They left the road behind without fanfare.

  The farmhouse crouched low on the rise ahead, hunched like it was trying to fold itself smaller against the wind. Weathered wood slats, chipped white paint, and a porch that leaned from disrepair. A barn sat farther back and rimmed in blood-dark smears. Trees loomed around the property, dead, bare, and stiff.

  The wind carried a smell no one wanted to name.

  Xander slowed his pace as they hit the grass. Tall stalks whipped around his legs. His spear rested loosely in his hand, but his eyes were already cataloging the field, watching for hidden threats. There was nothing but the quiet churn of wind and the distant groan of metal, a hinge maybe, swinging lazily somewhere near the barn.

  Kane angled in beside him, one hand resting on the top of his shield. "Tracks," he muttered, crouching low near a patch of churned mud. "Crude boot treads. Big. Either something’s been camping out here a while… or we’ve got multiple guests on the large-and-unfriendly list."

  Xander didn’t reply immediately. He scanned the surrounding rise, marked the collapsed fencing to the east, the gate ripped halfway off its hinges, the rusted tractor upended and picked clean like a vulture's leftovers. Then he nodded once and gave a low, clipped signal with two fingers.

  They fanned out without a word.

  Jo fell in on his right, sword still sheathed but her eyes sharp. Kane adjusted left, shield pulled loose now. Ford took up center-rear, staff raised halfway as his other hand hovered near his belt pouch. Zoey ghosted to the far right.

  They crested the final slope together and saw the rest.

  A pile of shattered fence rails sprawled across the yard like scattered bones. Near the porch, a pitchfork jutted from the wall, embedded deep, its tines bent inward like something had yanked it halfway through someone and changed its mind. A length of torn denim fluttered from a gutter. It looked like something had thrashed around and packed down the grass in irregular patches.

  But it was the barn that held the attention.

  Large smears of blood streaked across the siding. Long drag lines, like bodies had been hauled by the arms, heels digging lines in the dirt. A pair of deep gouges marked the edge of the ramp that led into the barn’s open maw.

  Ford made a soft sound behind them. Not quite a gag, but close.

  "Trench," he said quietly, pointing.

  Xander followed his gesture. A few paces off to the side of the barn, sunk between two slabs of concrete foundation, a trench ran about fifteen feet long. It was shallow at maybe two feet deep. It wasn’t dug for drainage.

  It was filled with rot.

  The pit overflowed with viscera as gray-red lumps and scraps, indistinguishable. Limbs, maybe. Rib fragments. Something with too many teeth grinning up from beneath a collapsed horse's skull. The stink rolled up with the wind. It contained scents of copper and bile, wet fur and human waste. It hit like a slap.

  Ford turned away. "I’m going to be sick."

  Jo reached out and touched his shoulder. Just once, then let go.

  Zoey didn’t speak. She was watching the treeline again, her expression unreadable, lips drawn into a tight line.

  "That’s not just livestock. That’s… more. I count hooves. Claws. Couple of boots down there." Kane said.

  "Can’t get an analyze on any of it," Xander said. "They didn’t just kill things here. They processed them."

  Jo stepped up beside him, her coat rustling against her sword’s hilt. "You thinking cult?"

  He didn’t answer at first.

  The siding of the barn bore newer damage, with fresh drag marks cutting across older scarring. A single lantern swayed inside, still lit and casting long lines across the hay-strewn floor. Something had dragged itself, or something else, through there recently.

  He looked at the streaks again. One ran nearly fifteen feet and ended in a circular stain. It was a lot of blood.

  "They used this place as a butcher house," Xander said. "Maybe they are still using it. We clear it. Then we figure out what else is going on here."

  "Fun options," Kane said, pointing to the door. "Does that look like a sigil to anyone else?"

  Zoey stepped toward it, still angled to keep her short sword clear. "Could be. Hard to tell. The blood’s caked. I’d need to scrape it to be sure."

  "Don’t," Ford said. "Please don’t scrape it."

  Xander let his eyes move over the scene one more time. The fence line was compromised. No trails leading out, but there was lots of foot traffic in. The boot prints Kane had found weren’t alone. There were drag lines, scratch patterns, irregular displacement in the dirt. At least two bipeds with large strides.

  The wind shifted again. The lantern inside the barn guttered.

  He stepped forward, raised his spear slightly, and didn’t look back.

  "Alright," Xander said. "We check the barn. Jo with me. Kane goes in first. Ford and Zoey, watch our backs. If anything hostile moves, we kill it fast and we kill it loud."

