Kwan Il-Su was a patient man. He knew the importance of waiting, and not taking steps that were not needed. You always had to take the shortest route possible from Point A to Point B, but it also wasn’t a race. Efficiency was paramount, and haste was sloppy.

  The first time all the pyers had been summoned to the arena, he’d watched, and waited. Observed participants, anomalies, and most of all, he’d kept his eyes on Ingram Holt.

  There was no easy way into his private booth. It was separated from the rest of the colosseum through simple hostile architecture. One would normally only be able to enter through a door in the back of the balcony-like structure, but no such door was present. You could only get in via Holt’s teleportation abilities.

  Unless you were very good at climbing or parkour.

  So that first day, while everyone else stared in some mixture of wonder, fear, disgust, and who knew what else as NightmareWasTaken and GrandTheftOtter duelled to the death, Il-Su had made a mental map of how exactly to get into Holt’s balcony.

  It wouldn’t be easy. He had no climbing gear. No ropes, no grappling hooks. It’d all have to be done hand and foot, a proposition he normally wouldn’t baulk at in Galnt Stand II, but everything was just too real in this game. He’d already tried his hand at scaling what passed for walls in Ri Oa, and nearly been caught and arrested by those pale barbarians that enforced order twice.

  He was having to relearn skill sets he’d long since mastered simply because the concepts of muscle strain and pain had been introduced. But Il-Su was nothing if not a fast learner.

  Even so, he’d also kept an eye on GrandTheftOtter at the time. Something about her bothered him. Honouring their deal had always been a secondary concern. He didn’t need to be burdened by some untalented nobody. An opinion that quickly disappeared after watching her kill Nightmare. It wasn’t a particurly impressive feat. Everyone knew Nightmare was washed, and that this wasn’t his type of game. Even so, he’d been forced to reevaluate GrandTheftOtter.

  She went from an unknown potential ally, to someone he definitely needed to know more about. Because he’d either be working with her in the future, or he’d need to remove a potential threat.

  The second time they’d been summoned to the arena, Il-Su came better equipped. Time had been good to him. He’d gained a patron, and with that, some funding. He was no longer a hungry thief on the streets of an unknown city, he was quickly becoming a pyer in bigger events.

  And with that, came perks. Specifically, the climbing gear he’d been gifted.

  So, when everyone was busy with their little revolt, attacking a GM in his own domain in a completely useless act of defiance, Il-Su was doing more important things.

  The grappling hook was an ingenious little device he hadn’t expected from a fantasy world, but Il-Su was quickly beginning to realize that fantasy did not mean inferior. The technology in this game was simir to the real world’s, but it’d worked parallel to unique mechanisms and ws of magic avaible. It was odd seeing the depths of a world made by a narcissist like Ingram Holt, someone who’d made games based on the same principles for years. A man who steadfastly refused to try anything new, now reinventing himself as a visionary who would pioneer gaming.

  All gone to waste now. What would he be remembered as now? A monster. Not just a monster, but a derivative one. That was the true tragedy of Ingram Holt. Even in his inhumanity, he was a pgiarist at best.

  Il-Su threw the hook, securing it to the top of Holt’s balcony, and swung himself in. A foolhardy move, if there weren’t such a perfect distraction to cover him. Once he was inside, he gave a twist and a tug to the rope, and the hook released. How the mechanism worked, Il-Su had no idea. He secured the rope about his waist, the hook digging into his side, but he’d need his hands free for what he pnned next.

  While everyone else had focused on Holt’s dispy of wealth and pomposity through his screen, Il-Su’s eyes had looked for anything else that might be in this section of the arena. Unfortunately he hadn’t found anything, which just encouraged the idea that there must be something hidden. A man like Holt wouldn’t just be sitting in an empty balcony, and then make it completely inaccessible.

  He wasn’t threatened by the pyers, and the little attempt at a revolution below proved that. Maybe, once they’d gained more stats, better gear, more experience with Fell Champions, they’d possibly be able to injure him. But even then, it was doubtful. Holt had likely programmed in some kind of God Mode to go with his god complex.

  So, if Holt wasn’t in any danger, why separate himself?

