Night fell fast on the plains, and Wes watched with interest as the other campsites put up fires and other light sources to ward off possible rift wolves. He asked, "What happens if it rains, or storms? What if the rain puts out the fires?"

  "Monsters don't like water," said Jorn. "It's usually not a problem."

  Harken grunted as he unhitched the horse, running a calloused hand down its sweat-damp flank. "Other things can come out in storms, though. It's more rare, but they're also not so easily warded off."

  Jorn busied himself gathering dry wood from the creek bank, his crossbow never more than an arm's reach away. The weapon's stock showed years of wear—the grooves where his fingers rested worn smooth from constant use.

  Lissa tugged at Wes's sleeve, her fingers rough from farmwork but gentle in their grip. "Show me another trick before supper, please?"

  Wes laughed. "You've already been playing with that spinner all day. Maybe I should make you pay for it. If you want to see even more things, how are you going to pay?"

  The girl's brow furrowed, her sun-browned fingers still clutching the fidget spinner. "Pay? But you gave it to me!"

  Harken snorted as he rubbed down the draft horse with a rough cloth. "Nothing's free in this world, girl. Especially anything to do with magic."

  Jorn dumped an armful of firewood near the pit they'd claimed. "What do you want, then? You’re a mage, right? What can you possibly need that we would have? I doubt you’d want Lissa, she’s not very pretty."

  “Hey! You horse’s ass, Jorn!”

  “Watch your mouth, Lissa,” groused Harken.

  Wes ignored the family’s back and forth, just answering Jorn’s question. "What I need? More information, I guess." He smiled at Lissa's sour expression on her wide, honest face. "I suppose after tomorrow, if you all keep answering my questions, that spinner will belong to Lissa." Lissa's face lit up, her hair bouncing as she clapped her hands together. "Really?"

  Harken gave Wes a long, appraising look before nodding once. "Fair enough." He tossed a waterskin to his daughter. "Fill this from the creek. Don't wander close to the Crostlik camp."

  As Lissa scampered off, Jorn knelt beside the firepit, arranging kindling with quick, practiced motions. Wes pulled out his pocket knife and whittled a stick. When Harken saw it, the man's eyes grew wide as saucers. "What...what kind of knife is that?"

  "It's a Benchmade," said Wes. "A really good knife...where I'm from."

  Harken reached out with calloused fingers, then hesitated. "That steel...never seen anything so fine." His voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "No smith in Mercosa could forge an edge like that. Can I see it?"

  Wes handed it over.

  Jorn abandoned the firewood, stepping closer to peer at the knife's mirrored finish. Even in the fading light, the blade gleamed with unnatural precision for this world. "It's so perfect for just a tool," he muttered.

  Wes said, "Where I'm from, all tools are superior to anything here." He was just telling the truth. He took back the knife, then he brought out his pen, just a simple, metal body pen, and drew on his hand. "See?"

  The reaction this time was much stronger than for the knife. Harken's breath caught in his throat as the smooth black ink flowed effortlessly across Wes's skin. The pen moved without scratching, without blotting, a perfect line appearing as if by magic. Jorn leaned in so close his nose almost touched Wes's wrist.

  "That...that writes without a quill?" Harken's voice was hoarse. His calloused fingers twitched toward the pen before curling into fists at his sides. "No dipping. No sharpening?"

  All at once, Wes realized his tactical error, violating Opsec a little too much. He also realized that he could probably make a fortune in this world just selling pens...maybe. He said, "This is what people write with where I'm from."

  "Are you a noble?" asked Harken, eyes narrowed.

  Wes thought about it for a while. "I guess...from the perspective of people here, I was...or am."

  Jorn's fingers twitched toward the pen before he caught himself. "Nobles don't ride in wagons with barley haulers." His voice carried suspicion and a hint of awe.

  Harken spat into the dirt, his gaze never leaving Wes's face. "Unless they're running from something."