  Kane eased forward and shouldered the barn door open the rest of the way, the warped frame resisting with a sound like wet wood torn free of rusted nails. The hinges screamed as it gave way, revealing a room steeped in cold that didn’t match the weather.

  The interior hit them like a punch to the gut.

  Low lantern light swung from the rafters, casting long, flickering shadows across a slaughterhouse arranged with the sensibilities of a madman. Meat hooks twisted gently on chains above, their tips red and glinting, while butchered carcasses, some livestock and some not, hung in uneven rows. The air stank of blood and bile, copper thick enough to coat the back of the throat. A pig’s body had been torn open lengthwise and hung like a banner, while farther back, figures that had once been people sagged from nails driven into the walls.

  Jo moved to Xander’s right, her blade still sheathed but fingers twitching near the hilt. Kane took the center path, shield leading as he scanned for movement.

  And there, behind the far worktable, something moved.

  The creature that rose looked like it had been carved from iron and ash. Slate-gray skin stretched over slabs of muscle, its chest as broad as a freight door and arms long enough to drag its knuckles if it walked upright. Jet-black hair hung in oily cords past its shoulders, framing a face more beast than man, tusks protruding like curved daggers from its lower jaw. It wore a patchwork butcher's apron, crusted with blood and gods knew what else, and in one oversized hand it hefted a cleaver better suited for logging than meat work.

  [Analyze] Drozhin the Ork Meatlord | Level: 13 Elite | Status: Hostile | Class: Barbarian

  Its eyes locked onto them, and its voice gurgled up like rot from a drain.

  "More meat for the grinder."

  The cleaver came first, swinging with the full weight of the Ork’s oversized frame.

  Kane met it head-on.

  Steel slammed into steel with a sound like a temple bell being rung at the end of the world. Kane staggered, boots grinding against the straw-dusted floor, but held his ground. Jo slipped past the cleaver’s arc, ducking low and circling to the Ork’s right, her blade flashing up and crackling with lightning as she struck along the exposed flank.

  The blade hit clean, but the armor took most of it, turning what should’ve been a rending strike into a shallow scorch mark. The Ork snarled but didn’t slow.

  It shifted its weight, trying to twist and catch her with a backhanded cleave, but Kane adjusted with it, his shield locking the butcher’s massive blade in place before it could build momentum. Frustrated, the Ork barked something guttural and drove a boot straight into Jo’s chest.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  She flew backward, crashing into a wall of crates stacked near the rear. The topmost box burst open under her weight, and strips of dried meat tumbled out, catching the lantern light like shed skin. She didn't rise right away.

  The butcher reared back, lifting the cleaver high for another strike on Kane, but Xander had already moved.

  He stepped in from the left, spear held low, and caught the incoming blow near the cleaver’s hilt. Letting the weapon’s momentum carry forward, he rotated his own spear along the shaft and drove the tip forward, plunging it into the Ork’s shoulder just below the collarbone.

  The butcher roared, jerking back as the cleaver slipped from its grip and hit the floor with a weighty clang.

  Then the backhand came.

  Xander saw it coming, but not fast enough. The impact slammed across the side of his head and dumped him to the boards, the room spinning in a smear of light and color. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed down, but it was long enough to register the blur at the edge of his vision and the warm surge of Ford’s healing magic crawling through his ribs, drawing the fog back into focus.

  Not out, but not steady either.

  Across the barn, Kane was shouting, banging his shield to keep the butcher’s attention while Jo hauled herself out of the wreckage behind him. Kane kicked the cleaver across the floor, sending it skidding toward a blood-slick wall. It might’ve mattered, but the butcher only laughed, a deep, cracked sound that carried like gravel poured through a drain.

  Then it turned to a low table and pulled something else free. A chain of rusted iron with a meat hook the size of a man’s hand dragging behind it.

  The butcher spun it overhead once and lashed out.

  The hook snapped forward and wrapped around Kane’s ankle, dragging him off balance. Before the Ork could haul him in, Jo struck again, her sword plunging into the monster’s thigh. It snarled and turned, trying to dislodge her as Kane tore the chain off his leg and regained his stance.

  Xander looked to the entrance as movement in the doorway caught his eye.

  Two more Orks stepped into view, leaner but no less dangerous, one ash-skinned with a mace already raised, the other pale green with a jagged short sword gripped tight.

