The walk back to the Salty Locust felt longer than it should have. Every step carried the weight of my failure with Marcos, replaying his contempt-filled expression and the glob of spit sliding down my boot. Not exactly the power fantasy I'd imagined when I first realized I'd been isekai'd into my favorite game.

  I kept my head down as I navigated the twisting streets of Western Zenas. The slums didn't improve with familiarity. If anything, the stench seemed worse now that the initial shock had worn off. Rotting garbage, human waste, and something I couldn't quite identify but definitely didn't want to mingled into an assault on my nostrils that no amount of mental preparation could diminish.

  The rejection stung more than I wanted to admit. Marcos had been a key part of my planned build. In the game, recruiting him early unlocked special weapon crafting options that synergized perfectly with certain class combinations. His custom sabers had unique properties that regular merchant gear couldn't match: higher critical strike chances, better scaling with Dexterity, sometimes even special effects like bleeding damage or armor penetration.

  Without Marcos, I'd have to fall back on plan B: trekking across the river to Eastern Zenas and buying from the commercial district's weapon shops.

  Which sucked for multiple reasons.

  First, the cost. Marcos worked cheap if you befriended him, charging mainly for materials and a modest labor fee. The shops in East Zenas catered to wealthy nobles and merchant princes. Their prices reflected that clientele. My pouch of coins from the Lancas job felt suddenly lighter just thinking about it.

  Second, and more importantly, quality. Marcos was a master craftsman. The game's lore established him as one of the best smiths in the entire kingdom, held back only by his stubborn refusal to relocate somewhere more prestigious. His weapons weren't just stat sticks, they were works of art that happened to kill people efficiently.

  The commercial district shops? They sold serviceable weapons. Decent enough for casual players or NPCs who didn't matter. But nothing exceptional. Nothing that would give me the edge I needed to survive whatever came next.

  I glanced up at the darkening sky, watching the sun bleed orange and red across the horizon. Even if I turned around right now and sprinted to the bridge connecting Western and Eastern Zenas, I wouldn't make it before the shops closed. The journey would take at least a few hours at a brisk walk, probably longer given how easily I'd gotten lost earlier. By the time I arrived, the merchants would be locking their doors and counting their profits.

  Tomorrow, then. I'd have to make the trip tomorrow.

  Another dejected sigh escaped me as the Salty Locust's weathered sign came into view, the painted locust so faded it looked more like a smudge of brownish nothing. Home sweet home, if you could call a flea-infested room above a criminal tavern "home."

  I pushed through the door.

  The familiar scene greeted me, rough-looking men nursing drinks at scarred tables, conversations dying mid-sentence as I entered. The pig-faced thug from earlier sat in the corner, glancing up briefly before returning his attention to his ale. Someone near the bar actually stood and moved to a different table, as if proximity to my path might somehow contaminate him.

  My negative Charisma working overtime, apparently.

  None of them met my eyes. Good. I wasn't in the mood for conversation or intimidation games. I just wanted to reach my room, maybe figure out if this world had a system for learning skills faster, and plan my next moves.

  The stairs creaked under my boots as I climbed. The wood felt soft in places, probably rotted through from decades of spilled drinks and neglect. I kept close to the wall where the support would be strongest.

  The hallway leading to my room stretched dimly before me, lit by a single guttering candle in a wall sconce. My door stood slightly ajar… had I left it that way? Couldn't remember. This morning felt like a lifetime ago.

  I pushed it open and stepped inside, already reaching for the lamp on the nightstand.

  The familiar squalor surrounded me. Straw mattress. Empty bottles. Tarnished mirror. A room that screamed "villain origin story" in every detail.

  I locked the door behind me and finally pulled down the bandana covering my ruined face.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd deal with finding a sword, with navigating Eastern Zenas, with figuring out how to not die horribly in whatever came next.

  Tonight, I just needed to breathe.

  The stale bread tasted like sawdust mixed with regret. I forced myself to chew through it anyway, washing down each miserable bite with what the tavern keeper had called ale but tasted suspiciously like someone had filtered it through a horse's kidney. Twice. The liquid burned going down, leaving a bitter aftertaste that made me question whether dying from expired cheese might have been the preferable option after all.