  Lissa returned with the sloshing waterskin, her bare feet kicking up small puffs of dust. She froze when she saw their expressions. "What'd I miss?"

  In a monotone, Jorn said, "Our traveling companion Wes is a noble, and has quills that aren't quills, and knives better than some artifacts from the Underworld. Better start smiling more if you want a chance at marriage, Lis. Or even a servant position. It's probably already too late, though."

  Lissa's cheeks flushed pink as she shoved the waterskin at her brother. "Shut up, Jorn! Want to get kicked in the balls!?" She turned to Wes, suddenly shy, twisting a braid between her fingers. "You're really noble-born?"

  Harken held his hand out and Wes gave him the pen to look at. The old trader held it up to the fading light, turning it with reverent care. The metal gleamed like silver in the firelight.

  "This is worth the entire cart and everything in it," he said softly before handing it back.

  Wes accepted it and put it back in its holder. He wondered for the first time why nobody had ever remarked on his watch. "What do you think this is?" he asked, holding up his wrist. The tough, solar powered, digital watch was chunky on his wrist. Harken's eyes narrowed as he studied the strange device. "Some manner of...bracelet?" His calloused fingers hovered near the digital display but didn't touch. Wes hit the button for the nightlight. The numbers glowed faintly in the gathering dusk, unchanging despite no visible flame or magic.

  Jorn abandoned the firewood entirely now, crouching to peer at Wes's wrist. "It's got moving pictures inside glass." His voice carried the hushed fear and awe of someone witnessing witchcraft. "I never noticed before."

  With a sudden flash of realization, Wes realized that his watch had been covered in dirt and ash from his night sleeping outside. The face of his watch had been obscured enough to make it look more inconspicuous. He quickly took the watch off and put it in his backpack.

  "What was that?" asked Jorn.

  Wes thought about what to say and finally answered, "A clock."

  Harken's weathered face twisted into full blown shock. "A clock? That tiny thing?" His calloused fingers twitched toward Wes's backpack before he caught himself.

  Jorn scoffed, though his eyes still lingered on the bag. "No way. Clocks are big as my chest and need winding."

  Wes watched as Jorn took a burning stick from the fire and began making a second fire about five feet from the first. It was easy to intuit that the second fire was for backup. Then Jorn laid sticks out on a rock, one end wrapped with cloth and pitch. "These are to take into the woods if you need to squat."

  Lissa looked at Wes with big eyes. "How did you get so rich?"

  "Mostly luck, I guess," said Wes, thinking about being born in a developed country on earth. "But I also worked hard."

  Harken let out a dry chuckle as he poked at the fire with a stick. "Luck don't forge steel like that." He shook his head. "Nor craft pens that write without inkpots."

  Jorn scowled, tossing another stick onto the flames. "So what now? Do we bow when we speak to you, my lord?" The last words dripped with barely concealed irritation.

  Wes frowned. "I didn't bring this topic up, you all did. And I don't know what your problem is, but I haven't done anything to get that kind of attitude."

  The young man’s jaw tightened. He stabbed the fire with a stick, sending up a shower of sparks. "You walk around with treasures that could buy a farm or two, acting like they're nothing. Then expect us to believe you're just some lost traveler?"

  Harken spat into the flames. "Easy, boy." His eyes never left Wes's face. "Man's got his reasons, I’m sure."

  Lissa hugged her knees, the fidget spinner forgotten on her lap. Then she slowly picked it up and stared at it, as if seeing it for the first time again. "Pa," Lissa said, holding up the spinner. "This is probably worth a lot, isn't it?" Harken's calloused fingers plucked the fidget spinner from his daughter's hand, turning it over in the firelight. The plastic caught the orange glow, its smooth surface unmarred by tool marks or imperfections.

  "More than we'd get for this season's barley," he admitted, voice gruff. His thumb tested one of the lobes, spinning it with a soft whir. "No smith could craft something so..." Words failed him. Lissa snatched the spinner back with a scowl, tucking it protectively into her hand.

