John landed in a three-point pose in the sprawling back gardens of Micklefield Hall.

  +3000 Aura

  He held the pose for a moment, one leg straight, one bent, fist planted flat on the ground, before dismissing his Dragon Wings and standing up with his hands in his pockets. He made sure his Shadow Coat flared out dramatically and the skull on his shirt was visible.

  +5000 Aura

  The grounds stretched out before him in a series of tiered fields that descended away from the manor house, each level separated by low stone walls that had probably been built centuries ago by people who'd never imagined a world where the sky burned red and monsters roamed the streets.

  The grass had grown long and unruly in the week since the apocalypse, yellowing in patches where it had been trampled or scorched. What had once been carefully maintained lawns now looked wild with nature already beginning to reclaim its dominion.

  Trees dotted the landscape, old oaks and chestnuts that had probably stood for generations, their branches spreading wide to cast shadows that looked strange and distorted under the hellish light. A formal hedged garden space occupied one corner of the grounds, its patterns still visible despite the overgrowth. The hedges themselves were browning at the edges, suffering from neglect and the altered climate.

  Near the house, a gazebo stood listing to one side, its white paint peeling and one of its support columns cracked clean through. It looked like something had crashed into it at speed. Probably a fleeing monster or a panicked human in the early days. The structure's roof sagged dangerously, and John could see where several boards had splintered and fallen away entirely.

  Despite the damage, despite the neglect, John could see the bones of what this place had been. The careful landscaping, the thoughtful placement of the trees. It must have been beautiful once. Probably a popular wedding venue, the kind of place where couples paid thousands of pounds to exchange vows under that gazebo while guests mingled on the manicured lawns, champagne glasses in hand, everything perfect and pristine.

  From his position, he could see two people lingering outside the large barn to the left of the house, so he assumed there were three more watching from the windows of the manor itself, or one of the outbuildings connected to it. The knowledge gave him the same kind of feeling he’d experienced dozens of times when he’d been forced to give presentations in front of his class.

  At least here, he didn’t have to see their faces. Or talk. Still, stage anxiety was going to be an ongoing problem, he could already tell. No matter how accustomed he grew to his ‘cool’ persona, there’d always be a voice nagging in the back of his thoughts, whispering the possible ways he could horribly embarrass himself.

  For now, he could ignore it. The destruction of Watford buoyed him enough that he barely paused a few moments before forcing his body into motion, striding casually towards the main building.

  Micklefield Hall’s main manor house was a two-story mansion of red brick with greenery creeping up from the ground to about halfway through the second floor, capped by a tall, sloped roof dotted with equidistant chimneys, none of which were active. Presumably, those within felt smoke would be too much of a giveaway to whatever hostile entities were out there. And it wasn’t that cold, besides. March was usually fairly mild in this part of England, but the burning sky altered the climate quite severely.

  Curtains shifted, and silhouettes were visible in practically every tall window by the time he was halfway across the garden. John was more glad than ever for his sunglasses hiding his eyes.

  There were ten windows on the house’s front face, five on each floor, and they were wide enough to fit multiple snoopers. That were at least twenty people watching his approach, right there. Horrifying. It made him want to puke.

  +2000 Aura

  At least a couple of people thought he was impressive, he supposed. It would be stranger if they didn’t, after all the showing off he’d done in the last few hours.

  And yet, my heart’s still beating harder than it did when I faced off against the red-souled monster in that stupid fucking disco portal world, he thought, wishing he could reach into his chest and crush the useless bloody thing.

  Before his thoughts could descend even more into doomerism, however, one of the windows proved itself to be a door as it parted down the middle and slammed open.

  A figure burst through with enough enthusiasm to make John's anxiety spike into the stratosphere. His first instinct was to reach for a weapon, but he forced himself to remain still, hands in pockets, expression neutral behind his sunglasses.

  Had to stay cool. Had to stay in character. Eventually, he might come to know these people well enough to trust them not to be dicks, but for now, he had to be that same aloof badass he’d played when he’d first met Lily, Jade, and Chester.

  The man who approached was young—probably around John’s age—with wild blonde hair that stuck out in gravity-defying spikes all over his head. John desperately hoped it was a wig, because otherwise the styling products needed to achieve that effect must have been industrial-grade.

  He wore a mismatched amalgamation of anime protagonist energy: a red jacket with far too many buckles and straps, baggy trousers with unnecessary zippers running up the legs, and what looked like three different belts crossing his chest in an X pattern.

