I know. You are completely, 100% not surprised that the System didn’t answer me.

  I tried every combination of words I could think of and got nothing, except angrier and angrier. When I finally gave up on discovering a user manual, I shoved the sunglasses on top of my head, so I’d stop getting distracted by the stupid words floating everywhere.

  Then I started blitzing my way through the forest, scratching my tags on every other tree and paying barely any attention to where I was going.

  Bad idea.

  Anger is a lousy co-pilot. Angry people do not move cautiously through the forest, silently searching for enemies at every turn, aware of every suspicious movement or sound.

  Angry people are the suspicious movements and sounds.

  So yeah, I found the goblins. Or rather, they found me.

  I shattered the skull of the first goblin I ran into. The second goblin, I smashed against a tree.

  The third goblin made me realize anger had made me stupid.

  Because these goblins were not like the others.

  Goblin #3 didn’t charge in blindly. It circled me, staying out of shovel range, and when I swung at it, it dodged, darting backward like a dancer doing the mambo.

  It didn’t look like a creepy doll, either. It was bigger, taller, more muscular. The pointed teeth weren’t needles, they were fangs. Still the same green color, but its eyes held calculation instead of frenzied rage. Instead of dirty rags hanging from skinny shoulders, it wore a weird gray furry sweater-like thing. And the weapon in its hand—a short sword, maybe?—was way more threatening than anything the other goblins wielded.

  It lunged toward me, the point of the blade aimed at my stomach. For a split second, I could picture it sliding up through my skin, could imagine the wet sound as my flesh parted, could see myself bleeding out on the moss while Zelda waited endlessly for my return.

  In the other half of that split second, though, I blocked the blow with my shovel. The goblin’s sword hit the shovel blade with a clang that exploded into a blast of sound and force.

  The goblin flew backward, its body bursting open mid-flight. The sword hadn’t touched it, but the damage looked like it had performed a ritualistic disembowelment on itself. Its eyes rolled back in its head. It dropped the sword before it even landed, clutching at the green blood spurting from its belly. It took a few seconds to die, its body trembling until it fell still.

  At last count, I’d killed eighteen goblins. This was the first one that made me want to vomit.

  I stood there panting, my hands shaking around the shovel’s handle, staring at the crumpled green body and trying to process what had just happened.

  Rebound had done its job.

  Reaching up, I pulled the sunglasses down onto my face.

  [Dead Goblin Patroller - Level 4] read the text floating above the body.

  I stared at it, numb, feeling my racing heart rate start to settle. Level 4? That didn’t seem very high. But that goblin had definitely been smarter than the others. Faster, too.

  Tougher.

  What the hell was I doing here? I was a woman with a garden tool. My biggest enemy ought to be my bougainvillea.

  I was staring blankly into space as I caught my breath, but the sunglasses must have decided I wanted more information.

  Floating text popped up over the weird gray sweater: [Ratskin Chestpiece–+2 to Armor].

  Ick. Double ick. Those must be enormous rats.

  The sword lying in the moss nearby got its own text box: [Iron Shortsword–+2 to Attack, Durable].

  Nothing too special, but more serious than the broken bottles and little knives of the smaller goblins. (Goblinettes? Too bad I hadn’t tried on the sunglasses in time to identify their bodies.)

  Here was the real question, though: would the armor and the sword vanish the moment I touched the corpse, the way all the other goblin gear had? Not that it mattered. The sword wasn’t better than my shovel and there were no circumstances—like, none, absolutely never, no matter what—under which I would try on rat skin armor.

  Never gonna happen. It was gross on a level that transcended practical concerns.

  I’d dropped my folding knife when the goblins attacked, so first I picked it up, carefully closed it, and put it back in my pocket. Then I crouched next to the goblin’s body, trying not to look too closely at what Rebound had done to its midsection.

  Reaching out, I gingerly poked its shoulder with one finger.

  Poof, and it was gone, the armor and the sword with it. A thin paperback book sat on the ground where the goblin had lain.

  I gave an exasperated sigh.

  Great. Armor and a weapon, and the challenge scenario replaces them with a book. Because clearly I’ve got plenty of time for a little light reading.

  I picked it up and glanced at the title.

  Basic Wilderness Traps & Snares: A Practical Guide.

  Huh. Okay, maybe the scenario wasn’t messing with me. If I could set up some defenses around the clearing where I’d left Zelda, I’d feel much better about leaving her behind. I was trying not to think about it, but of course I was worried about what might stumble across her—across them—when I wasn’t there to protect them.