  My stomach gurgled in protest, but at least it was something. Fuel for tomorrow's expedition across the river.

  I collapsed onto the straw mattress, still fully clothed except for my boots and sword belt. The mattress fought back immediately, lumps and hard spots jabbing into my spine, shoulders, and ribs no matter how I positioned myself. The straw poked through the thin fabric covering, scratching at exposed skin. Every time I found a tolerable position, some new discomfort announced itself, a rock-hard clump pressing into my kidney, a suspicious dampness near my left shoulder that I chose not to investigate.

  I shifted. Rolled onto my side. Tried my back again. Nothing worked.

  Minutes crawled past. Or maybe hours. Time stretched in that peculiar way insomnia imposed, each second expanding like taffy while somehow the night itself compressed into nothing. My mind refused to quiet, cycling through builds and strategies, wondering if Eastern Zenas's merchants would have anything decent, calculating costs, mourning the loss of Marcos's craftsmanship.

  Eventually, exhaustion won. My eyes drifted shut despite the mattress's best efforts to keep me conscious.

  Sleep wrapped around me like a heavy blanket.

  What felt like seconds later, aggressive knocking shattered the peace.

  "Roxam! Wake up! Boss is calling us!"

  I groaned into the mattress, my face pressed against scratchy straw that smelled faintly of mold and someone else's sweat. Piggy's voice penetrated the door, insistent and far too energetic for whatever ungodly hour this was.

  Pale morning light seeped through the gaps in the shutters. Dawn, maybe? Or just past it. My body ached from the terrible mattress, muscles stiff and complaining as I forced myself upright.

  "Roxam! You hear me in there?"

  "I'm awake," I croaked, my throat raw from the piss-ale. "Give me a minute."

  Getting dressed felt like performing a ritual. Boots first, lacing them tight. The sword belt next, the familiar weight settling against my hip, the cheap blade inside its scabbard. The blue overcoat, its fabric worn but serviceable. The cloak wrapping around my shoulders. Finally, the bandana, covering the nightmare of my face, transforming me from hideous to mysterious. Or at least from hideous to slightly less disturbing.

  I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  Piggy stood there, his unfortunate face somehow even more pig-like in the morning light. Small eyes, flat nose, jowls that suggested too many nights drinking the tavern's swill. He wore the same stained leather vest from yesterday, or maybe a different one that looked identical. Hard to tell.

  "What's going on?" I kept my voice flat, emotionless. Roxam's voice. The kind of tone that suggested the speaker might stab you for asking a second time.

  "Boss called a meeting. All the top guys, downstairs in the den." Piggy jerked his thumb toward the stairs. "Big stuff, I reckon. He cleared out all the customers."

  I grunted acknowledgment and followed him down the hallway.

  The stairs creaked their familiar complaint as we descended past the main tavern floor to the basement level. The gambling den. During normal hours, this space would be packed with desperate men losing their coins on dice, cards, and rigged games of chance. Now? Empty of everyone except Angus's crew.

  A dozen men already occupied the space, clustered in small groups or leaning against walls. The air smelled like stale tobacco, spilled alcohol, and unwashed bodies. A delightful bouquet. Someone had lit oil lamps around the perimeter, casting everything in flickering orange light that made shadows dance across scarred wooden tables and dirt-stained floors.

  Time to roleplay.

  I crossed to the far wall, slow and deliberate, letting my boots echo in the relative quiet. Found a good spot, turned, and leaned back with my arms crossed. The perfect brooding villain stance. Mysterious. Intimidating. Cool.

  The nearest thugs glanced in my direction, then quickly looked away.

  One of them actually took a step back, stumbling slightly as he put distance between us.

  My negative Charisma stat working overtime again. In the game, Charisma affected dialogue options and NPC reactions. Apparently in this world, it translated to raw psychological pressure. These grown men, hardened criminals who probably killed and stole for a living, were genuinely afraid of me.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Kind of amazing, honestly.