  Vincent. One of the Watford survivors he'd escorted from the town earlier. The guy had been quiet during the journey, subdued even, a stark contrast to the attitude he’d displayed before they initial meeting. But now he moved with a strange, manic intensity that made John's stomach clench with dread.

  Oh no. What's he doing?

  Vincent closed the distance between them with rapid strides, then came to an abrupt halt about three metres away. His eyes were wide and unnaturally bright, fixed on John with laser focus. For a moment, neither of them moved, and John found himself wondering if he'd somehow offended the guy. Had he said something wrong? Done something to upset him? The social calculus was already spiralling out of control in his mind.

  Then Vincent struck a pose.

  It was the kind of pose that belonged in a manga panel: one arm thrust forward, fingers spread, the other cocked back at his hip, his stance wide and aggressive. His head tilted back slightly, chin raised, and when he spoke, his voice was loud enough to make John's ears ring.

  "Master!" Vincent declared, and John felt something inside him die a little. "You have returned victorious from the crucible of battle, your legend growing with every foe you vanquish! The town of Watford trembles no more beneath the heel of monstrous oppression, liberated by your overwhelming might!"

  John's brain short-circuited. Every anxiety he'd ever had about social interaction coalesced into a single moment of complete incomprehension. What the actual fuck was happening? Why was this guy calling him master? Why was he shouting?

  He could feel the weight of all those eyes from the windows, could practically sense their attention zeroing in on this bizarre interaction. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck despite the cool March air. Every instinct screamed at him to teleport away to literally anywhere that wasn't here.

  "Your epic power knows no equal!" Vincent continued, his voice somehow getting louder. He swept his arm in a wide arc, as if presenting John to an invisible audience. "Like a dark star descending from the heavens, you brought righteous annihilation to our enemies! The very earth trembled beneath your wrath! Monsters that had plagued us for days fell like wheat before the scythe of your fury!"

  Please stop.

  "I have witnessed the path of the true warrior," Vincent said, his voice dropping slightly into what might have been meant to sound profound but came across as theatrical. He pressed a fist against his chest. "The road is long and fraught with peril, but I am ready! Ready to train! Ready to grow! Ready to unlock the hidden potential that slumbers within my soul!"

  Vincent's eyes blazed with an intensity that bordered on manic. "Master, I cannot wait to begin our training! Under your tutelage, I know I can achieve greatness! Together, we will forge a bond stronger than steel, tempered in the fires of combat! The passion of battle calls to me, Master! Show me the way of the warrior!"

  John stared at him.

  He tried to process what was happening. Tried to find some appropriate response. Tried to reconcile the words he was hearing with any possible reality where they made sense.

  "What," John said slowly, using Biomancy to keep his voice deep and gruff despite his internal screaming, "the hell are you on about?"

  It came out perfectly aloof, perfectly cool, perfectly in character. John wanted to die.

  Vincent winced and for a split second, John saw something flicker behind the manic energy. It looked an awful lot like self-loathing. But then the blonde-haired man rallied himself, his expression shifting back into that over-the-top determination.

  "Ah! As expected of you, Master!" Vincent said, and there was a note of desperation creeping into his boisterousness now. "Your coolness knows no bounds! Even in moments of reunion, you maintain that perfect aura of detached superiority! Truly, you are the epitome of the warrior's ideal!"

  "The passion of battle burns in my veins like wildfire!" Vincent declared, striking another pose, this one with both fists clenched at his sides. "I have seen what monsters can do to the innocent, to the weak, to those unable to defend themselves! My precious people—the friends I've made in this hell, whom I've sworn to protect—they depend on strength they do not possess!"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  His voice cracked slightly on the next words, and John caught another glimpse of genuine emotion beneath the performance. "I was powerless before. I watched people die. Watched them get torn apart while I hid in a basement like a coward. But no more! The flame of determination has been ignited within me! I will become strong! I will protect those who matter! And you, Master! You are the perfect teacher to show me this path!"

  Vincent's hands clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. "The way of the warrior is about standing between the darkness and those you love! About refusing to let fear control you! I understand this now, Master! I understand that strength without conviction is meaningless, but conviction without strength is merely a beautiful dream that shatters against the harsh reality of this new world!"

