23

  LEVEL ONE: THE DRAGON STONES

  REMAINING CONTESTANTS: 9,110,479

  TIME UNTIL CULLING: 49 days

  NAME: JACK REN

  CURRENT RANK: 518,994

  In the morning, I slowly climb down the tree and, once I’m standing on safe, solid earth, I examine my body.

  I tally up the damage, all the things working against me: there are the wounds in my shoulder and arm. Both of them are no longer bleeding, and for the most part, they’ve closed up and started to scab, but they still hurt to touch, and even moving my arm around aggravates the fading hole in my shoulder. Even still, I have a feeling that once adrenaline is surging through my body and I’m in the heat of battle, I won’t feel them enough to care.

  Then there’s my stomach, which is still somewhat unsettled, leaving me feeling faintly nauseous, a little like the day after recovering from a nasty stomach bug; you know you’re mostly in the clear, but you also don’t feel quite right, and your appetite is destroyed. Also, I’m just generally quite sore and tired, my muscles, bones, and joints aching.

  But I’m alive, and honestly feeling better than I’d expected to. Well enough, at the very least, that I feel comfortable setting out in pursuit.

  So, what I do.

  I start by moving back toward where the battle happened. This proves to be difficult since, when I was fleeing, I’d lost my sense of direction, more concerned about simply getting away than thinking too much about where I was getting away to.

  I move the same way I did the day before: leaping from one branch to the next, running vertically up trees, fast and agile. It’s an efficient way to make my way though the woods but, more importantly, it’ll keep me mostly safe on the off chance I run into the bastards who attacked us. I think there’s a good chance that some of them are still out there, quite possibly looking for me; they’ll know that I got away, and in the back of their heads, they’ll likely be thinking about me, wondering if I’ll come back.

  But I hope they’re not. I hope that they’ve completely forgotten about me. I hope that they assume I’m dead.

  That way, when they do finally see me coming, and they realize that their death has come, their shock will be that much sweeter, infinitely more satisfying.

  After around an hour or so, I start to lose hope that I’ll be able to find my way back to the well. Eventually, I’m forced to climb down from the branches and advance on foot, since it becomes too difficult to see what’s on the ground from so high up. After another hour, increasingly hungry and dispirited, I hear voices.

  The moment I hear them, I throw myself into the bushes, thorns catching my clothes, scraping at my flesh. I slow my breathing, remaining perfectly still, and watching as two figures come into view. Golden-eyed men just like the attackers from yesterday, talking in a low, guttural language that the arena itself translates for me.

  “...almost certainly dead,” one is saying to the other. They both have bows slung over their shoulders. They’re also both wearing Spring Boots, and one has a gleaming, ruby amulet around his throat. The amulet, I’m certain, is magical—the question is, what does it do?

  “I’m not so sure,” the other says. This second speaker is younger than I first realized, maybe around twenty or so. A single, jagged scar divides his face vertically. “He had a Spider Bracelet. Means he’s strong. Means that he’s probably all healed up by now.”

  “And probably far from here. If he’s smart.”

  The scarred one shrugs. “Yeah. If he’s smart. Listen, we should go back. We’re not finding him out here.”

  “Maras said—”

  “Fuck Maras.”

  The older one comes to a sudden stop. “You ought to be careful. He’ll scalp you for that.”

  “Only if you tell him I said it.” The younger one glares. “You going to tell him?”

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  “What if I do?”

  The young one says nothing.

  His companion sighs, starts to move again. “The arrogance of youth. You’re tough, Linan. I’m not doubting that. But you need to be tough and smart. Because the thing is, in this game, everyone’s fucking tough. You’re not winning the toughness contest. You need to be more than that.”

  “Like you?”

  A snort. “Oh, no, not like me. Trust me, I’m not surviving this game.”

  The scarred one looks away, and for a moment, his eyes pass over the bush I’m currently hiding in. But his gaze immediately drifts off, assuring me that he hasn’t seen me yet. They’re only around ten feet away now, and coming closer. My heart is pounding so loud that I’m becoming paranoid they’re going to hear it.

