(Stillow – Occupation: None)(Liam)

  Liam races through the streets of Stillow, narrowly avoiding several fights while keeping his eyes peeled for pickpockets. Eventually he sneaks over a crumbling section of the city’s wall. Checking his clan’s chat channel, Liam finds that two members of his clan have arrived in the nearby town of Franz Harbor. He follows the walls of Stillow northward, the din of mayhem in the city barely softened by the wall. Eventually, just past the north side of the wall, he finds what he is looking for: a dirt path, just a few miles from a nearby mountainside, leading northward into a stretch of desert.

  Amos moves away from the city, heading north toward Franz Harbor.. Nine members had posted messages in the clan chat, and only one had received a response from another player, named “Smokey.” Smokey had replied saying he was in the City of Bell with a few friends from the Lit clan and his little brother, Carp. After reading that, Amos sent out a message to Smokey, wishing him and the others luck.

  At this point, Amos is only wearing beginner's equipment with a tier-one Air Bolt in his magic skill. A towel is wrapped around his head, protecting him from the blistering sun. While walking the path to Franz Harbor, he manages to level up a bit by killing a few desert weedens, low-level creatures that disguise themselves as tumbleweeds and do no damage. Even if a player were to fall asleep near one of them, the weeden wouldn’t be able to scratch them. Still, killing them granted Liam experience towards his strength skill.

  Though Amos had avoided falling prey to the madness of the city, hiking alone through several miles of desert with so little gear to his name isn’t the best idea. He has little choice though. For his clan’s plan to work, he must meet up with his mates in Franz Harbor.

  Being unfamiliar with the Southeastern quarter of Byalfulmaris, Liam mentally calculates how long it will take to get to the desert canyon that leads into Franz Harbor. The worst part of the trek is that this desert has no plant life whatsoever – not even cacti. There’s only sand, outcrops of bare rock, a few stone ruins, and the vague, faded shapes of a few floating islands in the distance. “Those are new,” Liam mutters to himself, his makeshift headgear making his voice practically inaudible.

  As Amos journeys farther from the city, the chaotic sounds of battle finally fade into the desert wind. Amos starts to feel annoyed after four hours of walking. He would be fine if he had the obelisk teleport and some teleport scrolls, but for now, he’ll have to deal with some long walks.

  Peering further up the path, Amos can see two players taking shade under a large boulder, directly on the path of his route to the canyon. These two shouldn't be a problem, so long as a fight can be avoided.

  One of the men gets up, walking around the boulder’s side and placing himself in Amos’s path. “Hey!” he calls, waving and gesturing to his friend.

  “Shit…” Amos mumbles as he flashes his bronze dagger from his inventory and into his hands to ensure his interface is working. The dagger appears in his hand, and then vanishes back into his inventory, ready to be pulled out again at a moment's notice.

  “Friendly! Friendly!” the other player calls out, as the closing distance brings his figure into focus. Amos had hoped he’d be the only one walking this path, but no such luck.

  Amos halts as the two players approach. Once they come within a hundred feet of him, he barks out a warning. “Don’t come any closer.” The two stop. “I want your names and the clan you are associated with.”

  The two look at each other before one pulls back his hood – made of the same kind of towel as Amos’s own. “I’m Hamblitz from the RoT clan.”

  The other follows suit, pulling his hood back. “I’m Arky, from RoT as well. We don’t mean you any harm.”

  Amos exhales in relief as he realizes they’re from a neutral clan, one he can trust. “We’re good.” Amos walks forward.

  “Wait! Who are you?” Arky shouts.

  Amos pulls back his towel hood, nearly blinded by the blistering light. “I’m your clan’s favorite nightmare.” Amos is only ten yards away now. “Amos The Notorious.”

  “You’re joking,” Arky says, stepping back.

  Amos waves them down. “Relax. Our clans have a treaty until the end of the tournament, don’t we?” Amos guesses that RoT wants to enlist two other clans - the WAL and the Dulman clan - to fight for them. The Dulman clan, like Amos’, is known for recruiting formidable players, many of whom are player killers or monster slayers. Amos shrugs. “Competition always makes things interesting.”

  The two look at each other, then back at Amos. “How can we believe you?” Arky asks.

  “I don’t know.” Amos scratches the back of his head while cracking a friendly smile. “Haven’t we fought before?” His expression changes to a more severe one, sending a chill through the air. “Don’t forget, your clan gave my buddies and me that title.”

  The RoT members exchange uncertain glances. “Honestly, we can’t be sure if any of us did,” Arky admits.

  Hamblitz snaps his fingers. “Oh yeah, if you really are one of The Notorious Three, then where are the other two?” A searing gust of desert wind punctuates Hamblitz’s question. Nearby, a pack of weedens scuffles along the surface of a flat outcrop of rock baking in the sun, like some heated slab hot enough to roast any creature other than a weeden.

