I walked through the filthy streets of Western Zenas, boots splashing through puddles of questionable liquid as I headed toward the docks. The pistol pressed against my stomach with each step, an uncomfortable reminder of its presence.

  Two ways existed to cross from Western Zenas to the Eastern half of the city. Well, technically three, if you counted swimming through the Dredge River, which only a complete idiot would attempt given the current, the pollution, and the occasional corpse that floated past.

  The first option: the bridges. North Bridge and South Bridge connected the two halves of Zenas, massive stone constructions that had stood for centuries. Unfortunately, those ancient marvels of engineering had become choke points for traffic. Thousands of people, carts, wagons, and livestock squeezed across them daily, creating congestion that would make Los Angeles rush hour look efficient by comparison.

  I'd crossed those bridges in-game numerous times, watching my character navigate through crowds while I impatiently mashed the sprint button, cursing the developers for not including a "teleport past this nightmare" option. Experiencing that gridlock in person? No thanks.

  Which left the second option: ferries.

  Dozens of companies operated ferry services across the Dredge River, competing fiercely for customers. The competition kept prices reasonable and service frequent. Much faster than slogging across a bridge shoulder-to-shoulder with unwashed masses for an hour.

  The stench hit me three blocks before I reached the waterfront.

  Rotting fish. That distinctive, nauseating smell of seafood left too long in the sun, mixed with salt, seaweed, and industrial waste. My stomach, still queasy from the earlier violence, lurched dangerously.

  Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Roxam wouldn't throw up from a bad smell.

  I forced myself forward, breathing through my mouth to minimize the assault on my nostrils.

  The docks materialized through the maze of decrepit buildings, and somehow managed to look worse than the slums I'd just left behind. Fish grease coated every surface: wooden posts, stone pilings, the walls of warehouses. This created a slick, iridescent sheen that caught the afternoon light. Oil pooled in puddles, rainbow patterns swirling across dark water trapped between planks.

  Buildings sagged toward the river, their foundations rotted by constant moisture. Paint peeled in long strips. Shutters hung crooked. Roofs leaked. Everything looked one strong wind away from collapse into the Dredge.

  And the crowds. Saints preserve me, the crowds.

  Sailors staggered between taverns, already drunk despite the early hour. Fishermen hauled nets and crates, shouting at anyone in their path. Travelers lugged baggage, searching for specific ferry services amid the chaos. Dockworkers loaded and unloaded cargo with mechanical efficiency, their movements synchronized through long practice.

  Everyone moved with purpose, creating a churning mass of humanity that flowed between buildings and boats in unpredictable currents.

  Everyone except me.

  The crowd parted as I approached, people stumbling over themselves to create distance. Conversations died mid-sentence. Eyes averted. A mother pulled her child close, whispering urgently.

  Negative fifty-five Charisma, baby! Crowd control through sheer ugliness!

  I strode through the gap they created, maintaining Roxam's characteristic predatory walk: shoulders back, head up, hand resting casually near my sword hilt. The ultimate "don't mess with me" posture.

  Finding the Fishman Ferry Service took longer than expected. In Path of Exemplar, fast-travel icons floated conveniently above important locations, impossible to miss. Reality lacked such helpful markers. I wandered past three competing ferry companies (River Rat Transportation, Quick Cross Services, Dredge Riders) before finally spotting the weathered sign with a cartoonish fish-man painted in faded blues and greens.

  In the game, Fishman Ferry had served as the primary fast-travel hub for crossing the Dredge. Not free, but affordable and convenient, allowing players to zip between locations without tedious walking animations. The service operated multiple routes to various docks on both sides of the river.

  A short line extended from the ticket counter. Four people waited ahead of me, purchasing their passage with varying degrees of cheer.

  I joined the queue, noting how the person directly ahead, a heavyset merchant clutching a leather satchel, suddenly noticed my presence and shuffled forward with unseemly haste, pressing against the elderly woman in front of him.

  The line moved quickly. Fishman Ferry prided itself on efficiency; their ticket agents processed customers with practiced speed.

  My turn arrived.

  The young woman behind the counter looked up from counting copper pieces, probably ready with a rehearsed greeting and professional smile.

  Both died on her lips.