  More gang members trickled in over the next few minutes. I counted them without moving my head, tracking each arrival with peripheral vision. Sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty. Some I recognized from the tavern's main floor, others were new faces. All carried themselves with that particular swagger criminals developed, the walk that said I'm dangerous and I know it.

  None of them swaggered near me, though. They gave my corner of the room a wide berth, like I occupied a quarantine zone.

  Heavy footsteps descended the stairs.

  The room's ambient chatter died instantly.

  Angus the Grim emerged into the lamplight, and suddenly the space felt smaller. The man stood at least six and a half feet tall, maybe more, with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. His massive frame descended each step carefully, the wood groaning under his weight. He wore a simple brown vest over a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms thick as fence posts. His face wore its usual jovial expression, but something harder lurked behind his eyes tonight.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and surveyed his assembled crew. Counted heads. Nodded to himself.

  "Listen up, you lot!" His shout could have rattled the support beams. "We got ourselves a situation."

  The room's attention focused completely on him. Even I stopped my cool leaning to pay closer attention, though I kept my arms crossed to maintain the aesthetic.

  "One of the smaller gangs in the slum, calling themselves the War Lords, just hit one of our smuggling shipments." Angus's jovial mask slipped slightly, revealing genuine anger underneath. "Took half the goods and killed two of our boys in the process."

  Murmurs rippled through the assembled criminals. Someone to my left whispered something I couldn't make out.

  A gangly thug near the front, all bones and nervous energy, raised his hand like a schoolboy. "War Lords? Those punks are small fry. Why would they pick a fight with us? Don't they know who we are?"

  Angus's face darkened. "Don't know, don't care. Maybe they got brave. Maybe someone put them up to it. Maybe they're just stupid." He cracked his knuckles, each pop sounding like a small firecracker. "What matters is they dared to make a move against us. Against my operation. So we're gonna teach them a lesson. A permanent one."

  Oh no.

  My stomach dropped somewhere into my boots.

  This was it. Not a theoretical discussion about criminal activities. Not lore from a video game. An actual, real, happening-right-now gang war where I would be expected to kill people. Living, breathing human beings who happened to be on the wrong side of a territorial dispute.

  Could I do it? Actually end someone's life?

  My hands started to sweat inside my gloves.

  Before the panic could fully bloom, Angus's gaze swung toward my corner.

  "Roxam!"

  Every head in the room turned to look at me.

  "You take some boys with you and teach those punks a lesson, ya hear?" Angus pointed a finger thick as a sausage in my direction. "Make them regret even thinking about messing with us. I want them broken. I want the survivors pissing themselves whenever they hear the Viper Gang's name. Understood?"

  Showtime.

  I pushed off the wall, uncrossing my arms and standing to my full height. My heart hammered against my ribs, adrenaline flooding my system, but externally I kept everything cold and controlled.

  "Understood." The word came out flat, dead, emotionless. Perfect Roxam delivery.

  I let my white eyes scan the room, making eye contact with the assembled thugs. Several flinched. One actually looked away, suddenly finding the floor fascinating.

  Time to pick my party members.

  I pointed at a thick-necked bruiser near the center. "You."

  He straightened, looking both honored and terrified.

  My finger moved to a wiry man with a nasty scar running down his cheek. "You."

  Four more followed. I avoided anyone who looked incompetent or cowardly, selecting the ones who seemed like they'd actually be useful in a fight rather than liabilities. The least goofy-looking members of this motley crew.

  Six total. A good number for a quest party. Manageable but enough to handle whatever resistance the War Lords might mount.

  I jerked my head toward the stairs. "Let's go."

  They scrambled to follow, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to obey.

  I led them up through the basement, past the main tavern floor, and out into the morning streets of Western Zenas.

  The slums greeted us with their usual stench, garbage, human waste, and industrial runoff combining into an assault on the senses. People hurried about their business, heads down, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might cause trouble.

  They gave us an especially wide berth. Seven armed men walking with purpose meant danger, and the residents of Western Zenas knew better than to get involved.