  I’d looked at the book for long enough for the sunglasses to kick into gear.

  The words [Skill Book – Wilderness Trapping (Basic)] appeared.

  I frowned, concentrating on the book’s cover. More text flowed into existence, just as it had with the shovel.

  Name: Wilderness Trapping (Basic)

  Type: Skill Book

  Grade: Uncommon

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Use: Grants knowledge of trap construction and deployment.

  Warning: Direct neural integration. Single use only.

  Direct neural integration.

  This book wanted to mess with my brain.

  Oh, hell, no.

  I was quite familiar with things that wanted to mess with my brain. I’d tried more than a few. Some people—people I know, even—believe drugs make them the best version of themselves.

  That’s great. For them.

  And no, I’m not talking about the recreational variety of drugs. If you think you’re your best self when you’re stoned… well, your best self might be pretty mediocre. Just saying.

  I’m talking about psych drugs.

  Some people thrive on them.

  Me? Not so much.

  When I’m “properly” medicated, I’m numbed-out, peaceful, unthinking... easy.

  But not me.

  The real me might be difficult… okay, is difficult. But I’d rather be me and be miserable than be someone else.

  Would I rather be me and be dead, though? Because this book—this direct neural integration—was going to mess with my brain in order to help me survive this stupid challenge scenario.

  It was clearly a suggestion.

  One I liked, actually.

  Building traps sounded great.

  Yeah, the more I thought about it, the more I loved the idea.

  Building a trap versus smashing a living being in the face with a shovel wasn’t like deciding between apples and oranges.

  It was chocolate versus fresh sewage.

  Well, okay, maybe not chocolate. A good trap would still probably kill its victim, and despite my ever-growing kill count, I wasn’t ready to accept Killer as part of my identity.

  The sound of a voice cut short my identity crisis.

  I jerked in reaction, then froze.

  The voice was distant enough that I couldn’t make out the words, but it was definitely a guttural male rumble.

  Shit.

  If I could hear him, he could hear me.

  Could I hide? Climb a tree? Creep away through the ever-rustling undergrowth?

  Sure.

  But without making noise loud enough to draw him right to me? Probably not.

  The nearest oak tree wasn’t huge, but I pressed my back against the trunk, tucking my arms in tight. Not hiding, exactly, just staying very, very still.

  Was it one of the other survivors? My gaze flicked to the countdown timer in the corner of my vision. Sixty-eight hours and change left, but I was really looking at the number below it.

  12/24.

  Half of us were gone, but twelve people were still alive out here somewhere. The voice could belong to one of them.

  Of course, he probably wasn’t talking to himself. Had two survivors teamed up to take the rest of us out?

  Or were they friendly? Maybe they were looking for others so we could join forces, pool resources, figure out how to survive this nightmare together.

  Maybe they were good guys.

  They could be good guys.

  The voice spoke again, from closer, and I realized—with a rush of relief that felt like a cool shower—that it wasn’t human.

  It was deeper, but it held the same chittering undertone that the other goblins had when they hurled themselves at me, screeching fit to raise the dead. I was sure now that it was a goblin voice, speaking in a goblin language.

  Not that that improved my situation much. Which was better, more goblins or potentially dangerous humans?

  Given that my score against goblins was currently 19-0, I was voting for goblins.

  That said, that level four patroller had been… not easy. And here I stood, with two dead goblins almost at my feet, waiting to be discovered.

  So, so, so quietly, I crouched and scooted over to the closest goblin body.

  Poof.

  A spool of wire appeared in its place.

  I snagged it, stood, took two painfully slow steps toward the body of the goblin I’d smashed into the tree, bent, touched it, and eyed what appeared in its place: a bag of spice gum drops from HEB.

  In my personal opinion, HEB had the best gum drops in the country. But you could only get them in Texas. They were my favorite road trip indulgence.

  This scenario definitely knew me.

  I was torn between dismay and delight. Should I be terrified that the mysterious voice was somehow delving through my deepest secrets?

  Maybe, but I grabbed the gum drops without hesitation. Delight would win as soon as I got away from these goblins. I’d save the licorice ones for Jack Francis.

  My hands were ridiculously full. I stuffed the gum drops, the book, and the spool of wire down my shirt, wishing that backpack earlier had been real, and tiptoed back to my tree.

  Holding my breath, I listened for the goblins. Had they heard me?

  The chittering was closer. And then it stopped.

  I peeked around my tree, moving as cautiously as I could.

  Two goblins stood about thirty feet away. One was examining the slash I’d made on a tree trunk, running a finger along the fresh cut. It looked up at its larger companion, then pointed, farther away.

