The silence was heavier than any Kenji had ever known. It was broken only by the ragged, panicked breaths of the two remaining slavers and the thundering of his own heart against his ribs. The coppery scent of blood from the broken man by the wagon filled the air, thick and cloying.
The two men stared at him, their expressions a grotesque mask of fury and primal fear. They saw a skinny, wild-eyed boy. Their brains refused to process what their eyes had just witnessed. The bigger one, a brute with a shaved head, recovered first, his fear hardening into rage.
"You little demon!" he roared, hefting a heavy, notched sword. "You'll pay for that!"
The second, lankier and more hesitant, raised his own blade, his eyes darting between Kenji and his dead companion.
This wasn't a boss fight with predictable mechanics. This was chaos. This was terror. Kenji's body was screaming at him to run, to flee into the familiar safety of the trees. But the gamer's mind, cold and logical even now, calculated the variables.
Two enemies. Melee weapons. Aggro established. Flight risk: high. If I turn my back, I die.
His kinetic reservoir was empty. The massive, uncontrolled discharge had left him feeling hollow and drained. He had nothing left for another concussive blast.
The brute charged, his sword swinging in a wide, deadly arc aimed to cleave Kenji in two. It was a telegraphed, sloppy attack. In a game, Kenji would have parried and counter-thrust with ease.
Here, he had no sword. Only instinct.
He didn't try to block. He dropped, his body moving before the conscious thought finished, his knees scraping against the hard-packed earth. The sword whistled over his head. The brute grunted in surprise, overbalanced by his own wild swing.
Opening.
Kenji's hand shot out, not to punch, but to shove against the man's leading knee. It was a weak push from his frail body, but he focused every ounce of the minuscule energy generated by his own drop and shove into the point of contact.
SNAP.
It wasn't the explosive detonation from before. It was a precise, vicious crack. The man screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure agony as his knee joint shattered sideways. He collapsed like a sack of stones, dropping his sword and clutching his leg, his cries echoing through the trees.
The second slaver froze, his sword wavering. He looked at his leader, dead by the wagon. He looked at his other companion, crippled and screaming on the ground. He looked at the skinny boy now slowly rising to his feet, his eyes devoid of any emotion but cold, terrifying calculation.
That was enough. With a strangled cry of fear, the man turned and fled, crashing through the undergrowth without a backward glance.
Kenji stood panting, the adrenaline crash making his hands tremble violently. The only sounds were the fading footsteps of the fleeing man and the agonized sobs of the one at his feet.
He had won. He had survived the encounter.
He looked at the man crying on the ground. The man looked back, his face a mess of snot and tears, pleading. "P-please… don't… mercy…"
Kenji's gaze was empty. He felt nothing. No rage, no pity, no triumph. Just a vast, numb hollow. He bent down and picked up the notched sword the brute had dropped. It was heavy and poorly balanced in his hand.
He walked over to the wagon. The man by the wheel was clearly dead, his neck at an unnatural angle. Kenji ignored him. His eyes were on the covered bed of the wagon.
Loot.
It was the only thought his mind could latch onto, a familiar anchor in a sea of horror. Victors loot the bodies. That was the rule. In games. In life. Apparently.
He pulled back the heavy canvas flap.
The wagon wasn't filled with trade goods. It was filled with people.
Cages. Three of them. Each containing two young men and women, maybe a few years older than he was. They were dirty, thin, and shackled at the ankles. They stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, having witnessed the entire violent exchange. They flinched back as the light hit them, expecting another captor.
Kenji stared back, his numb detachment shattering. This was real. These were real people. The "merchandise."
One of the boys, with a defiant spark in his eyes despite his fear, found his voice. "...Who are you?"
Kenji didn't answer. He looked at the heavy padlocks on the cages. He raised the notched sword, its weight unfamiliar and clumsy. He brought it down on the first lock with a grunt.
CLANG. The blade bounced off, barely leaving a scratch. He didn't have the Strength stat for this.
The prisoners watched him, their hope fading back into despair.
Kenji dropped the sword. He placed his hands on the cold iron of the lock. He took a deep, shuddering breath. He thought of the impact of the sword. The jolt of the failed strike. The fear of the prisoners. The screaming man behind him. The dead man by the wheel.
He focused all of it. All the kinetic energy of the last few minutes, all the emotional turmoil, into his hands. He willed it not to explode, but to be sharp. Precise. A key, not a bomb.
A faint, high-pitched hum resonated from the lock. The metal under his palms grew warm, then hot. The prisoners watched, eyes wide with a new kind of awe.
CRUNCH.
The internal mechanism of the padlock didn't break; it disintegrated. The lock fell away, clattering to the floor of the wagon.
Kenji repeated the process twice more, his body trembling with the effort. Each successful unlock drained him further, but he pushed through. When the last cage was open, he stumbled back, leaning against the wagon wheel for support.
The prisoners hesitated for a moment, then slowly, cautiously, emerged, rubbing their wrists and ankles where the manacles had been.
The defiant boy was the first to approach him. "You… you saved us."
Kenji just shook his head, unable to form words. He pointed a trembling finger at the forest path leading away from the direction the slaver had fled. "Go," he rasped, his voice rough from disuse. "Now. Before he comes back with others."
They didn't need to be told twice. With a flurry of grateful, hurried whispers, they scrambled out of the wagon and vanished into the trees, leaving Kenji alone with the two broken slavers.
The one with the shattered knee had passed out from the pain.
Silence returned.
Kenji's eyes fell on the wagon again. Supplies. He needed supplies. He climbed back in.
He found a burlap sack and began to loot with a methodical efficiency that was purely Spxrrow. Dried meat. Hardtack. A waterskin. A roll of bandages. A small pouch of coins that jingled promisingly. And at the very back, tucked under a pile of dirty blankets, was a wooden crate.
He pried the lid open. Inside, nestled in straw, was a set of gear. It was used, but well-made. A sturdy leather brigandine vest, reinforced with metal studs. A pair of tough, travel-worn trousers. A thick cloak. A plain, unadorned sword in a scabbard that was far better balanced than the slaver's notched blade. A hunter's bow and a quiver of arrows.
Adventurer's gear. Probably stolen from their last victim.
Kenji didn't hesitate. He stripped off his ragged, filthy tunic and pulled on the new clothes. They were a little loose, but they fit well enough. He fastened the scabbard to his belt, the weight of the sword a comforting, solid presence on his hip. He slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder.
He looked at the dead slaver. Then at the unconscious one. The professional gamer assessed the situation. Leaving witnesses was a strategic error. Leaving assets for the enemy to recover was inefficient.
He dragged the unconscious man into the trees, far from the path. He didn't have the stomach for a cold-blooded execution. The forest would deal with him. He then tipped the wagon on its side, scattering the remaining contents, making it look like a monster attack.
Finally, he stood on the game trail, no longer a lost boy in rags. He was armed. He was provisioned. He had a destination.
He knew this zone. The nearest settlement was a frontier town called Oakhaven. And where there was a town, there was an Adventurer's Guild.
He took one last look at the scene of his first real, brutal victory. The numbness was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. He had chosen his ability to make his life easier. It had only made it more violent.
But he was alive. And he had a goal.
Kenji "Spxrrow" Sato adjusted the strap of his quiver, turned his back on the bloodstained clearing, and began to walk.