  Il-Su began to memorize everything in the booth. He didn’t dare touch anything. Not until he knew where everything was first, and in its exact position. Only once he was confident to know where things were and how they were kept would he begin to investigate. There was no point in leaving evidence behind.

  There was the throne, and a small table containing a goblet and bottle of what Il-Su assumed was wine. This was for the audience’s benefit. Props, meant to send a message about Holt’s power over them, and likely served no other purpose.

  The ceiling was vaulted, and there were no lights suspended from it. No torch sconces on the walls. No mps on either of the two tables in the back of the room. And yet, there was a light source, seemingly from nowhere, illuminating the throne. The rest of the room was cast into shadow.

  There was nothing else.

  Il-Su frowned. This wasn’t expected. There had to be something. Not necessarily an admin console that would be queued up with a command to release all pyers, but something.

  He walked the perimeter of the room, running his hands along stone walls, pushing, feeling, trying to find anything out of pce. This was his role, what he was good at. The scout, the point man. Oh, sure, everyone made such a fuss about how he was a legendary assassin, how no one was safe from his bde. But any monkey could be a killer.

  No, his true talent had always been in finding what others did not want him to find.

  The walls were not made from brick, nor even known the touch of a chisel. They were smooth, like cement. Or so they appeared. His eyes never would have found it, but there was no fooling his fingers. On the back wall, there was a groove. He followed its line, and found a doorway.

  Oh, there was no handle to be found, but when you found a groove that came in the shape of a rectangle, and one of those grooves was along the floor, what else could it be?

  Il-Su hesitated. It would be easy to try to push at it and see what was on the other side, but it might very well be trapped or armed in some way. But the need to know was strong.

  Abandoning all caution, Il-Su shoved against the doorway, and it gave under the slightest pressure, swinging inwards. Nothing else happened. No bre, cxon, arm. No trap raining fire or arrows or bullets or who knew what else Holt could summon up.

  Il-Su entered, closing the door behind him. Inside was a bedroom. It was lit in the same way as the throne, seemingly from nowhere. The room’s primary fixture was a canopied bed, the white sheets rumpled and stained from sweat. There was a strong stink of body odour to accompany them.

  The rest of the room was chaos. A bulletin board on one wall, sheets of paper tacked to its surface. A discarded violin – vio? Il-Su could never tell the difference – on the floor in the middle of the room. A table with dirty dishes, and a tipped over bottle of wine, half its contents staining the floor. A stand mirror, cracks spider-webbing across its surface from where something had struck it very hard, likely a fist. An assortment of weapons on dispy in a corner, a heavy axe taken down and embedded into a nearby training dummy.

  Il-Su was tempted to steal a weapon. They’d likely be of better make than anything this world had to offer. But even with the disarray of the room, Holt would surely notice its absence.

  Il-Su headed to the bulletin board. It was the only logical pce. Information, kept right out in the open like this? It was something Holt would have gone over many times. Which meant it was important.

  Most of it read like gibberish. Maybe it was in code, or maybe Holt really was half-mad. Or maybe it was written in an in-game nguage. Or maybe even a real world one that Il-Su wasn’t familiar with. He wasn’t exactly a linguist.

  Other pages were drawings. Odd patterns, dispyed on sketchings of bodies, like tattoo designs. A scribble of a stone well. An old tree, barren of leaves. A snow-capped mountain. A sword, broken in half, the guard sheared off on one side.

  He had no way of making any copies, or taking notes. He’d have to come back, with the appropriate supplies. Paper, ink, or charcoal. Whatever the game’s equivalent was. Or…

  He opened his menu, toggling through his streamer settings, and turned his stream on. There was only a couple of dozen people waiting for him. With how the time dition worked, only people who were online and waiting would be avaible, or people he pilfered from others’ streams.

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t need a lot of people. As a matter of fact, the fewer, the better.

  “Chat,” he said to the empty air. “Take a screenshot of what I’m looking at. Clip it. I need to be able to review this ter.”

  It was risky. They’d share it with other pyers. Chat was always a bunch of snitches, and none of the people on were his mods. They were likely all sitting in Sami or Everette’s streams. Not that he bmed them. They were probably doing exciting things, like uselessly attacking a god king.

  No one responded. He swore. They might all be afk, or bots.