  Her eyes went wide, comically wide, like a startled deer. The copper pieces slipped from her fingers, clattering across the counter. Color drained from her face. For a heartbeat, I genuinely thought she might faint.

  "One ticket," I said gruffly, sliding ten copper pieces across the counter toward her paralyzed hands.

  My voice seemed to break whatever spell had frozen her. She nodded jerkily, movements puppet-like, and fumbled for a ticket from the stack beside her register. Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped it twice before successfully passing it over.

  I grabbed the ticket without thanks, turned, and walked toward the boarding area.

  Smooth, Roxam. Very smooth. Traumatize the service workers. That'll help your reputation.

  But that was how Roxam would have handled the interaction. Cold. Efficient. No unnecessary pleasantries or false courtesy. Definitely no apologies for scaring someone half to death just by existing.

  Stay in character. That was the rule.

  The ferry waited at the end of a sturdy pier, its broad hull painted in the same faded blue-green as the company sign. A large vessel, capable of housing twenty passengers comfortably on its open deck. Benches lined the railings. A canvas awning provided shade amidships.

  Belowdecks, I knew, rowers powered the ship. Beefy men with arms like tree trunks, capable of propelling the ferry back and forth across the Dredge all day without tiring. In the game, they'd been depicted as identical, probably copy-pasted NPC models. In reality? I assumed they were actual humans with individual features and personalities and lives beyond rowing tourists across the river.

  Don't think about it. They're just background NPCs. Background NPCs.

  I climbed aboard and selected a bench toward the stern, away from other passengers. Several people had already claimed seats, and the trickle of boarding travelers continued as we waited for capacity.

  Fifteen minutes passed. The ferry filled slowly but steadily; merchants, laborers, a pair of young women who might have been maids or seamstresses, an older gentleman who looked scholarly, a family with three squabbling children.

  All of them gave me wide berth.

  Finally, the ferry reached capacity. A crewman untied the mooring lines and pushed us away from the pier with a long pole. Below, I heard the rhythmic splash of oars biting water, felt the vessel surge forward as the rowers found their cadence.

  The Dredge River was massive.

  I'd known that intellectually, from game maps and loading screen trivia. But experiencing the scale firsthand drove the reality home. Standing on the deck as we pulled away from shore, I could barely see the opposite side of Zenas City through the afternoon haze. Just a vague smudge of buildings on the distant horizon.

  This thing is less a river and more an inland sea.

  The journey started calmly. We moved at a steady pace, cutting diagonally across the current. The foul stench of rotting fish gradually faded, replaced by the fresh smell of moving water. It was clean and crisp, with hints of vegetation from upstream and salt from the ocean far downstream.

  I leaned against the railing, watching Western Zenas shrink behind us. The slums, the docks, the Salty Locust tavern, all fading to indistinct shapes. From this distance, even the poverty looked picturesque.

  The crossing took roughly an hour. I spent the time watching water flow past the hull, listening to other passengers chat about mundane concerns, such as market prices, weather patterns, gossip about nobility, complaints about taxes. Normal people living normal lives, blissfully unaware of the disfigured criminal in their midst.

  Eventually, Eastern Zenas materialized through the haze.

  The difference was immediately apparent.

  Even approaching from the water, the eastern dockside looked cleaner, more organized. Fresh paint covered buildings with cheerful yellows, blues, and whites that gleamed in the sunlight. The wooden docks appeared well-maintained, sturdy and level without rot or concerning gaps. Warehouses stood straight and proud. Ships moored in neat rows.

  The ferry glided toward a designated pier, the rowers adjusting their rhythm to slow our approach. We bumped gently against padded posts, and crewmen secured us with practiced efficiency.

  I stood, joining the queue of disembarking passengers.

  Stepping onto Eastern Zenas felt like entering a different world.

  The crowds here moved with purpose but without desperation. People wore clean clothes; not rich necessarily, but maintained and mended. The streets had actual paving stones instead of packed dirt and mud. Buildings displayed guild signs and shop placards.

  And guards. Uniformed city guardsmen patrolled openly, their presence a visible reminder of law and order. Such a sight never existed in Western Zenas, where guards only appeared after something catastrophic had already happened.

  I took a deep breath. Still smelled vaguely of fish (occupational hazard of dockside anywhere) but fresh fish, not rotting garbage.