  My first quest in this world.

  Time to see if I could survive it.

  The so-called War Lords had apparently holed themselves up in a run-down junkyard near the tannery district. The smell alone should have told me we were getting close. Western Zenas's tanneries made the rest of the slums seem downright pleasant by comparison. The acrid stench of chemicals and rotting animal hides burned my nostrils even through the bandana covering my ruined face.

  That's where my six-man party headed, boots crunching on the dirt streets as we made our way through the morning crowds. People scattered before us like pigeons before a cart. Smart.

  The junkyard came into view, a sprawling collection of broken carts, rusted metal, and general refuse surrounded by a crooked fence. The gate hung slightly askew on its hinges, already looking ready to fall apart without any help from me.

  Two lackeys stood guard outside, both young, maybe late teens, trying to look tough in oversized leather vests. Their hands rested on cheap-looking daggers at their belts.

  They spotted us when we were still half a block away.

  Their faces went pale. One of them said something to the other I couldn't hear, then they both bolted through the gate like rabbits fleeing a fox.

  Well. There went the element of surprise.

  Should I have planned this better? Maybe scouted the location first? Set up an ambush or waited for nightfall or something tactical and smart like that?

  Nah, I decided. Should be fine.

  These were just regular street thugs. Trash mobs. Experience pi?atas that existed solely for the player to beat up in the early game. They shouldn't be very tough at all. Not for a Level 27 Duelist with my stat distribution.

  I walked up to the closed gates, my men trailing behind me like ducklings following their mother. Except, you know, if the mother duck was a horrifically disfigured criminal enforcer.

  Without breaking stride, I lashed out with a kick.

  The idea was to pop the lock. Maybe make a cool entrance. Very action-hero.

  What actually happened was the entire gate (both sides) ripped clean off the hinges with a metallic shriek and crashed into the junkyard in a cloud of rust and dust.

  The impact echoed across the slums like a gong.

  Oops.

  I stared at the fallen gates, then at my leg, then back at the gates.

  I really didn't know my own strength, did I? The stats weren't just numbers on a screen anymore. That 67 Strength meant something real, something physical, something capable of tearing metal gates apart with a casual kick.

  Note to self: recalibrate understanding of own capabilities.

  Whatever. Gates were down. Time to make an entrance.

  I strode through the opening, keeping my movements deliberate and controlled. Outwardly: calm, dangerous, in complete command. Inwardly: shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, my heart hammering so hard I worried they could hear it.

  This would be my first real battle. My first actual fight where people were trying to kill me and I was expected to kill them back. No respawns. No save points. No loading the game if things went south.

  Don't screw this up don't screw this up don't screw this up…

  The interior of the junkyard opened up into a cleared area, probably used for sorting through salvage. The War Lords had assembled in a rough line, weapons drawn, ready for battle.

  All sixteen of them.

  My mental math kicked in immediately. Sixteen versus seven. More than two-to-one odds against us.

  Crap.

  I should have brought more men. Way more men. This was a serious numerical disadvantage.

  No! I corrected myself internally. Enough of that thinking! This is quality over quantity! I have much better fighters on my side!

  I glanced from my group of six thugs to their group of sixteen thugs.

  They looked... almost identical. Same goofy faces. Same cheap weapons. Same leather vests and mismatched armor pieces. Same shifty eyes and nervous energy.

  My guys weren't elite warriors. They were just slightly better street criminals than their street criminals.

  Ugh. Definitely not working with the best of materials here.

  One of my men whispered something behind me, probably questioning whether we should retreat. I ignored him.

  Instead, I stepped forward, widening the gap between myself and my followers. Let them see Skullface Roxam, alone and unbothered by their numbers.

  Outwardly: calm, tough, cool as ice.

  Inwardly: pissing myself in absolute terror.

  "Who's in charge here?" My voice came out cold and flat, cutting through the morning air like a blade.

  A tall, wiry man pushed through the line of War Lords. He wore a dented plate helmet that had seen better days (probably better decades) and nothing on his torso except bare skin, ribs visible beneath papery flesh. A rusty sword hung from his belt.

