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  LEVEL ONE: THE DRAGON STONES

  REMAINING CONTESTANTS: 10,000,000

  TIME UNTIL CULLING: 60 days

  NAME: JACK REN

  CURRENT RANK: RANKINGS NOT YET ALLOCATED

  “A spear,” I say after thinking about it for a minute. The truth is, I know very little about weapons, about how to use them. I’m a fighter, yes, but my weapons have always been my fists, my feet, my elbows, my knees. Still, a spear, I think, is pretty self-explanatory. It’s a long stick with a pointy end. If anyone gets too close, you stab them with said pointy end.

  As you wish, says Loki, intangible form glowing brighter for a brief moment.

  And then there’s a spear lying in the grass in front of me. A spear that hadn’t been there a second before.

  I stare at it for a long moment. It’s going to be important, I tell myself, that I start to mentally readjust my ideas of what’s normal and what isn't. Evidently, this place doesn’t work the same as the world I’m familiar with.

  I’m six foot three. The spear, I guess, is maybe eight feet long. The shaft is made from a sturdy, dark wood, and the head, leaf-shaped, is a simple piece of elegant and sharpened steel. When I lift the spear, I’m surprised by how light it is. I have to be honest: it feels good in my hands.

  “Alright,” I grunt. “Let’s keep going.”

  I continue to walk toward the dark woods, Loki floating around by my side.

  “A question,” I say after a little while. The sun is beating down on me, already burning the back of my neck. I need better, more protective clothing. I need shoes. And, shit, if everyone else has a weapon too, I might even need some armor.

  Ask away, says Loki.

  “The Dragon Stones. That’s what you said the level is called.” I pause. “But why? Why is it called that?” And even as I ask this question, I have the profound sense that I’m not going to like the answer.

  Even still, better to face it head-on. I still have no idea what’s happening, what I’ve gotten myself involved with, but one thing you need to know about me is that I’m a pragmatic bastard. I do what I need to do and accept what I have no choice but to accept. Right now, that means accepting that this, all of this, is somehow real.

  So be it.

  The name stems from both the theme and overall objective of this level, Loki explains. There are seven dragons in hibernation. Their locations are secret. For each of these seven dragons, there is a dragon stone. The seven dragon stones have been hidden in hard-to-find, difficult locations. Any contestant who finds a dragon stone will be able to command the matching dragon; it will obey all of their commands. This, obviously, can be used offensively against other contestants. Additionally, finding a dragon stone, and activating a dragon, will both drastically improve your overall rank—and may even unlock other rewards.

  I stop walking, suddenly breathing hard. “You mean to say…actual, real, living dragons?”

  Yes, says Loki.

  “And…how do I find a dragon stone?”

  I can’t answer that directly. There are clues scattered throughout the level. You must search, and search hard. And remember, only sixty days remain before the culling.

  I resume my walking, my heart thundering in my chest. The whole thing keeps getting worse and worse. It’s overwhelming. But I kept my gaze fixed on the woods directly ahead. I have to focus. To think of Sarah, and only Sarah.

  I near the treeline, maybe only fifty feet or so away from the nearest ash trees, which are clumped so close together that they form a dark, almost impenetrable wall. Seeing how deep the shadows are within, I start to reconsider this direction.

  And then an arrow flies out of the woods.

  It blurs through the air, and without even thinking, I throw myself down into the grass.

  The arrow soars past me and buries itself in the soil.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Hey!” I shout out, my voice hoarse. “I’m friendly! Fuck, I’m friendly!” Which, under the circumstances, I know is a ridiculous thing to say. If Loki is to be believed, we’re all here to kill each other. But what else am I supposed to say?

  “Any advice?” I grunt to Loki.

  I cannot give direct advice, says the Whisper. I am merely a guide.

  “Stand up!” A voice calls from the treeline. “But without that spear of yours. And keep your hands up in the air.”

  The voice is male. More importantly, it’s human, with an American accent. Southern, maybe even Texan. The familiarity is soothing, and even though the motherfucker just shot an arrow at me, I’m just glad I’m not dealing with another giant alien in golden armor.

  Leaving my spear in the grass, I slowly rise, keeping my hands up. The alternatives aren’t great. I could try to run, but how good is the Texan with the bow he’d evidently chosen? I didn’t yet feel willing to risk an arrow to the spine.