  Immediately, I noticed the stares.

  Not fearful avoidance like Western Zenas. These looked different. Hostile. Judgmental. People eyed me with open distaste, their expressions broadcasting clear messages: You don't belong here. Go back where you came from.

  Several guards stopped their patrols to watch me, hands drifting toward weapons. They maintained distance but tracked my movement carefully.

  Interesting. Suddenly they grow spines when they're safe behind their fancy uniforms and clean streets.

  Pathetic.

  I ignored the hostile attention and moved forward, pushing through the crowd with Roxam's characteristic intimidating presence. The commercial district waited somewhere ahead.

  Time to spend some money.

  I pressed forward through the commercial district's crowds, bodies parting reflexively around me like water flowing past a stone. The open space they created felt familiar as Western Zenas had offered the same courtesy. But the resemblance ended there.

  Here, they didn't simply avoid me.

  They made sure I knew why.

  A woman in a green dress wrinkled her nose as I passed, her expression twisted like she'd stepped in something foul. A merchant in fine clothing turned his back deliberately, shoulders stiff with contempt. Two younger men in academy-style doublets sneered openly, one muttering something that included the word "scum" just loud enough for me to hear.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Every face broadcast the same message with crystal clarity: You're filth. You don't belong on this side of the river. Go back to whatever gutter spawned you.

  I kept walking, head up, shoulders back, letting Roxam's natural intimidation factor do its work. This was exactly how Roxam would handle such treatment: with complete indifference, as if their opinions mattered less than dirt beneath his boots.

  Stay in character. Don't react. You're Skullface Roxam, not some college kid who'd get his feelings hurt.

  Still, their attitude seriously pissed me off.

  The hypocrisy dripped off them like sewage. These same people probably bought goods smuggled through Western Zenas, used services provided by people who lived there, benefited from the cheap labor that crossed the river daily. But put that labor in front of them in human form? Suddenly they were too refined, too sophisticated, too better to even acknowledge basic humanity.

  Typical NPCs. Always following their programming.

  At least the landmarks here proved easier to follow than Western Zenas's twisted maze. The commercial district organized itself with actual logic: streets that ran perpendicular and parallel, buildings that displayed proper addresses, signs that pointed toward specific merchant quarters.

  I navigated past a textile shop, a jeweler's establishment with guards posted outside, an apothecary advertising remedies for common ailments, a bakery whose windows displayed pastries that made my stomach rumble with sudden hunger.

  There. Three blocks ahead on the right side of the main thoroughfare.

  A hanging sign depicted a crossed sword and axe above ornate script: Eastside Weaponry Emporium.

  Finally.

  In Path of Exemplar, this shop served as the primary vendor for basic weapons during early gameplay. The prices ran slightly inflated compared to other options, but new players typically didn't know about alternatives until deeper into their first run.

  I'd used it extensively during my virgin playthrough, back when I thought 800 silver for a longsword was reasonable. Every subsequent run, I'd avoided it like plague, hunting down better gear from hidden merchants, quest rewards, and crafters like Marcos.

  Fat lot of good that knowledge does me when Marcos won't even talk to me.

  Still, for early-game equipment, the Emporium remained solid enough. The weapons might be overpriced, but their quality met acceptable standards.

  The sign hanging on the door read OPEN in cheerful golden letters.

  I pushed through, triggering a bell above the entrance that chimed with irritating cheerfulness.

  Ding-a-ling-a-ling!

  The interior screamed "posh establishment catering to wealthy clientele." Polished wooden floors gleamed under afternoon sunlight streaming through spotless windows. Display cases lined the walls, their glass surfaces immaculate, showcasing weapons arranged with meticulous care.

  Longswords, shortswords, bastard swords, all mounted on velvet cushions with their blades positioned for optimal viewing. Spears stood in elegant racks, their shafts arranged by length and material. Axes hung from wall mounts, their edges catching light. Bows rested in specialized stands, their strings loose to prevent warping.

  Each weapon bore a small card tied to its grip or shaft, displaying price and basic specifications in flowing script.

  Fancy. Very fancy. Probably charges extra just for the ambiance.

  Behind a polished counter near the shop's rear stood the proprietor.

