Waiting for his team, Hydrion scanned his party menu.

  [System Scan: Horror Story Party Members]

  Leader:

  Hydrion - Healer

  Members:

  Balladin - Bard

  Cruz Control - Archer

  Don Espadón - Gladiator

  Jack - Warrior

  Martha - Witch

  Pierre - Assassin

  Sir. Wpierdol - Brawler

  He briefly considered what kind of beings they all were. He knew some and had some ideas about others, but decided he would find out the rest sooner or later. It would be rude to ask outright. What was he supposed to do—gather them in a circle and have them introduce themselves one by one?

  He imagined Pierre raising his hand: “Hi, I’m Pierre, an assassin. I’m a water spirit, and back on Earth I killed assholes who needed killing to keep our community safe. I also gave swimming lessons.”

  He shook his head at the thought.

  Maybe it wasn’t quite what he had in mind when he first imagined his squad, but he put his bet on talented individuals who all had something to contribute to the team rather than any optimal class setup. It would do for now. As for making any adjustments, he would first have to battle-try their formation to see what works and what doesn’t.

  Leading his little Horror Story out of the fort he took a deep breath. And then immediately went into a coughing fit as the ash made it’s way into his airways. He was already not a fan of any dry climate, and addition of tiny death flakes did not improve his disposition.

  [System Notice: Departure from Staging Area Detected]

  Resuming normal experience processing.

  Processing deferred achievements...

  Total Experience Earned: 1,500 XP

  LEVEL UP! You have advanced from Level 1 to Level 4!

  Current Status: Level: 4

  Experience: 120 / 1,789 to Level 5

  +6 Health

  +3 Perception

  +3 Social Skills

  Stat Points Available: 15

  Skill Selections Available: 0

  Next skill available at level: 6

  Please allocate stat points.

  Note: Experience will now be awarded in real-time for all qualifying actions.

  That message gave him pause, and it seemed like not only him, but the whole Horror Story. Someone else walked out through the gates and after a brief second gave a loud ‘whoop!’.

  Whoop indeed. All it took was walking out of the fort for the levels to start rolling in. One small step in human form, one giant leap in levels.

  All those points may not have been much for him currently, especially after his turn with Amelia’s tablet, but it got him within 2 levels of having a new skill, and all that without any fighting yet.

  He kept an eye on his team while he pondered where to distribute his free points. His Sagacity and Problem Solving at 21 was grating him, but he didn’t need to think too much to know exactly where all those points would go. He threw them all in Social Skills, because fuck that natural “1” he has gotten. 13 that he reached through his ingenuity wasn’t enough either, not if he wanted to be a team leader in a long run. That along with the points that got automatically allocated to it, brought it to 31 + bonuses - penalties. Still low, considering he could only use 10% of it in his human form, but manageable.

  While everyone had an absent look on their faces, obviously looking at similar messages and also thinking how to allocate their stat points, he looked around, weighing the land. Behind him, the fort crowned the hill like a black diadem, its silhouette stark against the blood?red sky. From its gate, the road spilled downward in a wavering line, dipping and rising across the ridge as it wound toward the distant nexus—a golden spark clinging to the far mountain. To the left, the slope sagged into a weary descent, where ash?dusted trees and brittle shrubs clung sparsely to the soil, their presence thinning the view but never fully hiding it. The right side, however, drew his eye: the ground there rose and fell in restless swells, the terrain broken and uneven. Foliage thickened into a tangle of charred trunks and thorn?snared undergrowth, choking sightlines to less than a hundred feet, sometimes far less. Among the cracks, clusters of black and red mushrooms glowed faintly from beneath their hoods, their orange light seeping like fire from wounds that refused to heal.

  “Looks like somebody left the oven on a little too long,” Hydrion mused, fists planted on his hips, his words carrying that wisecracking blend of Brooklyn and Bronx. “Mushrooms glowin’, trees lookin’ crispy… yup, definitely not Albuquerque.”

  “He will choose the right path, won’t he?” Cruz Control sighed, her gaze narrowing as she scanned the horizon.

  “Heroes need to test their mettle,” Don Espadón declared, puffing his chest with theatrical pride. “Their path forged in glistening sweat, their muscles strained against destiny itself!”