  He took a step closer, his eyes meeting John's sunglasses with an intensity that made John want to crawl out of his own skin. "So I ask you, no, I beg you: teach me! Mould me into a weapon that can defend my precious people! Show me how to transcend my limitations and achieve the power necessary to protect what matters most! My determination knows no limit! Believe it!"

  John stared at him for a long moment, his mind racing. Behind Vincent's overwrought anime protagonist routine, behind the cheesy dialogue and dramatic poses, there was genuine desperation. Genuine pain.

  And in Vincent's eyes, just visible through the manic energy, John recognised something painfully familiar.

  Cringe. The hollow feeling of being forced to play a character you despised while a part of you died inside with every word.

  But beneath the cringe, beneath the forced enthusiasm and the theatrical declarations, Vincent really did want advice on how to achieve the kind of power John had demonstrated. The speech might have been forced, but the sentiment behind it was real.

  This was someone trapped in the same kind of System-imposed prison, reaching out for help in a way that wouldn’t lose a bunch of his hard-won points.

  Whatever governed those points, John felt, wasn’t so dissimilar to his own. Before him was a kindred spirit, of sorts.

  John couldn't just brush him off. Couldn't just walk away. Not when he recognised that particular flavour of desperation.

  He adjusted his stance, crossing his arms and letting his Shadow Coat billow slightly in the breeze. Time to commit to his own bit.

  Using Biomancy, he made his voice even deeper, more gravelly. "You want to know the secret?" he intoned. He turned his head slightly, gazing off into the middle distance as if contemplating some profound truth. "It's not about training sessions. It's not about techniques or Spells or grinding monsters for points."

  He paused for effect, hating himself with every fibres of his being.

  "You have to walk your path at every moment of every day. The warrior's way isn't something you switch on and off. It's not a mask you put on when convenient. It's who you are."

  Vincent's eyes widened, and John could see the guy hanging on every word. It made him want to crawl into a hole and die, but he pressed on.

  "Only those with unwavering dedication to embody their ideal can achieve transcendent power," John continued edgily. "The System doesn't reward half-measures. It doesn't care about intentions or potential. It cares about commitment. About consistency. About becoming the person it wants you to be, completely and without reservation."

  He shifted his gaze back to Vincent, grateful for the sunglasses hiding the horrified embarrassment in his eyes. "Every action, every word. That's the price of power in this new world."

  I'm going to vomit.

  "So if you want strength," John said, his tone dropping even lower, "if you truly want to protect your precious people, then you need to embrace your path fully. No hesitation. No breaks. Live it, breathe it. That's the only way forward."

  He held the pose—arms crossed, head tilted slightly, gazing angstily into the distance—and prayed for death.

  +8000 Aura

  At least the System likes it, he thought bitterly. It was cold comfort up against the confirmation there were several people listening in to this bollocks.

  "Master..." Vincent whispered, and for a moment, the anime protagonist mask slipped entirely. His voice was normal, almost quiet. "Thank you. Seriously. I... I needed to hear that."

  Then the mask snapped back into place, and Vincent's voice rose to its previous volume. "You have shown me the truth! The path is clear before me now! I swear on my life, on the lives of those I protect, that I will give everything to this journey! Every waking moment will be dedicated to embodying the warrior's ideal!"

  He struck another pose, this one with one arm thrust toward the sky. "I will protect my precious people! I will stand between them and the darkness! The flame of determination burns within me, and it will never be extinguished! Through willpower and friendship, through bonds forged in hardship, through the unbreakable spirit of the human heart, we will overcome any obstacle!"

  Vincent's voice reached a crescendo. "This I swear, Master! I will not falter! I will not break! I will become the shield that guards the innocent, the sword that strikes down evil, the light that pierces the darkness! My precious people will never have to fear again, because I will—"

  John couldn't take it anymore.

  "I have to go," he said abruptly, already reaching for his Teleport Spell. "Important business. Very urgent. Immediately."

  Before Vincent could complete another sentence of his speech, John activated the Spell, picked out a destination, and vanished.

  He reappeared on the front driveway on the other side of the house, putting the entire manor between himself and Vincent's theatrical proclamations. The gravel crunched under his boots as he landed, and he immediately took a deep, shuddering breath.

  The second-hand embarrassment was so intense it made his skin crawl. Every word of Vincent's speeches echoed in his mind, each declaration about precious people and warrior's paths and the power of friendship making him want to scrub his brain with bleach.

  And the worst part was that he'd participated. He'd stood there and delivered his own cringey speech about walking your path and unwavering dedication.