  Amos’ smile fades. His head lowers. He’s only famous with one clan, and even they don’t know his true appearance. He feels a pang of frustration, knowing he’ll never have a name like “Durial of Divinity” or “Vodka the Sober.”

  Hamblitz tilts his head. “Did we touch a nerve?”

  Amos waves his hand without raising his head. “Nah. The other two are up north, past the canyon, in Franz Harbor.” He straightens up, placing his hands on his waist. “But yes, I am Amos the Notorious.”

  Hamblitz nods. “Right... and you heading to—”

  Amos cuts him off. “Franz Harbor, like I said. I could use some company if you two want to join me.”

  “Well, the thing is, we’re out of water, and we want to know if there are any wells nearby,” Arky asks. Somewhere in the distance, a vulture cries out, something between a caw and a shriek.

  Amos shakes his head. “If you two aren’t heading to Franz Harbor, then RoT needs to change their strategy. There’s nothing out here but sand. Amos points to his left. “Four miles north of here, there’s another canyon with an underwater river that runs down from the mountains. That’s where I’m heading. I assume you two are going to Franz Harbor too. Borders will stabilize in two days, and it would suck to be caught out here between the Lit clan and The Trapline Army.”

  The clueless look they give Amos betrays their inexperience. They nod. Amos and the others rewrap their headgear and set off, with the two others following Amos along the sandy trail. “Thanks,” Hamblitz says. They all have to speak louder due to their headgear, but it’s a small price to pay to avoid heat exhaustion, or at least delay it.

  “Did you guys not have a game plan? Lit, The Fools, and The Trapline Army fight over this part of the map every tournament.”

  “This is our first tournament. We’ve only been in RoT for a month,” Hamblitz explains.

  Amos scratches his head. “But you know about the Notorious Three?”

  “We were given basic instructions to meet our lieutenants in certain cities. Since most were full, we had to go to Stillow. We were also warned to avoid contact with the Notorious Three.”

  “Well, you’ve failed one of those goals,” Amos chuckles.

  “You aren’t going to kill us, are you?” Arky asks.

  “I said our two clans were neutral, didn’t I? Well, until the last day, that is.” Amos shrugs. “Also, I’m the nicest of the three… I think.”

  The three walk in silence for a while. It’s an awkward silence for Amos, but as the front man, he doesn’t mind the quiet. In the distance, they can see the outline of the canyon becoming more defined, the processes of digital de-erosion gradually revealing it as more than some mirage. Amos figures he's off by a few miles, but he isn’t the best at calculating distances. It's going to be a long day.

  “Amos? Or – I mean – can I call you Amos?” Hamblitz asks.

  “Sure. What's up?”

  Hamblitz glances from Arky to Amos. “Can I ask why RoT tells us to forget our training when you’re in sight? You know… go for the instant kill rather than wearing the enemy down?”

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  “They didn’t tell you about my curse?” Amos asks.

  “They said something about the Cloud Slasher curse. But when I looked it up, all it said was ‘removed,’” Hamblitz says.

  “Oh. In that case, I’ll say nothing.” Amos bobs his head back and forth and rotates his shoulders, cracking his neck. He wipes his brow of sweat and flicks his hand at the ground. “All I’ll say is that RoT has someone else with the Cloud Slasher curse. I Don’t know his name, but we’ve fought a couple of times.”

  “Right…” both Hamblitz and Arky say in unison.

  Amos opens his interface and checks the messages tab. Seven of his students from RoT have messaged him. Amos smiles as he reads them, pleased that they all managed to spawn in Leetmeave together. He sighs, wondering if he could have spawned with one of his clan members.

  “Is everything okay?” Arky asks.

  “Yeah, just thinking about what could have been.”

  The trio travel fourteen miles in five hours, with Amos sharing the last of his water to the other two. He expected to walk for a long time, but not this long. A few hours before nightfall, they make it to the canyon's edge, which runs the rest of the distance to Franz Harbor. After the blistering sun, it's nice to finally have some shade under the canyon’s high walls, along with a water source to replenish their buckets. The best part is that the sandworms in the area offer great experience, along with decent drops that will set them up for a while.

  Amos stands up from the river, his buckets filled. “Alright guys, now that your buckets are full, I’ll give you two options. One: stay with me and grind out the sandworms until tomorrow afternoon. Or two: you can head to Franz Harbor without me.”

  The two exchange glances before looking back at Amos.

  “Thanks, but I think we’ll get a head start toward the Harbor. Our clanmates are probably waiting for us,” Arky says.