  "Doesn't matter what it's worth if the Crostliks catch wind of it,” Jorn said.

  The fire popped, sending up a shower of embers.

  Already suspecting the answer, but wanting to ask anyway, Wes asked, "Why is that? About the Crostliks?"

  Harken growled to himself before answering, the embers hissing. "Crostliks are vultures. See something shiny? Next thing you know, your wagon's burned and your daughter's missing." His fingers brushed the cudgel at his belt.

  “Why doesn’t someone do something about them, then?” he asked.

  “They’re smart enough to only prey on poor folk, and smart enough to pay off those who might turn a blind eye.” Jorn tossed a glance toward the distant campfires downstream.

  Wes nodded, but also privately wondered if he was safe even with Harken and his children, wondering if they could be trusted. It was a dark thought, but Wes was not the most trusting man in the world.

  Jorn continued to stare downriver as shadows moved between the Crostlik campfires. "They're watching us now," he muttered.

  Harken grunted, turning a spit over the fire where strips of dried venison sizzled. "Let them watch. They won't move unless we give them reason." His knife, a serviceable but pitted blade, sawed through a wedge of hard cheese.

  Wes noticed again that Harken’s camp was the closest to the Crostliks, by a decent amount. It was obvious the other campers had tried staying away, but Harken's wagon had been last and the man hadn’t had much choice about where to camp.

  As he watched and pondered, Wes realized several other very eerie things at once, like how important having light at night was in this world, or at least this part of it. And how easy it would be to cause problems for others at night by taking their fire or light...at least if they didn't have rift wolf-proof shelter.

  Thankfully, Harken had good sense, too. "We will take watches tonight. Me and Jorn. Wes and Lissa."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Jorn frowned. "Why is Lissa with Wes?"

  "Because he could probably end us all, and your sister is useless in a fight."

  "Oh."

  Wes grinned. He also appreciated the elegant solution to his fears that Harken had presented. Whether intentional or not, he was feeling reassured. With the danger of the Crostliks, this family needed him. Of course, they could be lying about the danger of the Crostliks, but he highly doubted it, not least of which because of Lissa's presence. The girl wore her heart on her sleeve. If her family was lying, Wes was sure he'd know it.

  Then some time later, after eating some snacks of his own he had, not trusting the local food, Wes laid down in the simple, compact, compression sleeping bag he'd purchased with Cosmic Vending, acting like he was pulling it out of his backpack.

  He fell asleep.

  ***

  When Wes woke, he wasn't sure why at first. Then he felt the tension in the camp and saw both Jorn and Harken standing together, facing torches coming from the Crostlik camp. The torches bobbed closer, their flickering light revealing three men approaching with the loose-limbed swagger of predators. The lead figure was a thick-shouldered brute with a broken nose and greasy black hair tied back with a leather thong. His companions flanked him—one whip-thin with a permanent sneer, the other hulking and silent.

  Harken's hand rested on his cudgel, his voice low and even. "That's far enough, you lot."

  As he spoke, Wes didn't move yet. He carefully studied the three Crostliks, noticing that they wore simple but effective gambesons, with what looked like layers of linen with lumps, probably metal sewn in. Each of them had a simple metal breastplate on, too, with no back. It was super crappy armor...unless someone used it for this exact scenario, facing a known threat from one direction to the front.

  Wes didn't stare through the fire with both eyes. He kept one closed. So when he turned and opened his other eye, he still had some night vision. And as a result, he barely saw another trio of men without torches, wearing dark clothing, moving next to the river to flank them.

  His blood ran cold. He hated when evil people were smart.

  It was clever. The torch group was a threat, but also a distraction. Wes spotted a couple crossbows among the flankers. Meanwhile the three with torches had spears. It was a truly nasty trap.

  The broken nose brute smiled, showing a chipped tooth. "We don't need any unpleasantness tonight. All we ask is some company from the young woman we saw earlier. You daughter, I believe? We are so very lonely. I promise we are good company."