  “Don’t understand how any self-respecting man could have that attitude,” Linan says quietly. “You have to at the very least believe that you can win.”

  “Get to my age, son, and you learn to be realistic.”

  “Then why not just kill yourself here and now and save yourself the trouble?”

  “Because my hope is that someone from our tribe can win. It won’t be me. But it could be Maras. Or, I think, it could even be you. So, by sticking around, doing what I can…I’m contributing. In my own way.”

  This time, it’s Linan who stops. Now they’re six, maybe seven feet away, a distance I know I can cross in a single heartbeat.

  “There’s another way you could help,” Linan says quietly. “A way you could help me win.”

  “Yeah? And what’s that?”

  “Let me kill you. Right here, right now. I’ll take your levels. You’re four, right? So am I. That’ll push me to at least five. Maybe even six.”

  The older man raises his eyebrows. “What an amazingly tempting offer, son. How could I possibly refuse?”

  “You’re the one who said—”

  “Doesn’t mean I actively want to die,” snaps the older one. “Don’t be an idiot. Let’s keep moving. We’ll search for the next hour or two and then make our way back. And I’m going to try really hard, Linan, to forget about what you just tried to ask me. Keeping in mind the fact that those bastards took my son and are holding him hostage. And that you essentially just asked me to choose you over him.”

  Linan opens his mouth to argue the point, maybe even to defend himself, but I know I have to move now, and so I explode out of the bushes, wincing as the thorns cut me, and reach for Linan.

  He hears me coming and starts to turn, reaching for the knife at his waist, but I catch his wrist with one hand and hit him in the jaw with my other fist. His head snaps to the side, teeth flying through the air. I hit him with a judo throw, flipping him to the ground, and immediately leap at the older man.

  The older man is no joke. He parries my fist with an open hand, imbuing his palm with surprising strength. I realize, then, that he's like me—a brawler, using his body as a primary weapon.

  He throws a side-kick at my chest, boot slamming into me and sending me reeling backward. As I stagger, I fall into Linan, who’s just about to get up. We sprawl into the dirt and grass together. A crow lands on a nearby branch and caws, perhaps sensing the possibility of carrion, watching the fight unfold with attentive, black eyes.

  “Ah, there he is,” the older one says pleasantly, grinning at me. “Linan, I think we found him.”

  But Linan is too busy to reply. I get on top of him and rain down three elbows in brutal rapid succession, caving in the top of his head. Blood flows. Bone breaks. The older man isn’t smiling anymore as I let his younger companion drop lifelessly to the ground.

  “Looks like your friend won’t be winning after all,” I grunt, realizing that I’m breathing heavily, panting like a feral animal.

  The older man’s face is solemn. He sighs. “No. I guess not.” He cracks his knuckles. “Where are you from?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He shrugs. “Does anything matter? We’re both dead. Neither of us are winning. Why not have a little chat before we slaughter each other? This whole thing…” he grins, revealing slightly yellow teeth. “It’s a joke.”

  I relax, but only slightly. “I’m from Earth. The year is 2025. I’m from a country called the United States of America.” A pause. “What about you?”

  His eyes widen just a fraction. “We call our world Earth as well. It’s the ninth year since the death of Alis, our god. And I have heard of a place called…” he wrinkles his nose. “America.”

  “Lucky you,” I mutter. “And what’s your name?”

  “Aran.”

  “Jack,” I say.

  “May I ask, Jack—what did they take from you?”

  “My woman,” I say simply.

  “Ah.” Aran closes his eyes. His body sags. “There is no greater motivation for a man. No instinct more primal. Whoever she was, whoever she is…they made a mistake by taking her.”

  “You’re goddamned right,” I say quietly.

  “I hope you understand, Jack, that we still have to fight.” He opens his golden eyes. “But of course, you will win. Because they took your woman. And as for me, all they took was my fortune, my home, my pride. These things…they don’t compare. You understand. I can see it written all over you.” He smiles again. “You radiate vengeance.”

  I don’t look away. I don’t even blink.

  “I am vengeance.”

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