  He strutted forward with exaggerated swagger, chest puffed out like a rooster.

  "I am Argor the Mighty!" he proclaimed, voice pitched to carry. "Leader of the War Lords! And we are destined to take over these slums! The age of Angus the Grim is over! The age of-"

  I sighed.

  Couldn't help it. The sound escaped before I could stop it.

  This guy.

  "Argor the Mighty." Total poser. Absolute cliché. Anyone who called themselves "The Mighty" or "The Terrible" or any grandiose title like that was always, always compensating for something. It was like a universal constant.

  I didn't even try to keep the disdain out of my voice when I spoke next.

  "What made you dumb enough to attack the Viper-" I paused, catching myself. "Viper…" Almost said Syndicate. "The Vipers," I finished. They weren't known as the Viper Syndicate yet, apparently. That name came later, probably after Roxam took over. Had to stay timeline-accurate.

  Argor's face flushed red. "Angus is a fraud! A fat fool playing at being a crime lord! The Vipers don't know how to run things properly! They're weak, complacent, resting on their reputation while better men, stronger men, could be doing so much more!"

  He was getting warmed up now, gesturing wildly with his hands.

  "The War Lords will rule these slums! We will bring order! Justice! We will give the people what they deserve! No more protection rackets! No more exploitation! We will be their champions, their saviors! The common folk will praise our names! Children will sing songs about our glorious-"

  On and on he went. Ranting about their glorious destiny. Their noble purpose. How they would transform Western Zenas into a paradise. How history would remember them as heroes.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten.

  Oh my god, shut up.

  I wished desperately for a dialogue skip button. In the game, when NPCs went on long-winded rants, you could just hit a button and jump to the end. Sometimes you'd miss important information, but usually it was just flavor text anyway.

  Here, I had no such option. I was stuck listening to Argor the Mighty's entire tedious monologue about the glorious future of the War Lords and their benevolent rule.

  My men shifted uncomfortably. His men looked bored, like they'd heard this speech before.

  Irritation spiked through me. Hot and sudden and unexpected.

  Before I fully processed what I was doing, my hand had already moved to my sword hilt. The blade whispered free of its scabbard.

  One step forward. One smooth motion. One precise cut.

  Argor's head separated from his shoulders mid-sentence, right in the middle of some grandiose declaration about bringing joy to the masses.

  The head toppled, bounced once in the dirt, then rolled a few feet before coming to rest against a broken wagon wheel. His mouth was still open, frozen in mid-word.

  A heartbeat later, the body collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, blood spraying from the stump of his neck to stain the dirt dark crimson.

  Silence crashed over the junkyard.

  The War Lords stared, mouths hanging open.

  My men stared, equally shocked.

  I stared at the corpse at my feet, sword still extended from the killing stroke.

  What the hell?

  Shit.

  I'd gotten so into character that I'd just... acted. Pure instinct. No thought, no planning, just immediate violent response to annoyance.

  This happened during my tabletop sessions sometimes. I'd be so deep in-character that I'd blurt out actions without thinking them through first. Just pure, unfiltered character response. "I attack!" or "I cast fireball!" or "I seduce the dragon!"

  In D&D, it usually just meant rolling dice and dealing with whatever consequences the DM came up with.

  Here...

  A man just died.

  A real person. With thoughts and dreams and probably family somewhere. Now reduced to a corpse bleeding out in a junkyard because I got annoyed with his monologue.

  My stomach lurched. Bile rose in my throat. The smell of blood hit me, metallic and overwhelming.

  Don't puke don't puke don't puke…

  Skullface Roxam would not vomit after killing some guy. Skullface Roxam was a ruthless enforcer who'd killed dozens. This was nothing to him. Business as usual.

  Stay in character, dammit!

  I forced the nausea down through sheer willpower, locked my knees to keep them from shaking, and kept my expression cold and dead behind the bandana.

  Slowly, deliberately, I flicked my sword to the side, sending droplets of blood spattering across the dirt.