  Harken's knuckles whitened around his cudgel. "You'll get nothing from us but steel, Crostlik." His voice was a low growl, barely audible over the crackling fire.

  Jorn had already nocked a bolt, his crossbow leveled at the brute. His hands trembled slightly, whether from fear or adrenaline, Wes couldn’t tell.

  The chip-toothed man chuckled, spreading his arms wide. He said, "We come in peace. This is just a friendly discussion. Put down that crossbow, boy, before you get hurt. If you start violence...it won't end well for you.

  As the man talked, Wes kept an eye on the flankers. He slowly worked his way out of his sleeping bag when Lissa sat up, terrified. Wes figuring his own moving wouldn't call undue attention to himself with all the distractions. The girl had her hands over her mouth, forcing herself not to make noise.

  People in this world were obviously a lot tougher and more level headed than on earth.

  Suddenly, after bracing himself, Wes ran towards the woods. In seconds, he was in the trees.

  "See Pa?" Snarled Jorn. "First sign of trouble, and he runs away. Into the dark, too. Fool."

  Harken didn't say anything.

  Meanwhile, only about twenty feet in the woodline, Wes took advantage of his remaining night vision to circle around, flanking the flankers. His pistol was in his hands, and his adrenaline was so spiked, it could practically hear colors.

  But his blood was cold.

  Aim with the eye, shoot with the mind, kill with the heart. Wes always loved those books by Stephen King. The words resonated with him to this day. The flankers crept closer, their dark clothing blending with the riverbank shadows. Wes decisively counted three—two with crossbows, one with a wicked-looking hatchet. They moved with practiced silence, eyes fixed on Harken's camp where the standoff continued.

  It didn't take a genius to figure that the crossbowmen were about to put down Jorn before the spearmen rushed in to take down Harken.

  Wes found a good firing position, decently close to the enemies, with a good tree for support. His pistol’s tritium sights were easy to see. He took a breath. It'd been a long time since he did anything like this, and it disturbed him how easily it all came back. Sickened and thankful in equal measures, he lined up a shot, controlled his breathing, kept good control, and squeezed the trigger.

  With the proper fundamentals, decent accuracy wasn't impossible out of a little pistol, just a lot harder. The weapon’s report shattered the night like a hammer through glass. The first crossbowman jerked as the round punched through his temple, his weapon clattering to the riverbank before he crumpled soundlessly.

  Wes had been aiming center mass, not for the head, but he didn't pause. He shifted aim before the body hit the ground. His second shot took the hatchet-wielder in the chest and throat—a spray of blood blocked moonlight over water as the man gagged and staggered. The last man took three rounds to take down. The first was a miss, the second hit his hip, but the third was center mass. Wes shot the body one more time as the man fell, but still wasn't satisfied. He sprinted from the trees, shooting the wheezing, whimpering man in the back as he ran back to the campsite.

  People in this world really didn't know what gunshots were, or what they meant. The three aggressors with spears had taken a few steps back, frightened by the flashes and thunder in the night. Wes caught them all with his pistol light as he ran forward, putting a single bullet in all three men, one extra in the brute. He'd been counting rounds--there was one left in this magazine. He shot the leader once more center mass as he writhed on the ground.

  Then Wes changed magazines and dropped the slide on a new round. Lissa was covering her ears, sobbing with her head down in the camp. Harken and Jorn looked at him like he was a creature from myth.

  The crackling fire cast long shadows across their stunned faces. Smoke curled from Wes's pistol barrel, the acrid scent of gunpowder mingling with the night air. Harken's grip on his cudgel had gone slack, his knuckles pale where they'd been white with tension moments before. Jorn's crossbow dangled uselessly from one hand, the bolt still nocked but forgotten.

