"You common thugs won't get away with this!"

  Jeff leaned forward over the game table, dice scattered across the battle map where our miniatures stood triumphant. He was doing his best villainous noble voice, which mostly sounded like he'd swallowed gravel.

  "I am Count Jermond of Olgar! I know the king personally!" Jeff gestured dramatically with the count's miniature, a tiny painted figure in ridiculous purple robes. "Do you actually think I'll spend a single second in prison? Ha! Once I'm released, I'll have your heads on pikes!"

  "God, I hate this guy," Greg muttered, reaching for another handful of chips from the bowl in the center of the table. "Like, seriously hate him. What kind of monster uses his own people for magical experiments?"

  "A very realistic one," Samantha said, twirling a pencil between her fingers. "I mean, think about it. He's nobility. The system's corrupt as hell. He's probably right about getting released." She glanced at her character sheet, frowning. "Which makes this whole quest kind of depressing, actually."

  Jeff grinned, clearly pleased his villain had gotten under our skin. "So, what do you want to do with him? Your party has Count Jermond bound and defeated. The dungeon's cleared. The tortured souls have been freed, or at least put out of their misery. What happens next?"

  I leaned back in my chair, considering.

  The thing about tabletop games was that you weren't constrained by dialogue trees or pre-programmed outcomes. You could do anything. And Count Jermond deserved something special.

  A smirk crept across my face.

  "We hang the bastard," I said, meeting Jeff's eyes across the table. "Right here, right now. String him up from the rafters of his own torture chamber."

  "Dude." Greg's eyes widened.

  "But," I continued, warming to the idea, "we don't just leave him there. While he's still flailing around, struggling, choking on his own tongue… we douse his body in lamp oil from his laboratory. Then we set him on fire."

  Samantha burst out laughing, nearly dropping her pencil. "Oh my god, you're awful! That's so messed up!"

  "That's hardcore!" Greg reached across the table and high-fived me, chips forgotten. "Holy shit, man. Remind me never to piss off your character."

  Jeff laughed too, shaking his head. He picked up the count's miniature, examining it with mock solemnity. "Alright, let's roleplay this out." He cleared his throat, pitching his voice higher, desperate. "No! Please, not that! Have mercy! I'll give you gold! Magical items! Anything you want! Just please, PLEASE have mercy!"

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, staying fully in character.

  "I have no mercy for scum like you."

  The words came out cold, flat, absolutely final.

  Jeff grinned and made a sizzling sound effect, moving the count's miniature toward the edge of the table. "And thus ends the tale of Count Jermond of Olgar, tyrant and torturer. Your party watches as justice - brutal, immediate, and permanent - is served."

  "Hell yeah," Greg said.

  Samantha was still giggling. "You guys are psychopaths. Fun psychopaths, but still."

  "It's cathartic," I defended myself, reaching for my character sheet to mark down experience points. "Sometimes the bad guys need to get what's coming to them. No trials, no corrupt officials letting them walk free. Just consequences."

  I walked through the streets of the commercial district, maintaining Roxam's steady gait, hood pulled low over my bandana-covered face. My new saber hung at my hip, the leather scabbard creaking with each step. The cobblestones gleamed beneath the soles of my boots. They were clean, well-maintained, nothing like the cracked filth of Western Zenas.

  Made it one block.

  Two.

  Three.

  The adrenaline wore off somewhere between a perfumer's shop and a bakery that smelled like honey and fresh bread. My stomach twisted violently. I veered left into a narrow alleyway between two brick buildings, boots splashing through puddles I didn't want to think about.

  Nobody was around. Good.

  I ripped the bandana off my face and doubled over, vomiting onto a pile of discarded crates and rotting vegetables. The contents of my stomach (stale bread, terrible ale, bile) splattered across the garbage. I braced myself against the wall, heaving again. And again.

  What the hell did I just do?

  You did what you had to.

  Three people. I'd just killed three people.

  You did what needed to be done.

  My hands wouldn't stop trembling. The shopkeeper's face flashed behind my eyes… his expression shifting from contempt to terror as the sword punched through his gut, pinning him to the wood paneling. The unforgettable wet sound his throat made when I slashed it open.

  Sure, they'd tried to cheat me. Rob me. Three gold wasn't nothing, and they'd probably planned worse once they had me disarmed. But did that deserve death?

  Yes! That bastard was just like Gallan vel Sarcova. Him and all others like him deserve no mercy.

  I was a murderer.

  No.

  No, wait.

  I was Skullface Roxam. This was what Skullface Roxam would have done. Exactly what he would have done. Someone tried to cheat him, disrespect him, and he responded with overwhelming violence. That was the character. That was his arc, his personality, his whole deal.

  I would have done worse.

  I was just roleplaying a character.

  Yeah.

  Just roleplaying.