  “Right…” Amos points down a path. “Don’t go through the water. Crocs will chase you. Go west until you find a land bridge. The next left turn will take you to a fork. Go right, then keep straight until you hit another fork. Take a left, and in eight or ten miles, you should be at Franz Harbor.” The two nod and then turn to leave.

  “Thanks again, Amos,” Arky says, waving. Hamblitz waves as well.

  Amos’s eyes widen, “I forgot to tell you! I have seven students in RoT! Tell them I said hello and that I’m gonna kick their asses!” he jokes.

  “What are their names?!” Hamblitz asks.

  Amos shouts out the seven names, and the echoes reverberate through the canyon, causing a sandworm to spawn nearby. Amos quickly readies himself for the grind. If he cuts right, his bronze dagger shouldn’t break.

  The sandworm darts for Amos, fangs extended and its ugly, blood-sucking tongue sticking out. A bronze dagger materializes in Amos’s hand. “Why did the devs have to make this thing so creepy?” he mutters. Rushing under the worm, he slides his dagger along the closest fang and slashes a long gash halfway down its exposed body. A gooey substance oozes out of the long cut as the worm twirls around. The worms are easy for a knowledgeable low-level player to kill, but hard enough for such a player to gain experience points quickly. Leaping onto the worm, Amos stabs the best several time. After the fifteenth stab, the worm slows down and collapses.

  Amos is unaccustomed to not having super-speed or the durability that comes with it. Also, his low perception skill forces him to be even more cautious. A person must move, strike, and exercise to gain experience through strength, whereas perception is leveled by sensing attacks, dodging them, and timing one’s own attacks. “Man, it sucks being level one!” he complains.

  Checking the experience he just gained, Amos notices that the 50x experience multiplier isn’t activated. “What?” he mutters. Usually, the tournament grants this multiplier to speed up leveling, but today it seems absent. One week in the game is too short to max out his stats at the game’s default rate.

  Amos navigates his interface to check his skills. A long list of options scrolls across the screen. He scratches his forehead until a droplet of foamy blood lands on his nose. He checks the worm and, sure enough, a pool of dark blood was forming beneath it, seeping towards the riverbank and staining its clear water. He’d been so focused on combat he hadn’t noticed the oily red ichor staining his fingers. “Why is there blood on monsters?” he wonders. “Did I miss something about an update?” Turning the tabs to personal messages, he sees that all the messages he’s sent so far have been opened, but none have been responded to. He shakes his head. “Come on, guys…” He sends another round of messages to his clanmates, letting them know what he’s been up to.

  Crouching down next to the worm’s maw, he holds his knees, mentally preparing for the next few hours of grinding. When he closes his interface, there’s nothing left to do but focus on leveling up until he hears back from someone. He touches the sandworm, pulling back the creature’s lips to reveal its fangs. “These are great for potions when ground up, but selling them at NPC shops is more worth it early on,” Amos muses.

  After slicing off the creature’s fangs, he stretches his arms and cracks his neck. “Alright, let’s do this…” Inhaling deeply, Amos roars at the top of his lungs, the sound echoing throughout the canyon.

  The sand begin to vibrate. The running water of the river shudders. One by one, sandworms erupt from the ground, charging straight for Amos. One leaps for him and he sidesteps, slicing its belly in midair. Another worm leaps at him from his left – a smaller one – its gaping mouth aimed at his face. Amos ducks under the creature, turns his head to face away from it, and carves through the worm from jaw to tail. He rolls away just as the monster’s dying bulk crashes into the sand, its split tail whacking up a flurry of dust. As he scrambles back up, a third worm charges at him, still half-buried in the sand.

  Sweating, Amos keeps up this pace, fighting for hours. By the time nightfall arrives, he collapses onto a riverside boulder. His low-level cotton shirt is now completely soaked in blood and slime, as if it had been dyed red to begin with. “They call it grinding for a reason…” he grumbles, wiping off his dagger on his pant leg. Though he’s gained a few levels, the intense movement has left him breathless, his feet feeling numb, his muscles aching from exertion. The cold desert night only adds to his discomfort. Somehow the clear, dry air makes the moonlight feel threatening, dying the sands the pale blue-gray of corpse flesh. On top of this, Amos is starving, and the worms’ flesh is inedible. He didn’t think this one through.

  Still recovering from the fight, Amos finds himself staring up at the stars. Everything feels so real, more real than the light-polluted sky of the East Coast where he came from. Again he sits down, folds his legs and crosses his arms, thinking of his mother and the last words they shared. Searching his mind, he finds a grain of comfort in living for her, in carrying on in her place. He gazes at the pile of worms around him, each one relieved of their valuable teeth. The moonlight glints off the blood around him, most of which has soaked into the sand and formed a kind of paste. In this light, it looks mercifully black, like spilled ink.