  Wes ordered, "Stay here. Watch over Lissa." Then without turning his light back on, he jogged into the treeline, heading for the Crostlik camp. He was going to kill any survivors. And one bit of important information he'd just learned, is that people in this world still went out at night without a light if they were doing nefarious or violent things. It made sense. Rift wolves weren't everywhere, and if everyone had lights up, they creatures would be less likely to hang around...if at all, this close to a town.

  He moved through the forest like a ghost, stepping with light feet, learned through practice.

  The Crostlik campfire burned high, casting flickering light over five rough faces turned towards where the gunshots had echoed. A heavyset woman with braided black hair gripped a hatchet, her nostrils flared as she scanned the darkness. Beside her, a lanky youth crouched behind an overturned crate, crossbow trembling in his hands.

  Wes moved through the night like smoke, keeping low and using the terrain for cover.He studied the remaining Crostliks, trying to hear any of them speaking. The lanky youth with the crossbow whispered to the heavyset woman, his voice cracking with fear. "That wasn't thunder. That was—"

  "Shut your mouth," the woman hissed, her grip tightening and loosening on the hatchet handle in a rhythm. She turned her head slowly, scanning the treeline.

  Wes counted five visible enemies again, two women, three men. They were all armed and all alert now.

  Since he was going to kill them all, he didn't look too closely at them. Didn't need more faces in his nightmares. He was intensely glad that none of them were children.

  Since they didn't know he was there, and he had a few rounds of nine mil’ in his pocket, he reloaded his empty mag with what he had on hand...five rounds. The rest of his ammo was in his backpack. He sighed at the oversight, but this should be enough for five people. Hopefully.

  His pistol came up, and he took his time before initiating the ambush. He was only about 20 yards away. It was not a challenging engagement. The firelight played across the Crostliks' tense faces as Wes steadied his pistol against a tree trunk. The heavyset woman took a step forward. "Torgun? You out there?" Her voice carried just enough uncertainty to betray her fear. "The job done?"

  Wes' first shot took the young crossbowman through the chest. He shot him once more on the way down. Then he turned and opened up on the heavyset woman, the rounds taking her through the chest and stomach.

  The remaining Crostliks froze at the sudden thunderclap and the young man gasped, staring dumbly at the blossoming red stain across his tunic before collapsing. After she was struck, the heavyset woman staggered back, her hatchet slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers as she clutched at her stomach.

  "Ambush!" a bald man with a scarred lip bellowed, whirling toward the trees, throwing a torch...directly away from where Wes actually stood. The torch tumbled end over end, casting wild shadows across the campsite before extinguishing in the dirt. Then the bald man drew a curved dagger from his belt, his scarred lip curling back from bared teeth. "Show yourself, coward!"

  Wes didn't respond. His next shot punched through the man's ribs, sending him sprawling into the firepit in a shower of sparks. The remaining two Crostliks—a wiry woman with a greasy blonde braid and a heavyset man clutching an iron-tipped club—froze for one fatal second. The woman's eyes darted between the bodies already littering the ground. The man took an uncertain step backward, his club raised in trembling hands.

  Wes shot them both center mass, expending the last of his magazine. The blonde woman staggered back with a short scream, clutching her chest before collapsing face-first into the dirt.

  Choking came from the man with the club, drumming his heels on the ground as his lungs filled with blood. Wes’ shot placement had been good. All of his practice back on earth was paying off in a really grisly, but practical way.

  He'd shot each Crostlik at least twice, now. Wes reloaded, watching the campsite for any more moment and seeing none. But just to be safe, he walked into the camp, gathered a torch, and set fire to the tents. Then he went back to the perimeter of the camp again, watching to see if anyone was hiding. Nobody was.

  Being economical and practical, Wes pocketed his pistol and searched the bodies and packs for any coinage or anything of obvious value. He began to regret setting fire the tents before doing this. All of the added heat was a bit uncomfortable.

  The dead Crostliks yielded little of worth—a handful of tarnished copper coins, a few silver. Wes tucked the coins into his pocket, leaving the rest for whatever scavengers might come. The fire he'd set spread quickly through the dry canvas tents, sending plumes of acrid smoke billowing into the night sky.