  I repeated it in my head like a mantra, trying to force my breathing to steady. In. Out. In. Out. The shaking wouldn't stop, but the nausea began to subside. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, then used the bandana to clean the blood spatter off my face and neck. Thankfully, the fabric was already so filthy with dirt, sweat, and God knows what else, that the fresh crimson just disappeared into the existing stains.

  I tied the bandana back over my ruined features, pulling the hood back up for good measure.

  Deep breath.

  I stepped out of the alleyway, forcing my stride into something smooth and purposeful. Not rushed; rushing attracted attention, made you look guilty or desperate. But not slow either. Confident. Measured. The kind of walk that said I belonged here and had somewhere to be.

  The commercial district blurred past. I kept my head forward, eyes fixed on the direction of the docks.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Nobody stopped me. Nobody shouted. No city guards came running with halberds and accusations.

  I made it to the waterfront where the ferries bobbed against their moorings. Fishman, the same company as last time. The ticket seller was another woman, this one older, with silver streaks in her hair and a permanent scowl etched into her features. She looked at me and her lip curled in an instinctive sneer.

  I slid the coins across the counter without speaking.

  She took them, counting twice, then shoved a wooden token toward me.

  I boarded the ferry and found a bench near the stern, away from the other passengers. Sat down. Clenched my fists in my lap, trying to stop them from shaking.

  "You are Skullface Roxam," I whispered to myself, so quiet nobody could hear over the creaking of the boat and the murmur of conversation. "Skullface Roxam did this. Not you."

  The ferry filled around me; commoners hauling sacks of goods, a few better-dressed merchants, a mother with two small children who took one look at me and chose a bench on the opposite side.

  Then the rowers took their positions. The ferry lurched, pulling away from the pristine docks of Eastern Zenas, pushing across the murky Dredge toward the filth of home.

  The ferry bumped against the dock in Western Zenas. I stood, token already handed off, and merged into the flow of departing passengers. The stench hit me like a wall (rot, sewage, smoke) but I barely noticed it anymore. Strange how quickly the nose adapted.

  I walked through the slums with my head down, taking the familiar route back to the Salty Locust. A few people glanced my way, recognized the blue overcoat or the shape of my covered face, and hurried past with downcast eyes.

  The tavern's front door hung crooked on its hinges. Inside, the usual collection of degenerates occupied the tables while drinking, gambling, and arguing over nothing. Nobody looked up when I entered. I crossed the common room and climbed the stairs to the second floor, boots creaking on warped wood.

  I got to my door. Took out the key from my pocket. The lock turned. Inside I went.

  I shut the world out behind me and twisted the bolt home with a satisfying click. For the first time since the weapon shop, I let my shoulders sag.

  The cloak came first; I folded it properly, corner to corner, then draped over the chair near the nightstand. The overcoat came next. I hung it carefully on the hook beside the door, smoothing out wrinkles from the fabric. Discipline. Organization. Little rituals that kept the mind occupied.

  My new saber hung at my left hip in its leather scabbard. I unbuckled the belt and drew the blade halfway, examining the steel in the dim light filtering through the grimy window. Quality work, despite the shopkeeper being a piece of garbage. The edge caught the light, razor-sharp and pristine. I slid it back into the scabbard with a soft shink, then propped it against the wall within arm's reach of the bed.

  Something bumped my thigh as I moved. The longsword's empty sheath, still clipped to my belt. I'd left the actual sword buried in that bastard's gut, pinning him to his own shop wall. The scabbard was useless now, just dead weight and a reminder I didn't need.

  I unclipped it and hurled it across the room. It clattered against the far wall and dropped behind a broken crate.

  I sat on the edge of the straw mattress, rubbing my face through the bandana. My hands had finally stopped shaking, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made my limbs feel like lead.

  Focus. Think about something else. Anything else.

  The build. Right. I was crafting a specific build, something that would transform Roxam from a simple thug into something far more dangerous. I needed benchmarks, goals. Concrete steps forward.

  I concentrated, willing the interface to appear.

  The green status screen materialized in front of me, floating in midair like some kind of magical projection. White text displayed my statistics in that stylish, angular font I recognized from countless hours staring at my monitor back home.

  The numbers had changed. Strength up one point. Perception up one. Dexterity up two.

  Just like the game, then. You didn't level stats through abstract experience points or training montages. You gained them by doing, by performing actions that pushed your physical and mental limits. The fight at the junkyard, all that swordwork against the War Lords, and then the... incident at the weapon shop. Real combat. Real killing.

  The system had rewarded me for it.

  My stomach twisted, but I forced the feeling down. This was good news. Necessary information. It meant I could shape Roxam's growth deliberately, not just stumble through this world hoping muscle memory would save me.

  I focused on the traits section, scrolling down to find Saber Proficiency.

  Saber: Adept

  Adept. I needed Expert rank before I could properly wield the unique blade I had planned, a weapon that would synergize with the build forming in my head.

  Time to grind.

