The red dust of the Rust Barrens took its time settling, coating the dead Forge-Knight’s dark siege-plate in a fine, bloody powder.

  Wanhan remained on one knee in the dirt, leaning heavily on the hilt of Fenrir. His left arm was trembling so violently he could barely keep his grip on the leather wrapping. The kinetic shock of stopping a charging juggernaut with a locked elbow had severely bruised his bones, and his side felt like it was splitting open all over again.

  "Stop panting, kid, and help me pry this helmet off," Tiny grunted, struggling to wedge the blade of his hunting knife under Barek's thick steel gorget. "This tin can is sealed tighter than a dwarven vault. I need the signet ring, and I want to see if he's got any gold teeth."

  Mata stood ten paces away, her back turned to the corpse. Her delicate nose wrinkled. "He smells of stale sweat, cheap ale, and rust. Leave the teeth, dirt-grubber. Just take the bounty token before the scavengers arrive."

  "I am a businessman, elf," Tiny shot back, finally popping the latch on the heavy helm with a loud clack. He hauled the helmet off, revealing the pale, blood-soaked face of the rogue knight. "Waste not, want not. Ah, there it is."

  Tiny grabbed Barek’s massive, gauntleted right hand and ruthlessly yanked a heavy iron signet ring off the man’s thick finger. He also quickly relieved the knight of a fat leather coin purse tied to his belt, the clinking sound instantly bringing a massive grin to the dwarf's soot-stained face.

  The crunch of approaching boots on the gravel made Mata’s ears twitch. She didn't turn around, but her hand drifted lazily to the bone-white wood of her bow.

  It was the two caravan guards. They were slinking back down the highway, their spears lowered, looking sheepishly at the massive, dead Forge-Knight and the scrawny, one-armed teenager catching his breath in the dirt.

  "You... you killed him," the lead guard stammered, staring at the perfectly punctured chainmail beneath Barek's armpit.

  "No, the wind blew him over," Tiny said, his voice dripping with venom as he stood up, slipping the coin purse and signet ring into his own pockets. "Of course we killed him, you absolute cowards. We did your job while you were busy sprinting for the hills."

  The guard flushed red. "We were seeking a tactical repositioning!"

  "You were running like frightened chickens," Mata said coldly, finally turning her blindfolded face toward them. "Do not insult us with lies."

  Tiny stepped right up to the lead guard, jabbing a thick, calloused finger into the man's kneecap—which was as high as he could reach.

  "Here is what is going to happen," Tiny growled. "You are going to clear the finest, softest cargo space in the back of that wagon for the boy. You are going to drive us back to the Iron Capital immediately. And when we get to the Merchant's Guild, you are going to tell them that we saved your miserable cargo. If you don't, I will personally tell your Guildmaster that you abandoned a shipment of refined steel at the first sign of trouble. Understood?"

  The guards looked at the dwarf, then at the dead Forge-Knight, and nodded frantically.

  "Good," Tiny grinned, instantly returning to his cheerful self. He turned to Wanhan. "Come on, kid. Let's get you in the wagon before you bleed out on my boots. We have five gold pieces to collect!"

  Wanhan didn't argue. He sheathed Fenrir with a clumsy, exhausting motion and let Tiny help him up into the back of the wagon. The guards had hurriedly cleared a spot on top of some burlap sacks filled with raw wool. It was the softest bed Wanhan had felt in a week.

  As the wagon lurched back into motion, turning around toward the smog-choked horizon of the Capital, Wanhan closed his eyes and focused on the blue screen hovering stubbornly in his mind.

  [Name: Wanhan]

  [Class: One-Hand Swordsman]

  [Level Up!]

  [Current Status: Exhausted, Minor Internal Hemorrhaging]

  [Skills:]

  Tree Cutter: Level 100 (MAX)

  Diner Dash: Level 24

  Forward Thrust: Level 22

  Piercing Step: Level 5

  [Unallocated Stat Points: 3]

  He had stat points. Real, unallocated system points to spend. He had never received them for chopping wood in the alleyway—the system only seemed to reward actual, life-or-death combat experience.

  Wanhan stared at the three glowing points. He needed endurance to survive his own attacks, but he needed strength to wield Fenrir effectively without throwing his back out.

  "Hey, Tiny," Wanhan muttered, his eyes still closed as the wagon bounced along the rocky road.

  "What is it, kid?" the dwarf asked, busy counting the silver coins he'd looted from Barek's purse.

  "How much does a new tunic cost? Mine has a hole in it."

  Tiny sighed heavily. "I'll add it to your tab, boy. But at this rate, you're going to owe me until you're gray in the beard."

  The merchant wagon rattled over the uneven stones of the King’s Highway, drawing closer to the towering, smog-stained walls of the Iron Capital.

  Wanhan lay on the burlap sacks of raw wool, ignoring the terrified glances of the caravan guards up front. He was focused entirely on the blue interface floating in the darkness behind his closed eyelids.

  [Unallocated Stat Points: 3]

  He had never leveled up like this. Chopping the oak log behind the Boar's Trough had only ever increased his Tree Cutter proficiency. It seemed the system strictly separated mindless repetition from actual, life-threatening combat experience.