  [Analyze] Ork Warrior | Level: 10 | Status: Hostile | Class: Fighter

  [Analyze] Ork Warrior | Level: 11 | Status: Hostile | Class: Fighter

  Zoey stepped up to meet them.

  The first mace strike came high and fast. She caught it on her short sword, twisting with the blow to redirect the force, then reached behind her with her off-hand, drew an arrow from the quiver at her hip, and drove it straight into the ash-skinned Ork’s eye.

  The creature screamed and reeled back.

  The green-skinned Ork rushed past it, targeting Ford.

  Ford tried to block with his staff, but the blade slipped under his guard and bit deep into his arm. He shouted, the staff clattering from his hand as blood soaked through his sleeve and his arm dropped uselessly to his side.

  He stumbled back, the Ork closing in.

  Xander rose, vision still hazy but legs under him now. His hand snapped forward with a pulse of divine energy, and healing light surged into Ford just as the Ork’s sword came down again. Ford ducked low and scrambled aside, clear of the follow-up swing.

  Xander stepped in.

  The spear caught the blade mid-swing, then pushed forward, forcing the green Ork to backpedal.

  Behind him, the blinded one was still flailing wildly, swinging its mace in wide arcs. Zoey slipped sideways, grabbed another arrow, and plunged it into the other eye.

  The Ork screamed again and thrashed harder, blind and enraged.

  "Switch!" Xander shouted.

  Zoey pivoted to engage the green Ork, blade already up. Xander moved in on the blind one.

  It swung too high.

  He dropped low, stepped forward, and drove the spear into its chest just under the ribcage. It roared in defiance, but the sound tapered off as its knees buckled and the spear punched through the heart.

  He yanked the weapon free as the body dropped.

  The second Ork turned, blood soaking down its side from the dozen cuts Zoey had already landed. They pressed in together, Zoey from the flank, Xander from the front. Each stab and slash chipped away at the Ork’s strength, little by little, until its swings slowed and its balance shifted. Xander saw the break, drove his spear through the upper thigh, and Zoey followed with a slash to the throat.

  The Ork dropped.

  Back at the center, the butcher was still standing.

  The meat hook had been discarded at some point, though Xander hadn’t seen when. Now, it wielded something new. A massive axe, the blade a salvaged gearplate from some long-dead farm machine, edges crudely sharpened and bolted to a steel haft. It looked impossible to lift, let alone wield with any speed.

  But the butcher made it dance.

  Jo and Kane worked together to hold the line, deflecting blow after blow, the clang of impact echoing like war drums through the rafters.

  "Zoey, check Ford," Xander barked, then surged forward.

  Three-on-one made the difference.

  Kane kept the butcher’s attention high, shield braced. Jo circled low, striking at joints and gaps. Xander found the rhythm and slipped inside, planting his spear deep into the Ork’s right arm. The butcher snarled, twisted to retaliate, and dropped its guard for half a heartbeat.

  Jo took it.

  She leapt from a nearby table, sword raised, and came down hard.

  The blade buried itself above the butcher’s ear.

  The Ork’s eyes went wide with sudden confusion. Its arms moved out of sync, one reaching for the weapon, the other flailing at Jo. But its body had lost connection with its mind. Movements stuttered, slow and uncertain, like a puppet with half its strings cut.

  Then it reeled back, staggered a step, and collapsed onto a blood-slicked table full of corpses.

  The table cracked under the Ork’s weight but didn’t break. Its bulk settled into the dead like a misplaced god in a ruin of its own making. The silence of the barn was broken only by the swing of the lantern, the slow creak of chains above, and the team's heavy breathing as they bordered on exhaustion.

  Jo stood atop the butcher’s remains, her boots finding steady ground on the wide slab of muscle below her. She gave the sword a hard yank, and it came free with a wet sound that didn’t bear thinking about. Her shoulders dropped as the tension bled out.

  Kane took a half step forward, shield still raised. "That it?"

  "Looks like it. For now," Xander said. He kept his spear leveled until he was close enough to confirm the Ork wasn’t getting back up.

  Xander let the spear dip, but he didn’t stow it. Not yet.

  Behind him, Zoey helped Ford ease down onto an overturned crate near the wall. Blood still soaked the cleric’s sleeve, but his breathing had evened out. The healing spells had done enough to get him clear of danger, even if the pain hadn't faded.

  "You good?" Zoey asked.

  Ford nodded faintly. "Hurts like hell, but I’ll live."