  I recognized him instantly from countless gaming sessions. In Path of Exemplar, he appeared as a somewhat bland NPC with a thin mustache, greedy eyes, and a tendency to make comments about "discerning customers" whenever players browsed his inventory.

  Here, reality rendered him in much higher definition.

  The thin mustache remained, waxed to sharp points at each end. His features pinched together around a pointed nose that seemed designed for looking down at people. Greasy black hair slicked back from a high forehead. Small, calculating eyes that immediately fixed on me with undisguised distaste.

  He wore expensive clothing: a burgundy coat with gold buttons, cream-colored shirt with ruffles at collar and cuffs, a vest embroidered with thread that might actually be real gold.

  His expression twisted into a sneer the moment his gaze registered my appearance.

  Two men flanked the entrance behind me. Guards, obviously. Both wore matching outfits consisting of dark pants, white shirts, leather vests reinforced with metal studs. Swords hung from their belts, the weapons well-maintained but not particularly fancy.

  Their eyes locked onto me immediately, tracking my movement as I began wandering through the shop.

  Security detail. Makes sense for a high-end establishment.

  I ignored their hostile attention, focusing instead on the merchandise.

  The display cases organized weapons by type and purpose. Combat swords occupied the front section: longswords, broadswords, bastard swords, greatswords, all arranged by increasing size and price.

  Polearms claimed the left wall. Utility weapons and tools filled a corner display. Bows and crossbows hung from special mounts along the right side.

  And there, toward the back corner near the counter...

  Dueling weapons.

  Rapiers gleamed under glass, their thin blades elegant and deadly. Epees rested beside them. Main-gauches displayed their distinctive blade-catching guards. And sabers, curved and purposeful, mounted on velvet backing.

  Jackpot.

  I moved toward them, my boots clicking against the polished floor.

  "Ahem."

  The shopkeeper's voice cut through the silence, nasally and dripping with condescension.

  "I'm afraid you may have entered the wrong establishment."

  I didn't respond, bending slightly to examine the sabers through the glass case.

  "This shop caters to a more... refined clientele, you understand."

  Subtle. Real subtle, asshole.

  I continued ignoring him, studying each saber's specifications. Length, curve, weight, balance point, guard style, grip material. The variations ranged from minimal to significant, and choosing correctly mattered for the build I planned.

  "Perhaps you would find more suitable accommodations in Western Zenas."

  His tone made "suitable accommodations" sound like "pig sty."

  "Establishments there are more... accommodating to individuals of your particular station."

  He's basically telling me to fuck off back to the slums where I belong.

  Perfect Roxam behavior would be complete silence, total indifference to the verbal barbs. The crime lord didn't waste energy responding to insects buzzing around his ears.

  But also? This jackass never acted this way in-game.

  When I'd visited this shop during playthroughs with student characters, he'd been obsequious and helpful, falling over himself to recommend weapons and offer "special discounts for valued Academy patrons."

  Right. Because students are part of his sophisticated clientele. But someone who looks like they crawled from the slums? Suddenly he grows a spine.

  I spotted the saber I wanted. It was third from the left in the display.

  The blade stretched approximately thirty-two inches, curved in a classic cavalry style. Single-edged, with a fuller running most of the blade's length to reduce weight. The guard featured a knuckle bow design, practical rather than ornate, offering solid protection without unnecessary flourish.

  Black leather wrapped the grip, worn enough to suggest this piece had seen previous ownership but maintained well enough to indicate quality.

  The price card read: 700 Silver.

  Expensive, but not outrageous. I had more than enough from my shares of the War Lords job.

  I opened the display case, which was unlocked, apparently trusting the guards to prevent theft, and removed the saber, testing its weight.

  Good balance. The point of equilibrium sat about four inches from the guard, perfect for the combination of cuts and thrusts I'd need.

  I gave it a few experimental movements, letting Roxam's muscle memory guide the motions. The blade sang through air, responsive and quick.

  This'll work. This'll work perfectly for the build I planned.

  "Sir, I must insist-"

  "I'll take this one," I interrupted, turning toward the counter and placing the saber on its polished surface.

  The shopkeeper stared at me like I'd just vomited on his floor.

  "I... see."

  His lips pursed, mustache quivering.

  "Very well. The price is three gold."

  I narrowed my eyes behind the bandana.

  What.

  "The tag says seven hundred silver."