  “I never felt like I belonged anywhere as much as this place,” Martha whispered, folding her hands as if in prayer. Then her voice cracked into fury. “So why can’t I have my goddamn phone when I need to take a goddamn selfie!? Martin! Martin!” She threw her head back, shouting at the sky. “Where the hell are you, Martin? We need to talk about this—right now! Get your consultant ass on the line, or whatever it is you do, immediately!”

  An electric guitar solo rang out behind them, and everyone turned toward Balladin, their bard, who lingered at the rear of the group. He grinned sheepishly as he slung his black guitar back over his shoulder.

  “Power Rangers?” a player asked in a nasal voice as he strode past with his party. “Nice.”

  “We’re moving out,” Hydrion said, one hand pointing to the right, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

  One of the more useful features of his party leader window—besides the list of names—was a minimap he could shift around his vision and anchor in any corner. It displayed a circle where red dots marked the positions of all the members. When he focused on a dot, their name appeared. He found it neat, and wondered what its range might be. Another thing he would probably discover later.

  Hydrion led his group some distance to the right, or east, until the road slipped from view, then cut sharply left. For their first encounters, he figured it was safer to stay close enough to the road, just in case.

  The terrain favored the change in direction, and it even leveled out momentarily, offering a decent field of view.

  “So, do we have any plan of action,” Cruz Control broke the silence, “or are we just flying by the seat of our pants?”

  “We can’t make any plans until we encounter the first mobs,” Hydrion shrugged. “We’ll figure it out afterwards.”

  “Oh Lord, thank you for strategy genius, Julius Caesar in command,” Cruz Control muttered under her breath.

  “Our strategy must be flexible,” Sir. Wpierdol said calmly, scanning the surroundings, “because no plan survives intact once battle begins.”

  “Doesn’t that mean we should at least have a strategy to begin with?” Cruz Control pressed.

  “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth,” Hydrion said, grinning at Sir Wpierdol.

  Unfortunately, the reference was lost on the man. He suddenly shouted, “Boss, we got one!” and, without waiting for anyone’s reaction, yanked a red?and?blue scarf over his nose and mouth. He hefted the baseball bat from his shoulder with both hands, then bolted forward, yelling something about Covia.

  Hydrion looked ahead and saw that, in fact, there were not one but three creatures. The imps had already spotted them; they shrieked and spread out, jagged silhouettes bristling with menace. Yet they didn’t charge, nor did they flee at the sight of eight figures—proving that mathematical prowess wasn’t anyone’s strong suit in this situation. Instead, they lingered, cackling as they spat sizzling gobs onto their own claws, each spark flaring into tiny bursts of fire that lit their twisted grins.

  “Is he a baseball player?” Hydrion asked with curiosity as he watched the man dodge a fireball and then plant an expert hit squarely on an imp’s face.

  He had no intention of joining the fight unless necessary. For now, he preferred to hang back and see how the rest of the party handled the threat.

  “Not that I know of.” Pierre scratched his head, making no move forward either. “I’ve never seen him at any games or even watching any. He was always a huge soccer fan, so this is a little baffling to me too.”

  “Well, he sure has a talent,” Hydrion muttered.

  Sir Wpierdol looked in his element, weaving between opponents and swinging his bat with the expertise of a sword master. He punctuated his strikes with the occasional kick or punch to the face, all while slipping past every fireball with uncanny ease, as though the whole scene had been choreographed. Hydrion had to admit—the Knight of Wpierdol exceeded his expectations.

  Unfortunately, the rest of the team wasn’t even close to matching him.

  Don Espadón wrestled with the straps of his giant sword, unable to free it from his back. The bard grimaced as he tried to tune his guitar mid?battle. Cruz Control fumbled with her bowstring, while their warrior leaned against a tree, scratching his back as if nothing urgent was happening. Martha at least made an effort: she fashioned a lasso from her rope and swung it overhead once, but by the time she let it fly, the last victim of Sir Wpierdol’s aggression was already collapsing into ash.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Hydrion grinned. One guy went all in without a shred of restraint, one was busy rubbing wood, two just stood watching, and the other four fumbled with their gear. No two ways about it—the party’s first showing was a magnificent, raging dumpster fire.

  He was genuinely surprised when three pop?up windows with +1 XP floated into view after Sir Wpierdol finished his fight. If he had been the system, he would’ve deducted points for making him witness that debacle.

  Loud clapping drew everyone’s attention to Hydrion, who waved them over with an unreadable expression.

  "All right, gather up!" he barked. "You wanted strategy? Fighting in a team, 101, begins now."

