13

  LEVEL ONE: THE DRAGON STONES

  REMAINING CONTESTANTS: 9,317,224

  TIME UNTIL CULLING: 56 days

  NAME: JACK REN

  CURRENT RANK: 996,458

  Thinking fast, I assess my options, and the odds of our survival.

  We outnumber them, but they have horses, and although I don’t know much, I do know that cavalry is a serious advantage. As a teenager, I’d had a phase when I’d been obsessed with military history, and I remember reading about countless battles where an outnumbered force won because of a decisive cavalry action.

  But here, there are other factors to consider. Levels, for example. I’m a four. Elizabeth is even higher. Cole, higher still. The three of us could make a big difference.

  Assuming that they aren’t also high-level contestants.

  Really, there’s no way to know from this distance. Certain armor or weapons might give them away, but even then, that’s no guarantee.

  So. As to the options.

  We either stay and fight, or we run.

  As far as running is concerned, I’m sure that Cole intends to stand his ground. Not that he has much of a choice. The cavalry is bearing down upon him now, and even if he turned and sprinted, they’d catch him easily and cut him down from behind. Where he is now, he has a slight advantage; the cavalry has to ride uphill.

  Alternatively, I can run. Elizabeth and I. We could abandon the others.

  But no. I’d do it if it was literally the only way to survive, but I don’t know that’s true, and right now, as far as the wider Game is concerned, we have an advantage by being part of a larger group. If we head out on our own, I have a feeling we’d just been putting ourselves in an even worse situation.

  Which means I’m going to fight.

  “Fuck,” I hiss, clenching my fists. My heart is pounding, as it has every time before a fight. I wonder if there’s a certain threshold, an amount of violence, at which point I’ll be totally inoculated to the fear.

  I doubt it.

  Elizabeth met my gaze and seemed to be thinking the exact same thing. “Should we run?” She whispered.

  I shake my head slowly. “Let’s fight. Running away will get us nowhere.”

  Elizabeth nods.

  The cavalry are now nearing the very top of the hill. Cole has his sword out and has fallen into a defensive stance. A part of me is excited to see what that ring of his can do. Mary, next to him, has a spear, which she’s twirling around in a frantic pattern. I feel a sense of urgency. I don’t know how good these two are, but there’s a very solid chance that they’ll take out some of the cavalry before we get there. That means more levels for them, higher rankings, a better standing in the game.

  I need to be there. I need to get ahead.

  If I don’t, I’m fucked. Sarah is fucked.

  It has to be.

  I explode out of the undergrowth, breaking our cover, bounding up the side of the hill and cutting my way toward the left flank of the cavalry. There was meant to be a signal, a sign for us to move, but I’m moving anyway. It’s a risk, and if we survive, Cole won’t be happy with me.

  Unless, of course, it works well.

  And I intend for it to work.

  The others, hidden in place, see my movement, and it forces them to act. The seven hidden contestants near Elizabeth and I spring into motion, advancing; one person fires an arrow into the air, signaling for the other flank to charge.

  We’re lucky, I think, because this plan, hitting them from both sides while they reach the top of the hill, will be especially effective against cavalry. It counters their one, primary advantage: the charge. It’s a stroke of luck that I’m not willing to linger on, since luck is a fickle thing, and I know it’s only a matter of time before it turns against me.

  Now that I’m running, closing the distance between myself and the riders, I can see them more clearly. They’re all tall, strong, with long, braided beards and faces painted red and blue. There’s something about them. Something primal and unfamiliar. They might be human, but they’re not like me.

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  One turns in the saddle, sees me coming, raises his ax and calls out to the others. He does so in a language that sounds, to my uneducated ears, Scandinavian—and I wonder, then, if these might be actual, genuine Vikings. I remember what Loki had told me before it’d dissipated—that we’d been brought here from a multitude of timelines and realities.

  It strikes me properly, for the first time, just how bizarre the situation is, that right now I might be coming up against warriors from a thousand years in the past.

  The Vikings know we’re coming now, and the front riders begin to turn their horses, wheeling them around to deal with the threats coming from the flanks. At the same time, Cole and Mary sprint down the hill toward them, weapons ready.

  I’m running faster than I ever have, teeth gritted, snarling, spitting. Turning into an animal. Because all I can think of is Sarah.

  I will get her back.

  I will win this fucking game.

  I jump as hard and high as I can, and my Spring Boots do the rest. I fly through the air. The rider I’m going for widens his eyes in surprise, not ready for me to launch myself through the air like a human projectile. All he can do is raise his shield, desperate to protect himself—and then I’m on him, tackling him off the horse, slamming him into the hard soil. The horse, now riderless, whinnies and comes to a stop.