  "Ah, yes. Unfortunately, prices have increased since that tag was printed. Inflation, you understand."

  His smile stretched thin and venomous.

  "Though I doubt one of your... station would understand such economic complexities."

  This motherfucker.

  He'd just arbitrarily increased the price. Not by a small margin either; from 700 silver to three full gold represented a significant markup.

  In-game, prices were fixed. NPCs couldn't just decide to charge more because they didn't like your face.

  But this wasn't the game anymore.

  Rage bubbled hot in my chest, but I forced it down, breathing slowly through my nose slits.

  I needed this weapon. The build I planned required a unique saber I was going to acquire later. Gaining specific proficiency with this weapon type was vital, and acquiring one now meant I could start training immediately. Delaying would set back my entire progression timeline.

  Fine. FINE. Let the bastard have his petty victory.

  I reached into the inner pocket of my coat, fingers finding the small coin purse I'd stashed there earlier. My share from the War Lords job had been generous as Angus didn't skimp when rewarding successful work.

  Three gold coins clinked as I pulled them free and tossed them onto the counter with deliberate contempt.

  There. Your blood money, you greedy piece of shit.

  Without waiting for a response, I grabbed the saber and turned toward the exit.

  The two security guards stepped into my path, blocking the door.

  "Whoa there, friend." The taller one spoke, his voice carrying false friendliness. "Can't take that without paying."

  I stopped, confusion cutting through anger.

  "I just paid for it."

  "Did you?" The shorter guard grinned. "Didn't see any money change hands. Did you, Micah?"

  "Not a coin," Micah, the tall one, agreed.

  What the hell?

  I turned back toward the counter.

  The shopkeeper stood behind it, hands clasped innocently in front of him. My three gold coins had vanished; swept into the drawer beneath the counter while my back was turned, I realized.

  "I'm afraid I haven't received payment," he said, his smile growing wider. "Perhaps you're confused."

  "I just gave you three gold."

  "Did you? I certainly don't see any money."

  His expression radiated smug satisfaction.

  "And really, who do you think the city guard would believe? A respected merchant like myself, operating a legitimate business in good standing..."

  He paused, letting his gaze rake over my appearance with theatrical disgust.

  "...or you?"

  The security guards laughed, harsh and mocking.

  Red crept into my vision.

  He's not just stealing from me. He's rubbing my face in it. He's LAUGHING about it.

  "Now, put the merchandise back where you found it," the shopkeeper continued, "and remove yourself from my establishment before I call the authorities."

  Micah reached out, his hand moving toward my shoulder.

  "Come on, pal. Just put the sword back and-"

  I drew the saber.

  Roxam's muscle memory took over, his body moving with trained precision that bypassed conscious thought entirely. The curved blade sang free of its resting position on my arm, flashing in a horizontal arc that caught the overhead sunlight.

  Steel met flesh and bone with a wet chunk.

  Micah's hand separated from his wrist, tumbling through the air in a spray of crimson before hitting the polished floor with a meaty slap.

  For one frozen heartbeat, nobody moved.

  Then Micah screamed.

  A high, piercing wail of agony that shattered the moment like breaking glass. He staggered backward, clutching the spurting stump where his hand had been, blood jetting between his fingers in rhythmic pulses.

  "YOU FUCK! YOU FUCKING-"

  The shorter guard fumbled for his sword, eyes wide with shock and dawning horror.

  Too slow.

  I stepped forward, saber extending in a precise thrust that Roxam's body executed without conscious input. The point punched through the soft flesh beneath the guard's jaw, the blade's tip erupting from the back of his neck in a red fountain.

  His hands spasmed on his half-drawn sword. His eyes bulged, trying to focus on me, on the blade impaling his throat, on anything that made sense.

  I yanked the saber free.

  He collapsed, hitting the floor face-first with a heavy thud. Blood leaked from the hole in his neck, spreading across the polished wood in an expanding pool.

  Micah kept screaming, still stumbling backward, leaving a trail of blood spatters.

  "HELP! SOMEONE HELP! HE'S-"

  I closed the distance in two strides, the saber whipping up and around in a diagonal slash.

  The curved blade caught Micah just below the jaw, cutting through muscle and vertebrae with the superior leverage of its design.