  Good, they were headed away from me.

  No, wait.

  Bad.

  Very, very, very bad.

  My stomach hit my work boots.

  They were looking at my trail markers. The neat little slashes I’d been carving into every other tree. My breadcrumb trail, the one that led straight back to where I’d left Zelda tied to the unconscious Jack Francis.

  I stepped out from behind my tree, my shovel clutched in both hands like a baseball bat.

  “Don’t you dare, you fuckers,” I said. I was proud of myself that my voice didn’t crack on the words.

  These two goblins were the biggest I’d seen. They were wearing leather armor that looked real, not like dead rats, and carrying weapons.

  The bigger one had an actual axe and I did not want to know—not at all, not the least little bit—what it would feel like to get hit by an axe.

  But sometimes you don’t get to choose between bad options and good options. Sometimes it’s just bad or catastrophically worse.

  Bad: fighting two higher-level goblins with nothing but a garden tool and an attitude problem.

  Catastrophically worse: letting them follow my trail to where my girl was tied up and defenseless.

  The choice was obvious.

  The goblins spun toward me, weapons raised, and through the sunglasses I got my first good look at exactly how screwed I was. [Goblin Tracker - Level 6] floated above the smaller one with the crossbow. [Goblin Warrior - Level 8] hovered over his big buddy with the axe.

  Level 8.

  My personal best was a Level 4, and it had nearly gutted me before Rebound returned the favor.

  But they weren’t getting to Zelda. That was the only math that mattered.

  The tracker raised his crossbow, and I dove sideways as the bolt whistled past my ear. I came at him swinging and caught him across the ribs with my shovel.

  The impact sent him flying backward into a tree with a satisfying crunch, but he didn’t stay down. Level 6 meant tougher than a tree, apparently. He bounced back up, snarling, already reloading.

  The warrior was on me before I could recover, his axe coming down in an arc that would’ve split me from skull to sternum if I hadn’t almost—almost—gotten my shovel up in time.

  His axe hit the handle, not the blade, and the clash was like a thunderclap. The handle didn’t break, but the Rebound ability didn’t trigger either. And the impact was so intense that I couldn’t hold on. He smashed Warden’s Edge out of my hands, his strength overwhelming my own, knocking me to the ground.

  The tracker’s second bolt came at me, but I spotted it in time to roll frantically away.

  I knew next to nothing about hand-to-hand fighting. But it didn’t take expertise to know that the ground was a terrible place to be. I kept moving, desperately trying to scramble to my feet, succeeding only in scrambling a few feet away

  The warrior loomed over me, axe raised for a killing blow.

  I held up a hand, instinctively, as if it could stop him. Or maybe just shield me from seeing my death as it happened.

  My shovel flew into my hand as if it was magnetized.

  Huh.

  I guess that was what Bound meant on the description.

  The axe hit the shovel’s blade this time and Rebound worked, but the warrior was in full armor. He absorbed the hit, staggered, and came at me again, snarling.

  But also warier.

  He swiped at my feet. I pulled them away.

  He swung at my shoulders. I dodged.

  But he wasn’t going to chance a head-on hit on Warden’s Edge again and I… I was gonna lose. I was already panting and sore and that fall had done something to my knee. I’d be limping if I walked away from this, but I didn’t think I’d be walking away.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the tracker trying to get a clean shot at me.

  I pointed the shovel at the two of them and screamed, a wordless, furious howl of despair.

  Zelda was waiting for me and they were in my way.

  The forest exploded around us.

  Thorny vines erupted from the ground, thick as my wrist and covered in spikes that would make a medieval torture device jealous. They wrapped around the warrior’s legs, his arms, his neck, lifting him off his feet and holding him suspended like a puppet in a web of green fury.

  Bougainvillea vines. My old nemesis, now apparently my emergency defense system.

  The tracker tried to run, but the vines caught him too, wrapping around his ankle and yanking him face-first into the moss.

  I sat up slowly, staring at the carnage. Both goblins were alive but thoroughly trapped, struggling against bonds that only got tighter the more they fought. And the spikes were impaling them, digging into leather and muscle as if it were paper. Green blood flowed like water.

  A notification popped up in my vision.

  Warden’s Edge Ability Unlocked: Verdant Reprisal.

  Well. That was new.

  I stood up, brushing dirt and leaves off my clothes, and walked over to where the warrior hung suspended in thorny embrace.

  “You know,” I said conversationally, raising my shovel, “I really fucking hate bougainvillea.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on me.