  Hydrion had always had a strange relationship with power. He was utterly convinced he was the most qualified to lead—and usually he was—but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it, or even excelled at it, when the mantle was thrust upon him. After all, he had once met Gaius Julius Caesar, only to flee his company and dismiss him as a complete moron when the man crossed the Rubicon. Hydrion had been on a much?needed vacation in the marshes of the Nile when word reached him that the supposed fool had not only survived but had become ruler of all Rome.

  So yes, his judgment in military matters wasn’t always flawless. Just… most of the time.

  “You,” he pointed at the guy with the giant sword strapped to his back. “Don Espadón. You can’t keep your sword back there. As cool as it looks, it’s asinine. You need to be able to swing that thing at a moment’s notice, not hop around like someone just dropped an ice cube down your shirt.”

  “No, no, no, my friend. The style, the glamour—it cannot bow to your boring practicality! When the people see Don Espadón, they must see the full magnificence!”

  Hydrion raised an eyebrow as the man waxed poetic about style and magnificence while standing in stained gardener’s overalls and gloves, dirt still smeared across his face from his last job.

  Yes, he was a handsome guy—tall, with short curly black hair cropped close at the sides, full lips, a healthy glow, and an easy, confident demeanor. And yes, the giant two?handed sword did look cool. But none of that was a reason to get himself killed in the tutorial. Or worse, get Hydrion killed.

  "If I carry my sword on my shoulder like some dirty brute, it will hide my face! The ladies will cry out, '?Ay, Don Espadón, we cannot see your handsome smile!' I would look like a common laborer—a peasant hauling firewood, not a gladiator!"

  Ah. There it was at last. Hydrion grinned.

  “Show me that thing for a second.” Don obediently turned, and Hydrion slid the massive blade free from his back. “Now pay close attention. It’s not every day you get a true master to teach you these things.”

  Of course, he didn't mention that he had never swung a sword like that in his life, and that everything he was implying was complete bullshit. He could handle blades well enough, but he was a master of spinning stories, not steel.

  "What you've got here is a large, two-handed sword," Hydrion declared, shifting his weight onto one leg and cocking his hip slightly to the side. He rested the flat of the blade across his shoulder, letting the tip angle upward in a casual display of strength. His free hand settled on his hip in a confident, almost cocky stance. "The last thing you want to do is keep this magnificent thing hidden." He paced back and forth with exaggerated confidence, the sword never leaving his shoulder. "You want to impress the ladies? With what—a sheathed sword?"

  Don’s jaw dropped as the meaning dawned on him. “Sí… they must see… the long, glorious length of the sword…” he whispered in awe.

  “Exactly! They need to see how you carry it, how you swing it around, how confident you are with your sword!”

  “Are they still talking about the actual sword or…?” Martha muttered to the only other woman in the group.

  “Hun, they’re men.” Cruz Control shook her head sagely. “They may have started with swords, but sure as hell they’re talking about dicks now. No two ways about it.”

  “And they think all the women in the world want to see their dicks!?”

  “They’re men talking about their cocks to each other. Of course they think their pricks are the eighth wonder of the world.”

  “?Maestro!” Don Espadón cried, reclaiming his sword from Hydrion. “This lesson—it will live in my corazón forever!”

  “OK, now you.” Hydrion pointed at Cruz Control.

  “No need for any pecker?swinging lessons,” she said quickly. “Pretty sure I’ll never need them.”

  “What!? What the hell are you talking about!?” Hydrion snapped, genuinely confused. “I swear, all women ever want to talk about is dicks.” He shook his head. “Your bow! Your goddamn bow!” He jabbed a finger at the piece of wood in her hands. “It’s a game, for crying out loud. No game requires you to string your bow before combat. This isn’t some real, back?in?the?day bow. String it up, and if you can’t, get Don to do it for you. And then keep it that way. I can’t have you fiddling with strings when the shit hits the fan.”

  Cruz Control actually blushed and muttered under her breath about not letting Don touch her bow.

  "Now to you!" Hydrion pointed at Jack. "What's up with you and the trees? Are you a bear or something?"

  "If you need someone to scratch your back," Martha interjected, stepping closer with a predatory gleam in her eye, "just let me know. I can reach all those pesky places the trees can't." She trailed a finger along the back of a nearby log as if demonstrating. "And I promise I won't ask why you were molesting them like they owed you money."