  His head toppled from his shoulders, hitting the ground and rolling twice before coming to rest against a display case. His body stood for another second, blood fountaining from the neck stump, before crumpling.

  Silence crashed down like a physical weight.

  My breathing echoed harsh and ragged in my ears. Blood dripped from the saber's edge, pattering onto the floor in a slow rhythm.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  I turned toward the counter.

  The shopkeeper stood frozen, back pressed against the wall behind him, face drained of all color. His mouth worked soundlessly, trying to form words that wouldn't come.

  I walked toward him, boots squelching through blood.

  "Please." His voice came out as a whisper. "Please, I... I have money. Take it. Take whatever you want. Just..."

  Static roared in my ears, drowning out his words.

  All I could hear was my own ragged breathing, the pounding of blood in my temples, the white noise of pure fury.

  He stole from me. He laughed about it. He thought he could treat me like garbage and face no consequences.

  I drew the longsword from my hip with my free hand.

  "No, wait! WAIT! I'LL GIVE IT BACK! PLEASE!"

  The shopkeeper held up his hands, palms out, backing away until his spine hit the wall with nowhere left to go.

  I stepped forward, placing the longsword's point against his stomach.

  His eyes went even wider, tears streaming down his face.

  "Mercy," he gasped. "Please, mercy, I have a family, I-"

  "No mercy for scum like you…"

  I pushed.

  The blade slid through cloth, through skin, through muscle, through organs. I kept pushing, feeling resistance and then release as the steel punched through his back and bit into the wooden wall behind him.

  I leaned into it, driving the sword deeper until the crossguard pressed against his vest.

  The shopkeeper's mouth opened in a silent scream. His eyes bulged from their sockets, tears and snot streaming down his face. His hands grasped weakly at the blade impaling him, but lacked the strength to do anything about it.

  Not finished.

  The saber still dripped in my other hand.

  I raised it, the curved blade catching light one final time.

  Then slashed.

  The edge caught his throat, opening it from left to right in a gaping red smile. Blood sprayed across my face, hot and wet, coating the walls, spattering across weapon displays.

  The shopkeeper's eyes dimmed. His hands dropped. His body sagged against the longsword pinning him to the wall like an insect in a collection.

  My hands shook.

  I stood there, weapon extended, breathing hard, while the reality of what I'd just done crashed down.

  Three people. Three dead people. I killed three people.

  The shopkeeper hung motionless on the wall, blood still trickling from the wounds. Micah's headless corpse leaked its last onto the floor. The shorter guard lay in an expanding pool of crimson.

  The polished floor, the fancy displays, the posh establishment; all ruined with blood and death.

  I need to... I need to...

  My gaze fell on the counter.

  Right. The money.

  I staggered over to it, my movements mechanical, operating on autopilot while my brain struggled to process everything.

  I pulled open the drawer beneath the counter.

  My three gold coins sat there alongside a leather bag that clinked heavily when I picked it up. I loosened the drawstring and peered inside.

  Gold and silver, filled nearly to bursting. The shop's daily earnings, probably. Maybe its weekly earnings.

  Fuck it. He's not using it anymore.

  I shoved the bag into my inner coat pocket alongside my original coins, the weight significant but manageable.

  The saber in my right hand dripped red onto the counter.

  Right. Came here for this. Mission accomplished, I guess.

  I glanced around the shop one more time.

  Blood everywhere. Three corpses. Evidence of brutal murder scattered across polished wood and fancy displays.

  This is bad. This is really, really bad. The guards will be here soon. Someone must have heard the screaming.

  I needed to leave.

  Now.

  I wiped the saber's blade clean on Micah's shirt (no point leaving a blood trail through Eastern Zenas) and sheathed it properly. The saber went through my belt on the left side, next to the empty longsword scabbard.

  Move. Move, goddammit.

  I walked toward the entrance, my boots sticking slightly in the blood coating the floor.

  The bell above the door chimed cheerfully as I grasped the handle.

  Ding-a-ling-a-ling!

  I stepped outside, then turned back.

  The sign hanging on the door still read OPEN in golden letters.

  I flipped it over.

  CLOSED.

  There. At least it'll buy me a few minutes before someone investigates.

  The bell rattled one more time as I pulled the door shut.

  Ding-a-ling-a-ling!