  "That’s the spirit," she said, but her smile didn’t quite make it past that of a grimace.

  Jo dropped from the table with a grunt. "We taking a quick five?"

  "Yeah, I need it," Xander said. "Take a minute. Heal up. Regroup."

  He turned toward Ford. "I'll let you do the first round of heals. You’ve got more mana and better healing spells."

  Ford didn’t argue. He held a hand over his own wound. Warm light pulsed, and the ragged edges of torn flesh began to knit. Then he moved to Kane, who hadn’t bled but had taken more than a few direct hits.

  Xander took a breath and cast one of his own. The divine energy surged, settling the pounding behind his eyes and clearing the last of the blurriness. Then another for Jo. Her only response was a grunt, but the way she rolled her shoulder showed the pain was already fading.

  Across the room, Zoey poked the body of one of the fallen Orks with her short sword.

  "Not having my bow sucked," she said. "Close quarters just isn’t my style."

  Xander tilted his head toward the Ork corpse, both eyes gouged and shaft stubs still buried deep. "Looked like you managed."

  "Yeah, well," she said, sheathing her blade, "hopefully we can complete a quest or find some loot that gets me back in the game."

  With the immediate threats handled, the room shifted as the tension bled out. The stink of blood and burnt hair crawled back into awareness.

  "Let’s sweep it," Xander said.

  They moved through the barn as if they were picking through the aftermath of a post-reboot abandoned grocery store, not a battle they’d barely survived. It had the same feel. Violence soaked into the wood, rot pressed into every corner, and bodies left like garbage waiting for collection.

  Ford crouched near one of the tables, then stopped.

  "Got something," he said.

  The body was human or had been. Male. The bones were shattered in ways no blade would cause, one arm torn off at the shoulder. The face was mostly intact. It was pale and slack, but the ink across the neck stood out. It was in the shape of a cogwheel-and-eye.

  "I saw this symbol back in the quarry. I'm assuming it's a symbol of the Cult of the Simulation." Ford said.

  Ford turned him over. The armor was gone, stripped clean, but under the blood and grime were remnants of synthetic fiber and modern straps. It was a tactical harness. Nothing left that was usable, but it told a story.

  "Think this was part of Victor’s party?" Ford asked.

  Xander nodded once. "Probably. He was headed this way. Path makes sense."

  Jo knelt beside the body, wiping blood off the face with a scrap of cloth. "Could just be a scout. Doesn’t prove anything. The Orks might’ve grabbed him miles from here. We’ve got one data point."

  "The gear was stripped," Ford said. "They didn’t want what he had. Just the meat."

  His voice caught, and he stood quickly, one hand pressed to his stomach. Zoey watched him from a few feet away, her expression unreadable.

  "That’s not all," Kane called from the far end of the barn.

  He stood near a pile of corpses half-covered in canvas and broken crates. Xander and Jo moved to him, stepping carefully around blood and bone.

  This group looked different.

  They were geared, lightly armored, with crude weapons and packs still intact along with homespun clothes, suspenders, and thick-soled boots. One still had a wide-brimmed straw hat, now matted with blood. None of the corpses had a Cult tattoo or any tattoos for that matter.

  "These guys were not Starlight," Jo said.

  "Not Fort Octave, either," Xander added. "The clothing is too rural. All of Rex's men had military-type uniforms."

  "Amish?" Jo asked.

  Kane scratched the back of his head. "Makes sense. If any communities came through the reboot intact, it’d be ones already living low tech. Tight-knit. Used to hard work."

  Zoey crouched beside one body, examining the gear. The sword was simple, iron with a wooden hilt, notched and dull.

  "This is all basic crafted gear. Like tier-one junk. No enchantments. No quest rewards."

  "So they’ve got a safe zone," Xander said. "Or had one. If they’re crafting this stuff, they’ve got benches, tools, skills."

  Jo frowned. "Orks left it. Didn’t touch the gear. Same as the cultist. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t picked clean. Maybe the good stuff’s already gone."

  Kane grunted. "Doesn’t matter. Nothing worth taking."

  He nudged a rusted shield with his boot. It shifted, creaked, and then fell apart.

  Xander stood still for a moment, letting the pieces fall into place.

  "Whatever happened here, the house might have answers."

  They all looked toward the farmhouse. The porch sagged deeper now that the adrenaline was gone. A place with weight. With silence.

  And maybe with answers.

  "Let’s finish this. I want to get back on Victor's trail," Xander said. "We clear the house next."