  “I mean you no harm,” I call out through gritted teeth. “I’ll go the other way if you just let me. I won’t bother you.”

  A man steps out from behind an ash tree.

  He’s maybe six foot, shorter than me for sure, but stockier. He has the arms and shoulders of a laborer, of a man well-acquainted with hard work. He’s tanned, clean-shaven, with short, golden hair and a pair of green eyes squinting in my direction. Like me, he’s wearing a plain gray tunic. He’s holding his bow and has an arrow nocked, pointed slightly downward so that it’s not quite aimed right at me.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” he says, sounding oddly friendly for someone who’s just shot at me with an arrow. And he’s definitely Texan.

  “Likewise,” I grunt. “Although it’d be nicer if you didn’t have that thing pointed at me.”

  “Honestly,” he says, “I don’t want to have to point it at you. But I’m a little worried. Because, see here, there’s this strange, glowing thing floating around my head—can you see it?—and it’s trying to tell me that we’re in some kind of tournament. Like gladiators. And that we’re supposed to kill each other. And seeing as how you got yourself a spear, I’m concerned, is all, that you might try to poke me with it.”

  I let out a breath. If I’m going insane, it seems that at least I’m not alone. Which, actually, is bad, because it’s just confirmation that this is real.

  “I have a floating friend of my own,” I say, “and it told me the same thing. But it also told me that there are ten million of us in here and seemed to imply not all of us are human.” I pause. “So, maybe we humans ought to stick together.”

  The Texan considers this for a moment. Then, with a grunt, he removes the arrow and gracefully returns it to the quiver slung across one shoulder.

  He strolls toward me. I lower my hands and step forward to meet him.

  The Texan thrusts out a hand. “Earl,” he says. “Earl Braithwaite.”

  I shake his hand. His grip is strong. Mine is stronger. “Jack Ren.”

  Earl’s eyes widen. “Wait…I thought you looked familiar, but…really? Jack Ren? The MMA fighter?”

  I’ve never been one who particularly cares about being recognized. Other famous fighters love it—it strokes their ego big time. For me, it’s always been a little bit of a hassle. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve tried to enjoy a relaxing outing with Sarah, only to be harassed by MMA fans who, no offence to them, tend to be amongst the most obnoxious fans in the world. But it happens a lot to me. The MFC is the top fighting league in the world, and they have me ranked as the pound-for-pound best fighter on the roster.

  All that being said, here, in this unfamiliar setting, it actually feels good to be recognized. It’s a dose of much-needed normalcy.

  “Yeah,” I say, “that’s me.”

  Earl whistles. “Well, fuck me. Isn’t that crazy? The floating thing, the Whisper, it told me that only the best of the best were chosen for this…” he grins. “Guess that makes sense why you’re here.”

  “And may I ask why you’re here?”

  Earl bends down to pull out the arrow that had barely missed me. “I suppose it’s probably because I’m special forces. Delta Force, to be exact.”

  “Ah.” I look him up and down. It makes sense. I’ve met a few SF guys before under various circumstances, and he definitely holds himself like one. It’s in the posture. The way his eyes move around. Even the way he speaks, the confident, commanding tone. This man’s an actual killer

  I’m just an athlete.

  The disparity strikes me hard. Sure, I could kick his ass, assuming we were unarmed, but this man has been to war. Actual war.

  And who else is in here with us?

  Ten million contestants. And all of them are fighters, killers, warriors.

  A chill shoots down my spine. The true danger hits me for the first time.

  This is bad. Very, very bad.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask Earl.

  “The plan?” Early offers me a wide grin. “Brother, I woke up maybe an hour ago. I have no god damned idea what’s happening, where I am, or if this is even real.”

  “That makes two of us, at least,” I murmur.

  “By the way—can you see my Whisper?” Early asks.

  I shake my head. “Can you see mine?”

  “Nope.”

  We exist only for those we’ve been tasked with guiding, Loki explains into my ear.

  “Right,” I say, taking a deep breath and kicking my spear into the air. I catch it easily. It makes me feel tough—just a little bit. “Suppose we ought to start exploring, then.”

  “Suppose so,” Earl agrees. “But to what end?”

  I start walking toward the woods. “To find one of these dragon stones.”