  He'd meant it to be helpful, had recognised Vincent's genuine need for guidance, but that didn't make it any less mortifying to remember his own words.

  "You have to walk your path at every moment of every day."

  It was pretty much true. He’d been living his ‘cool’ persona almost non-stop since the apocalypse kicked off.

  Didn’t mean it wasn’t absolutely awful.

  Give me some fucked up situation like Watford over that kind of bollocks any day.

  John groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "Kill me. Just fucking kill me."

  "John?"

  The voice startled him badly enough that he actually jumped, spinning around to face it. But it was just Lily, rising to her feet from where she'd been sitting on the house's front steps. She was smiling at him, her green eyes warm with amusement.

  "Welcome back," she said, brushing some dirt off her jeans. "I was waiting for you."

  John's brain stuttered to a halt. She'd been waiting for him? Why? The question must have shown on his face despite the sunglasses, because her smile widened slightly.

  "Wanted to see how it went," she explained, walking toward him casually. "Is it done? Watford?"

  He opened his mouth to respond, but for a moment, no words came out. The memory of their last real conversation hit him like a truck. Or, more pertinently: the hug. The kiss on his cheek.

  It was just gratitude, he told himself firmly. She was dealing with guilt and shame and self-loathing about killing someone. You showed her kindness when she was struggling. That's all it was.

  But a traitorous part of his mind couldn't help acknowledging that Lily was a pretty woman. He'd never really paid attention before, too focused on survival, too wrapped up in his own anxieties and the constant pressure of maintaining his persona. But now, watching her approach with that slight smile, her strawberry blonde hair catching the hellish light, freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, he couldn't help but notice.

  The thought made him deeply uncomfortable.

  "Yeah," he managed to say. His voice came out gravelly even without Biomancy. He cleared his throat and tried again, letting his cool persona slide back into place like armour. "It's done. Watford's clear. Monsters dead, portals destroyed, all survivors evacuated."

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and aimed for casual, like destroying an entire town's worth of monsters was no big deal. "Just another Tuesday, really."

  +1000 Aura

  Lily's smile turned rueful, and he could see in her expression that she understood exactly what he was doing. The fact that she was aware of his performance should have made him more anxious, but somehow it didn't. There was something almost comforting about being around someone who knew it was an act and didn't judge him for it. Someone who knew he wasn’t actually the douchebag he was presenting.

  "Just another Tuesday," she repeated with a smirk. "Nothing special about liberating an entire town single-handedly. Totally mundane for someone as badass as you."

  +1000 Aura

  John felt his cheeks heat slightly and was grateful for the sunglasses hiding his eyes. "Well. You know. Had to be done."

  Lily's expression softened. "You did a good thing, John. A really good thing. A lot of these people... they wouldn't have survived much longer without you. The animals too. You saved them all."

  The praise made him want to squirm. He'd never been good at accepting compliments, and coming from her, it hit differently somehow. "Just doing what needed doing," he muttered.

  She studied him for a moment, her green eyes thoughtful, then seemed to come to some decision. "How about I give you a proper tour of Micklefield Hall? Introduce you to everyone? They've all been waiting to meet you properly. You're kind of a legend around here now. Everyone’s so grateful."

  The thought of interacting directly with so many people made his stomach twist into knots. All those strangers, all those eyes on him, all those potential conversations where he could say or do the wrong thing and embarrass himself catastrophically. His anxiety spiked hard, and he felt the familiar urge to make an excuse to find a way out.

  But these people were part of the resistance now, part of the group he was theoretically helping to lead. He couldn't avoid them forever.

  Besides, a small voice in the back of his mind pointed out, Lily will be there. And she understands.

  That thought shouldn't have been as comforting as it was.

  In the end, John nodded.

  Lily's smile brightened, and she gestured toward the front entrance. "Come on, then. Fair warning: Doug's been organising people all morning, so things are a bit chaotic. But everyone's excited to meet you for real."

  Excited, he thought. Oh, good.

  John followed her toward the house, his Shadow Coat billowing dramatically behind him, his hands in his pockets, his expression carefully neutral. To any observer, he probably looked calm and collected. Cool, even.

  Inside, he was screaming. But that was nothing new. And if he'd learned anything over the past week or two, it was that he could endure discomfort when push came to shove.

  So John squared his shoulders, adjusted his sunglasses, and followed Lily toward whatever social nightmare awaited him inside Micklefield Hall.