  The best way to grind skills back in the game? Dungeons. Always dungeons.

  I dismissed the status screen with a wave and leaned back against the rough wooden wall, thinking through the mechanics. Dungeons were special zones scattered throughout the world, each one a procedurally generated maze of corridors, chambers, and death traps. Every time you entered, the layout shuffled itself into a new configuration. Fresh monsters. Different trap placements. Randomized loot chests.

  According to the lore - and I'd read every codex entry, every scrap of flavor text the developers had included - the gods created dungeons as trials for humanity. Tests of courage, skill, and determination. Overcome the challenges within, survive the dangers lurking in the dark, and you'd be rewarded. Divine compensation for mortal suffering, or something equally grandiose.

  Poetic bullshit aside, the lore was accurate about one thing: dungeons contained excellent rewards. Rare weapons, enchanted armor, consumables you couldn't buy anywhere else. But the real value, the reason hardcore players spent hundreds of hours delving the same dungeons over and over? Experience.

  Monster kills gave you attribute growth. Lots of it. Way more than fighting bandits or street thugs or corrupted nobles. A single dungeon run could net you gains that would take weeks of normal combat to accumulate. The monsters respawned endlessly, the layouts changed to keep things interesting, and the difficulty scaled with your level.

  Perfect grinding material.

  Zenas City had three dungeons within or near its borders. Three separate opportunities to get stronger.

  First: the Arboretum. Located deep inside Allstone Academy's campus, hidden beneath the botanical gardens. Beautiful place, supposedly. Overgrown with magical plants and infested with angry nature spirits. Problem was, you needed Academy credentials to access it. Guards patrolled the grounds. Gates stayed locked. Students and faculty only.

  I wasn't getting in there anytime soon.

  Second: the Sewers. Eastern Zenas's underground waste system had transformed into a dungeon decades ago, creating a labyrinth of flooded tunnels and forgotten cisterns. Now it crawled with disease-ridden rats, mutated slimes, and worse things that thrived in filth. Multiple entrance points scattered throughout the merchant quarter, easy enough to find if you didn't mind wading through literal shit.

  Tempting, but the smell alone would kill me before the monsters did.

  Third: the Graves.

  I smiled beneath my bandana.

  The Graves sat just outside Western Zenas's northern wall, a sprawling cemetery that had been in use for centuries. Somewhere along the way, something went wrong. The dead stopped staying dead. Now the place was a proper dungeon, full of animated corpses, vengeful spirits, and things that crawled out of cracked mausoleums when the sun went down.

  It was the closest dungeon to my current location. Most accessible. And right next to it stood the Shrine to Xiatas.

  That shrine was critical. Essential, even.

  In the game, visiting certain shrines granted you subclass options. You'd kneel at the altar, pray to whichever god claimed dominion over that particular shrine, and boom! New character customization unlocked. Extra abilities, unique skill trees, powerful passive bonuses. Subclasses transformed mediocre builds into devastating combinations.

  There were two shrines here in Zenas City. One was at the Cathedral of Light. That one was useless to me, since it awarded only "good" aligned classes. The other one was the Shrine of Xiatas, and it offered several classes for those considered "evil."

  The Shrine to Xiatas had one subclass in particular that I needed. Not just wanted. Needed. Without it, the entire build I was planning would fall apart. The unique saber I intended to acquire would be half as effective, maybe less. Everything I was working toward hinged on getting that subclass.

  Two objectives. One location. Perfect efficiency.

  I nodded to myself, satisfaction cutting through the exhaustion. Tomorrow I'd prepare supplies, gather whatever equipment I could scrounge up, and head north to the Graves. Then I'd visit the shrine to unlock my subclass, run the dungeon, grind some skills, and hopefully get Saber Proficiency to Expert. Simple plan. Straightforward.

  Nope. Nothing at all complicated about voluntarily walking into a monster-infested graveyard.

  My body felt like someone had beaten it with clubs. Every muscle ached. My hands throbbed where blisters had formed and burst during the fighting.

  I reached for the thin blanket wadded up at the foot of the mattress and pulled it over myself. The straw poked through the fabric, jabbing into my back and shoulders. Lumpy, uncomfortable, smelling faintly of mildew and old sweat.

  I closed my eyes anyway.

  Tried to empty my mind. Tried to focus on tomorrow's plans instead of today's violence.

  Didn't work.

  The shopkeeper's face materialized behind my eyelids. His shocked expression as my blade punched through his sternum. The wet sound of steel scraping bone. His hands clutching at the sword, trying uselessly to pull it free while blood ran down the leather-wrapped handle.

  I squeezed my eyes tighter.

  Argor's head bounced across the junkyard dirt, trailing arterial spray.

  The guard's severed hand flopped on the weapon shop floor, fingers still twitching.

  All that blood. So much blood.

  Sleep came eventually, dragging me down into dreams that were nothing but screams and the metallic taste of violence.