  "Well?" Hydrion raised a brow, completely unfazed. "Bear or not?"

  Being a master of conversation derailment, he wasn't bothered by Martha's comments. Unlike Jack, who blushed like a teenager whose browser history had just been projected onto the family TV during Thanksgiving dinner.

  "Well… yeah?" Jack managed, his face so red he looked ready to let off steam from his ears.

  "Oh…" Hydrion blinked, dumbfounded for a second. "Like a real bear?"

  The blush faded as Jack settled back into himself, shoulders relaxing. This part—admitting what he was—didn't embarrass him. Just Martha's... attention did. He sat there, broad and solid, comfortable in his own skin. Something about him—his sheer presence—made Hydrion think "bear" even before he'd admitted it. He didn't growl, didn't lumber, didn't even have the heavy Russian accent Hydrion half-expected from someone who could turn into a bear. He was an absolute mixed-bear bag.

  "Yes, a panda bear."

  "A panda bear," Hydrion repeated, still trying to process. Now that derailed him - like someone had hit his mental remote and switched him from Game of Thrones to Bluey mid-sentence.

  “What? You think all bears are polar or grizzly?” Jack said defensively. “Not all of us stomp around going HHRRROOAAAH, HUFF?HUFF?HUFF, WHOOOFF—” he expertly imitated an angry bear’s sounds—“and stuff. Some of us prefer ‘Mmmrrhh?ehhh’ and chill.”

  “Well… that’s a first.” Hydrion scratched his neck, puzzled. “So our warrior is a panda…”

  It looked like Jack was about to say something, but at that moment a notification flared in the center of everyone’s vision. Hydrion winced—he could only hope the system wouldn’t throw pop?ups like this in the middle of an actual battle.

  [System Survey: Grumbling]

  Your fellow citizens have expressed concerns regarding the adequacy of rewards offered by the Cosmos System for participation in New World Universe. To improve fairness and satisfaction, your input was requested.

  Question 1: In your opinion, what would constitute an acceptable reward for winning the game (whether as the strongest faction or the last individual alive)?

  Question 2: In your opinion, what would constitute an acceptable reward for runner?up participants?

  [Results: Greedy Bunch]

  Apparently, a brand?new planet wasn’t enough motivation for players from Earth and Earth2. The following changes have been enacted:

  **Based on performance:**

  - Winners will retain a number of skills and body transformations.

  - Winners will keep a portion of their gathered treasure.

  - Winners may select one artifact to keep. (Effects may be limited.)

  - Runners?up will retain a portion of their gathered treasure.

  - The option to retain your game-chosen race has been added.

  - Special locations have been introduced with posted warnings. *Permanent death is now possible, resulting in demise both in?game and in the real world.*

  A distant shout cut through the air, pulling his attention. Some people just couldn't let others contemplate massive game changes in peace. Perma-death? How cool was that? This game was getting spicy.

  The thought reminded him he hadn't eaten in hours, and one of his heads was loudly demanding reparations. But the shouting came again—closer this time, more frantic.

  From the ash and trees, several figures emerged. In front was a middle-aged, blonde woman. With every step, she leaned heavily on a staff made haphazardly from blackened wood—neither a comfortable crutch nor a formidable weapon, her frantic eyes scanning desperately for danger or help. Behind her, a man and a younger woman struggled forward, their arms wrapped around a third figure as they half-dragged, half-carried him away from the forest, his feet leaving lines in the ash, useless. The injured man's body was a horror of severe burns, skin blackened and peeling, portions of his face so damaged he was nearly unrecognizable.

  "Doctor! Doctor!" the blonde woman shouted again, as her eyes zeroed in on Hydrion's party. "We need a doctor! Does anyone know where we can find one!?"

  When none of them reacted—no one stepped forward, no one offered help—she exchanged a quick, desperate glance with her companions. A silent conversation passed between them, and a decision was made. She turned towards the road and hastened her steps, which only made her total exhaustion more apparent—unsteady gait, breathlessness. Still, she shouted for a doctor, hoping other parties might hear her from a distance.

  The two carrying the burned man continued forward, struggling under his weight.

  "Just kill me," the voice between them groaned.

  "Well," Pierre said as they drew closer, giving everyone a front-row view of the extensive burns covering the man's body, "are you going to do something about it?"

  "Me?" Hydrion blinked. "What am I supposed to do?"