  He mentally pulled up his attributes. They were pitifully low for a seventeen-year-old boy, stunted by years of poor tavern food and the catastrophic loss of his right arm.

  He needed to be smart about this. Fenrir was a monster of a weapon. The heavy iron pommel and lopsided blade gave him the kinetic force he needed to punch through siege-plate, but the recoil was tearing his left shoulder apart. Furthermore, every time he used Piercing Step, his body absorbed a massive amount of shock.

  He mentally selected [Strength] and allocated two points.

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  Instantly, a deep, burning sensation washed over his left side. It wasn't the sharp agony of his torn stitches, but a hot, muscular ache, like he had just lifted a boulder and held it for an hour. The muscles in his left bicep and shoulder physically tightened, the fibers pulling denser and harder against his bones.

  He put the final point into [Endurance].

  A wave of cool relief chased the burning heat, settling directly into his ribcage. The throbbing pain of his torn stitches didn't vanish, but it dulled significantly, the inflamed tissue feeling instantly more stable.

  [Stats Updated.]

  [Strength: +2]

  [Endurance: +1]

  Wanhan opened his eyes, flexing his left hand. The leather wrapping of Fenrir’s hilt felt slightly more manageable. The sword hadn't gotten lighter, but his foundation had gotten stronger.

  "We're here," Mata murmured, the wagon finally grinding to a halt.

  They had bypassed the filthy industrial district entirely. The Merchant's Guild was located in the Upper Ring of the Capital, a pristine district of polished white stone, towering marble pillars, and streets free of mud and beggars.

  The trio climbed out of the wagon. They were a horrifying sight in the pristine district. Wanhan was covered in red dust and dried blood, his coarse wool cloak stained and his right sleeve pinned up. Tiny looked like he had just crawled out of a coal chute, and Mata’s mottled green cloak and blood-stained blindfold drew terrified stares from the silk-clad merchants passing by.

  "Shoulders back, kid," Tiny instructed, adjusting his soot-stained goggles. "Walk like you belong here. We are highly paid professionals."

  They pushed through the heavy, gilded doors of the Merchant's Guild. The interior smelled of expensive incense, polished mahogany, and unimaginable wealth.

  A clerk in a tailored velvet suit looked up from a pristine ledger, his face instantly contorting in disgust. "The mercenary hall is in the Lower Ring, dirt-grubbers. Leave before I call the—"

  Tiny didn't let him finish. The dwarf marched up to the polished mahogany desk, reached into his pocket, and slammed Barek the Forge-Knight’s heavy iron signet ring onto the wood with a deafening CRACK.

  The clerk jumped, his quill snapping in his hand. He stared at the ring, then at the dried blood caked into the grooves of the iron crest.

  "Rogue Forge-Knight Barek," Tiny declared, his voice booming through the quiet hall. "Neutralized on the Rust Barrens highway. We saved your refined steel shipment. We are here for the five gold bounty."

  The clerk swallowed hard, gingerly picking up the heavy ring with two fingers. He examined the crest, his face turning pale. "By the Founder... you actually killed him? The City Guard lost three men trying to dent his armor."

  "The City Guard doesn't have our overhead," Tiny sneered. "The gold, string-bean. Now."

  Ten minutes later, the trio walked back out into the cool air of the Upper Ring. Tiny was practically vibrating with joy, tossing a small velvet pouch of incredibly heavy coins from hand to hand. The rhythmic clink of solid gold was the sweetest music the dwarf had ever heard.

  "Five beautiful, flawless, unclipped gold pieces," Tiny sighed romantically, kissing the velvet bag.

  Wanhan leaned against a marble pillar, crossing his left arm over his chest. "So, that cuts my debt in half, right? From ten gold and four silver, down to five gold and four silver."

  Tiny stopped tossing the bag. He looked at Wanhan with a mix of pity and profound dwarven disappointment.

  "Oh, you sweet, mathematically challenged boy," Tiny said, pulling a small piece of charcoal and a scrap of parchment from his belt. "You forgot the deductions."

  "What deductions?" Wanhan scowled.

  "Well, there's my ten percent finder's fee for securing the contract," Tiny started scribbling rapidly. "That's five silver. Then there's the replacement tunic you requested, which is two silver. Then we have to factor in the overnight interest of the principal loan, plus the hazard pay for Mata's arrows..."

  Mata crossed her arms, a rare, faint smirk touching her lips. "I do not charge for arrows, dirt-grubber."

  "Quiet, elf, I'm doing accounting," Tiny snapped, still scribbling. He tapped the parchment with his charcoal. "Alright. After all deductions and the application of this five gold payment... your current outstanding debt to me is exactly Six Gold and Eight Silver."

  Wanhan stared at the dwarf. "I killed a Forge-Knight, and my debt only went down by three gold?"

  "Welcome to the free market, kid," Tiny grinned, patting Wanhan on the good shoulder. "Now, come on. Let's go buy you a shirt that doesn't have a hole in the liver, and then find a tavern that serves real meat. We celebrate tonight!"