  Amos pushes those thoughts away as a cold breeze sends a shiver down his spine. Opening his inventory as he stands, Amos mutters, “Okay, let’s see what we got so far.” He has a few cherry wood logs, but no way to light them. His only option is to use his magic, but his level is not high enough for a tier-one Fire Bolt. That won’t be unlocked until level twenty-five – but he’s only three levels away – thanks to the worms.

  Raising his hand, Amos gathers some sand and small rocks into a swirling mass around his palm. He releases the spell, sending the rocks flying into the canyon wall. It knocks down a few loose stones, but with no real target, he gets little experience. The light under the stars is faint, and the night grows colder. Amos unwraps his headgear, now dyed the same dark red as his shirt. His pants still retain some of their original cream white hue, but streaks of blood and smears of slime have ruined about 2/3 of their length. Once in town he could pay to have them washed, but there as no point. He’d be upgrading his gear as soon as he had the coin.

  Frustrated by his wandering mind, Amos turns from the canyon wall to the river. He releases a tier-one Earth Bolt into the river. A splash rings out. He repeats the action, and after a few more casts, movement in the water catches his attention. “Come here, croc!” His heartbeat spikes, anticipation causing his adrenaline to surge.

  The river goes still for a moment.

  Amos’s dagger materializes in his left hand, his right palm charged with his spell. “Tricky little AI, aren’t you?”

  A crocodile bursts from the water, charging toward him with its characteristic rapid waddle, its mouth wide open.

  Amos releases his spell into the croc’s mouth, then side steps, firing off another bolt. If it gets too close, he’ll have no choice but to use his dagger. Unlike the sandworms, cutting through the croc's tough skin with a bronze weapon won’t be easy. However, Amos still has his curse as a last resort.

  The croc is quick, but Amos keeps his distance, dodging its snaps. The situation escalates as two more crocodiles emerge from the water.

  “Shit!” Amos pulls back further from the river’s edge, nearly tripping over a rock in the moonlit gloom. He continues to fire off spells, numbness returning to his legs and feet. Despite the discomfort, his breathing steadies. His focus intensifies as he dodges the crocodiles’ strikes. With no way to check his interface, he can only hope he’s leveling up.

  Then, the first exclamation mark appears at the bottom-right corner of his vision. He’s either leveled up or received a message, but the crocks give him no chance to check. Three exclamation marks appear as he continues his retreat while firing off more spells. “Please be a level up, please…” He fights on, hopping over the crocs and dodging their fang-crowded jaws.

  Amos can feel his endurance depleting as the struggle stretches on. Two minutes, five minutes, ten. His legs tighten and his breathing becomes labored. Who knew this tournament would be so different from the main game? He has no choice but to use his curse. Holding the dagger to his left wrist, he hesitates. But a fifth exclamation mark appears. Surely he’s leveled up for the third time.

  His dagger vanishes from his hand as he leaps back. Channeling his thoughts, his right palm begins to glow red as a bolt of fire forms. The night brightens with a surge of power that outshines the moon. For a few moments, it’s as if an early dawn has broken in the canyon.

  The bolt of fire hits one of the crocs, setting it ablaze. It lets out a guttural growl, like the ancient cries its real-world reptilian kin must have unleashed when the flames of the Chixulub meteor decimated the earth, rendering them extinct. The other two crocs pause a moment before retreating back to the water. Amos seizes the opportunity, leaping onto the burning croc. His dagger reappears in his hands, and he aims for the croc’s neck, stabbing again and again.

  An hour later, Amos sits next to a small fire he’s managed to start with his newly-acquired spell, his clothes drying on nearby rocks. Stomach growling, he pulls a chunk of croc meat from the fire. He gained four cooking levels from just this one monster. The meat is tough and chewy, but he’s too exhausted to complain. Pausing for a moment, Amos stares at the chunk of meat in his hand. Why is his sense of hunger so intense? Why did he get cramps from all the movement? Why isn’t he getting more experience from standard gameplay? “I should have read the patch notes more carefully,” he muses, before taking another bite.

  Though he’s gained a few levels very quickly, he knows that leveling beyond this point will only get harder, especially without the 50x boost. Something about this tournament feels off, like its parameters have been set by a totally different dev team. Something to do with Pelep Tech acquiring the game, maybe?

  Amos grabs his dagger and points it toward his right palm. Without hesitation, he cuts into his skin, the red blood pooling beneath him. The pain rushes through his nervous system, but he barely notices it as he wrestles with his thoughts.

  The pain in his hand starts to fade as the wound heals, his skin becoming putty-like as the gash seals itself back together. While he eats the last of the croc meat, Amos takes a moment to let himself appreciate the realism of this world, the cold breeze, the warm fire, the fine details of the smallest grains of sand, even the stinging pain. No, this is nothing like the main game. It’s better.