  He’d need an ally. Someone who was streaming, and had an audience, and wouldn’t immediately rat him out to Holt. Someone who didn’t hold a grudge.

  He pulled up the Online list, going over the names.

  GrandTheftOtter was out. Whoever she really was, she’d only just set up her Spasm account not too long ago, and hadn’t streamed once on it. Sami was still angry with him, and anything he told Everette would inevitably get back to her. Man couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, and he acted like he was married to her, despite the fact that their sexualities were incompatible. Why they were still together was beyond Il-Su.

  He couldn’t involve any of the grifters like Paul Howlett, or content whores like Fitzkim or Masked Baguette. Neither group could be trusted to not immediately share anything learned here.

  Il-Su didn’t recognize half the names on the list. Apparently a lot of the pyers had decided at the st minute to swap their identities around, either for ‘rolepy’, or because they wanted to remain incognito. Most of those were smart enough not to be streaming.

  He finally settled on one name, one he’d been surprised to learn was pying the game at all, not after her disappearing act. He was loathe to hit the call button. She’d always been notorious for never responding, in-game, on a messaging app, on her phone, anything.

  He almost withdrew the message entirely thinking about it, but then a window popped open.

  Pandemona didn’t look anything like Il-Su expected her to. She’d always been proud of her heritage, as mixed as it was. Some called her Polynesian, but it was safer just to call her southeast Asian, or possibly just ‘ethnic.’ She’d one time tried to detail out her family tree to Il-Su, and after listing ethnicities between Tongan, Filipina, Kiwi, Chinese, Samoan, and Hispanic, Il-Su had honestly stopped paying attention.

  She’d always tried to bring that mixed heritage to her avatars. So… why was this Pandemona so… Caucasian?

  “Oh, hey, Il-Su, what’s up?” she said.

  She was panting, as if she’d just run a marathon. She’d probably been participating in the fight against Holt. That tracked. Despite being the mage in their old party dynamic, and having a sound tactical mind, she tended to lend herself towards impulse.

  “I need someone in your chat. Anyone. Doesn’t matter who. Send them over, I need them to take some screenshots.”

  “No can do. I’m not streaming.”

  “You? Not streaming? I would’ve assumed you the first to go online out of everyone.”

  “I do like soliciting donations from chat,” she said, and then seemed to catch herself. She looked around, as if afraid someone had heard her. “You know me.”

  He did. Probably a little too well, which had always been a problem. Things would’ve been so much simpler if he’d known her a little less.

  “Then I need a recommendation,” he said. “Someone who’s streaming, and whose chat can be trusted.”

  “No one’s chat can be trusted. The bigger the secret, the quicker they’ll post screenshots online and tell everyone.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “What do you need them for?”

  He hesitated for a second. “I’m in Holt’s area. I need someone to take a screenshot of something I found.”

  “Get out of there, dummy. He’s back on his throne right now.”

  Il-Su sucked in a breath, and looked at the doorway. It was still closed. How much longer would that be true for?

  He’d already worked out his escape pn, days before committing to this. In the event he couldn’t get out before Holt returned or was no longer distracted, all he had to do was hide and wait it out. Holt would eventually initiate a mass teleport out. At which point, Il-Su was free.

  He just needed to not be discovered.

  When he dared speak, it was as hushed as he could manage and still be audible. “I can’t. I’m committed now, May.”

  She always hated when he called her that. He gave her a knowing smirk, but she offered nothing in response.

  “Fine. I’ll join your chat, and make a clip myself.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Heck yeah, you can. Haven’t you pyed with the streamer settings at all?”

  He ignored the bait. A moment ter, someone joined his chat, but under an anonymous throwaway account, a name that was all random letters and numbers. That was odd. Why wasn’t she using her Pandemona login?

  “Just start taking screenshots. Send them to me when you’re done. And don’t share this with anyone else. No clips. They’d be avaible to anyone who comes to my channel.”

  He went through the papers again, giving as many lingering looks as he could. When they were done, Il-Su disabled his stream, and then hid under the bed. It was the perfect crime.

  So, as he id there with a self-satisfied smile on his face, he was a little shocked to hear the door open, and Holt’s voice call out, “Come on out, Il-Su. We need to talk.”

  DorenWinslowe