  The Brass Griffon was located squarely in the Middle Ring of the Capital. It wasn't dripping with marble like the Upper Ring, but the floorboards were actually swept, and the air smelled of roasted pork and spiced wine instead of wet dog and despair.

  Wanhan sat in a high-backed wooden chair, wearing a brand-new, stiff leather tunic. His right sleeve was neatly pinned at the shoulder. For the first time in his life, he was eating a steak that hadn't been boiled to the consistency of a boot sole.

  The two points he had dumped into [Strength] were already making a difference. Cutting the thick slab of meat with his dagger using only his left hand felt smoother, his wrist locking with a new, dense stability. The point in [Endurance] kept the agonizing throb in his stitched ribs reduced to a dull, manageable ache.

  "Pace yourself, kid," Tiny warned around a mouthful of roasted potatoes. The dwarf had rented them a private booth near the massive stone hearth. "If you eat too fast after starving for five years, your stomach will rebel and I'll have to charge you a cleaning fee."

  Mata sat at the very edge of the booth, as far from the roaring fire as possible. She hadn't touched the meat on her plate, opting instead for a bowl of fresh greens and walnuts. Her bone-white bow was unslung, resting across her knees beneath the table.

  "He needs the protein," Mata murmured, her covered eyes tracking the subtle, shifting weight of Wanhan's shoulders. "His muscles are adapting to the unnatural weight of that iron monstrosity. If he does not eat, the sword will slowly tear his joints apart."

  Wanhan swallowed a bite of steak and reached for his mug of ale. He glanced at Fenrir, which was leaning against the table beside him. The dark steel seemed to drink the firelight.

  "The Piercing Step works," Wanhan said quietly, looking at his left hand. "But it's a gamble. If Barek had been half a second faster, I would have impaled myself on his poleaxe before my sword ever touched his armor."

  "Which is exactly why we need a Vanguard," Tiny stated, wiping grease from his beard. He slammed a heavy gold piece onto the table for the barmaid. "A party needs balance. We have an engineer, a ranged executioner, and a one-handed shock-trooper. We need a wall. Someone to hold the line so you and the elf can actually set up your shots."

  Before Wanhan could answer, the lively hum of the Brass Griffon abruptly died.

  It wasn't a gradual fade. It was an instant, suffocating silence. Even the bard in the corner stopped strumming his lute mid-chord.

  Clank. Clank. Clank.

  The sound of perfectly synchronized, heavy iron boots echoed from the tavern entrance.

  Wanhan’s hand dropped instantly from his mug to the leather-wrapped hilt of Fenrir. Tiny slid his hand beneath the table, his thumb finding the release catch of his scatter-crossbow. Mata didn't move a muscle, but the air around her seemed to drop ten degrees.

  Three figures walked into the firelight.

  They weren't wearing the monstrous, overlapping siege-plate that Barek had worn. Their armor was sleeker, forged from a dark, gunmetal-blue alloy that gleamed with expensive alchemical runes. They wore long, ash-gray cloaks, and the crest of a heavy iron hammer was etched into their breastplates.

  The patrons of the tavern shrank back into their booths, terrified.

  The man in the center—tall, broad-shouldered, with a scarred face and a neatly trimmed black beard—stepped up to the center of the room. He didn't draw the elegant, hand-and-a-half sword at his hip, but his hand rested comfortably on the pommel.

  He unslung a heavy canvas sack from his shoulder and let it drop to the floorboards. It hit with a metallic, hollow clang.

  The sack fell open, revealing a piece of dark, tempered steel. It was the right-side cuirass of Forge-Knight Barek's armor. Right in the center, perfectly punched through the chainmail and the steel rim, was the jagged, rectangular puncture mark left by Fenrir.

  Wanhan’s breath hitched in his chest.

  "My name is Commander Vane," the scarred man said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried to every corner of the silent tavern. "I am an Inquisitor of the Iron Forge. Barek was a traitor to our order. He was a thief, a rogue, and a disgrace to his vows."

  Vane slowly scanned the room, his eyes sharp and calculating.

  "We do not care that he is dead," Vane continued, his gaze sweeping over the terrified patrons. "But siege-plate forged in our fires is designed to be impenetrable to conventional weaponry. The Guild told us a mercenary claimed the bounty. I want to know what kind of weapon, and what kind of man, can punch a hole clean through half an inch of tempered, alchemical steel."

  Vane’s eyes stopped. They locked onto the private booth near the hearth. They locked onto the dwarf, the blind elf, and the scrawny, seventeen-year-old boy.

  Slowly, Vane’s eyes drifted down to the massive, lopsided hunk of dark iron leaning against Wanhan’s chair.

  "Well, well," Vane murmured, stepping forward. The two armored knights behind him fell in step. "I think I just found my anomaly."

  Tiny swore softly under his breath in dwarvish. Mata’s fingers tightened around her bow.

  Wanhan didn't look away. He gripped the pommel of Fenrir, the cold iron grounding him, and prepared to stand up.