind him, Patrick let out a slow breath.

  When Bash turned, the older man caught his eye and gave him a single nod. Not approval exactly, but close.

  Luis looked around, “What now?” he asked.

  Bash wiped his hands on his pants. The blood smeared but didn't come off. “Now we figure out what kind of mess Carl left behind.”