  He found a small chest after cutting free the Crostlik's animals, letting the horses wander or run away. Then he found a chest. The chest was crude but sturdy, its iron bands rusted with age. Inside lay a jumble of oddities: a smooth black stone etched with glowing green runes, a bracelet made of interlocking silver teeth, and also what looked like... a small, inside-out geode, but lopsided, not spherical.

  Wes picked up the rune-stone first. The moment his fingers closed around the black stone, a jolt of cold energy shot up his arm. Jagged green runes flared brighter along its surface. Information flooded his mind—not words, but instinctive understanding. The stone was a ward-key, designed to disrupt magical barriers and weaken enchantments for a short time. A thief's tool, most likely stolen, or at least he assumed so.

  Wes pocketed it without hesitation.

  The silver bracelet felt unnaturally cold in Wes's palm, its interlocking teeth pressing sharp edges against his skin. He knew instinctively this artifact was related to rift wolves, or maybe other unnatural creatures. After some focus and study, he understood better. When worn, in exchange for a bit of blood, it would tell the wearer if any were nearby. Now he understood better why these people had risked the night without torches.

  As he put the bracelet into his pocket, he wondered how in the world he knew all of this stuff. His ability to learn what these artifacts were seemed fantastical, but he was already on a world with magic. Wes figured maybe it had something to do with the additional languages he’d seen and felt. But answers would not come tonight. For the moment, he was just happy that it was happening, but it was definitely something he recognized was not normal and shouldn't be possible.

  The geode-like object gave no immediate sense of purpose when he picked it up. Its surface shone faintly with an inner glow, but no intuitive understanding imediately came. When it hit, it did in a flash.

  It was a Dungeon Core Fragment.

  The realization hit Wes like a knock to the inside of his head. The misshapen geode felt warm on his palm, its inner glow easier to see at night. He could feel it now—the whisper of alien awareness brushing against his thoughts, the subtle pull toward some unseen fissure in the world.

  Out loud, feeling woozy from the fight as he disassociated, Wes said, "I'll call you...Sylvester." Then he put the geode thing in his pocket, too. After that, he jogged back to Harken's camp.

  The fire at the Crostlik camp had become a raging pyre by the time Wes returned. Flames licked at the night sky, casting an orange glow across the riverbank. Harken stood silhouetted against the light, his cudgel in hand. Jorn had Lissa shielded behind him, his crossbow trained on Wes's approaching figure until recognition dawned.

  "You killed them all,” said Harken.

  Wes kept his expression neutral. "Yes. For several reasons."

  Harken's weathered face was unreadable in the firelight, his eyes reflecting the distant flames of the burning Crostlik camp. His calloused fingers flexed around the cudgel's worn handle. "They had families in that camp. Children, maybe."

  Jorn's crossbow creaked as his grip tightened. "They were coming to take Lissa." His voice cracked with barely contained fury. “I hope they all rot in hell.”

  Wes looked Harken in the eyes and said, "There were no children, thankfully. But you might have seen the bodies now, the first three I killed. They were going to kill Jorn, then put you down before kidnapping Lissa. I'm sure they would have robbed the camp, too. The people in their camp knew about all of this, they were talking about it.

  Harken spat into the fire, the embers hissing. "You figured out their plan before it happened." His fingers tightened around the cudgel's worn grip.

  Jorn's crossbow creaked as he shifted his stance. He swallowed nervously. "My ears are ringing. How'd you kill them so fast? That noise—"

  The distant pyre of the Crostlik camp crackled, sending up a shower of sparks.

  Wes sighed. "I will explain some, but not most of it. But first, I want to go check the bodies, the ones around the camp here."

  "What for!?"

  "For coins or anything else. I'm new to this area, remember? I could use money, and these people don't have a use for it anymore." He set out into the night again.