  I’m on top of the Viking, and I don’t hesitate. I rain down punches, three, four, smashing his head into the ground. I shatter his skull. The bones in his face.

  He’s dead in seconds.

  I stare at my hands. Red. Dripping.

  I’ve become a monster.

  I rise, still growling, and try to make sense of the chaos around me.

  A melee has broken out between the Vikings and Cole’s group. The fighting is intense, impossible to follow—there’s movement everywhere, accompanied by screaming, grunting, pleading. Someone is laughing, I’m not sure who, and the sound of it chills me to my bones. In my periphery, I see Cole swinging his sword at the legs of a horse, chopping through them, causing the animal to stagger and scream. The rider vaults down with complete grace and stalks Cole with an ax held low—but Cole simply raises his other hand, the hand with the ring, which begins to glow with an inner light.

  And a moment later, tongues of fire emerge from the ring, so bright that they almost blind me and imprint their brilliance upon my retinas. The Viking, consumed by fire, falls to his knees, shrieking madly.

  The air around Cole shimmers as he acquires another level.

  Something hits me in the side. I stagger, try to turn to face my attacker, but the butt of a spear snaps into my face and crushes my nose. Blood gushes down my face and covers my lips—the metallic tang of it fills my mouth and leaves me feeling nauseous.

  A Viking is walking me down. Massive, scarred, separated from his horse. The spear he’s holding is covered in someone else’s blood. He says something to me, lips curling, revealing yellowed teeth, but whatever words emerge from him do so in an archaic language I can’t even begin to understand.

  We face off against each other, circling, two duellists at the center of an increasingly violent struggle. The rest of the battle fades into the background. Nothing matters except for him and me.

  He lunges forward, stabbing at me with his spear, and as he does so, golden light encircles the spearhead. It comes at me fast, but my reflexes have never been so good, and I dance easily out of the way.

  We go back to circling each other. I wonder, absently, what level he is, what class he’s chosen, and what abilities he possesses. That’s one of the big problems with fighting in this game. In an octagon, under MMA rules, I always knew what my opponent could and couldn’t do. I could predict their movements, could at least understand what they were attempting…but here, there was no telling what this man was capable of. It was impossible to calculate, to plan…I had to rely entirely on my instincts and reflexes.

  The Viking spins his spear, the spearhead still trailing golden light, so that as the weapon completes its rapid arc, a glowing circle is left imprinted upon the air. The Viking steps back and then punches through the center of the circle.

  And immediately, a ball of golden light shoots toward me.

  It flies through the air impossibly fast; there’s nothing I can do except brace myself.

  The light hits me in the middle of my chest. I fly through the air, the breath knocked out of my lungs, gasping and heaving as I slam into the ground. There’s more blood in my mouth. I can smell burning—my own roasted flesh. When I glance at my chest, I can see that the gray tunic has been badly singed, revealing my blackened skin just beneath.

  It hurts. It hurts so much that I nearly cry out.

  Instead, I force myself up. Up, up, up, I tell myself. Get up for Sarah. Get up, you motherfucker, and win.

  I growl like an animal and run at the Viking, who appears mildly surprised that I’m still alive. He steps forward and thrusts his spear toward my stomach, intending, I think, on impaling me straight through.

  I jump, my Spring Boots giving me air, and then rapidly descend like a furious meteor. My right fist slams into the Viking’s skull with the force of a righteous god.

  My hand shatters bone and ruptures flesh. I feel the impact of the blow through my shoulder and then the entirety of my body.

  The Viking wobbles, falls to his knees, and dies without a sound.

  Immediately, golden words coalesce in the air, dominating my vision.

  You have leveled up!

  Name: Jack Ren

  Contestant level: Five

  Current rank: 701,101

  Reward: New skill

  Choose from one of the following:

  Berserker Rage

  Cosmic Serenity

  I stare at the words for several long moments, heart racing, chest rising and falling as I take big, gulping breaths. Another level. This time, it feels satisfying. Level five. Five out of how many? I don’t know, but I intend on finding out, on pushing on, on rising up, up, to the highest possible point, so that when I come for Sarah, and when I come for the bastards who have done this to all of us, they will regret giving me these powers, these new skills.

  The choice now, of course, is obvious.

  Because there’s a growing fury inside of me that can’t be denied.

  “Berserker Rage,” I growl.

  The effect is immediate.

  Pure and utter wrath. The intensity of a storm contained within my body.

  The battle is still raging. Men and women are still struggling.

  I crack my knuckles.

  But not for long.

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