4

  LEVEL ONE: THE DRAGON STONES

  REMAINING CONTESTANTS: 9,994,956

  TIME UNTIL CULLING: 60 days

  NAME: JACK REN

  CURRENT RANK: RANKINGS NOT YET ALLOCATED

  Side by side, Earl and I make our way through the dense woodland. It’s cold, and the fact that neither of us even has shoes is starting to become a hindrance. And it’s only a matter of time before the sun sets and we’re forced to get some rest—but without tents, bedrolls, or any way to start a fire, I’m not looking forward to the prospect. The only thing I have going for me is the fact that, through pure luck, I’ve managed to link up with a special forces commando, who more than likely knows a thing or two about outdoor survival.

  “Loki,” I say. “Another question. Since there are dragons…are there any other things we need to worry about? Other than the contestants.”

  Oh, yes, says Loki. Many.

  I grit my teeth. “Well? Out with it.”

  The level is populated with a variety of themed monsters and other entities, all designed to fit in with the aesthetic and style of The Dragon Stones.

  “What sort of monsters?”

  I am afraid that I can’t answer that. The surprise is part of the fun.

  “The fun,” I say, hands clenched into fists. “I’m not finding this particularly fun.”

  I meant for the spectators.

  “The Celestan Empire. How many of them are watching right now? Is this…a television show?”

  Currently, there are over one trillion live viewers.

  “Fill me in on the answers, will you?” Asks Earl.

  I do that, and when I’m done, Earl just shakes his head and says, “This is fucked up, man. Real fucked up.”

  I have an idea, and ask Loki how many contestants are still in the game. My thinking is, with ten million elite killers involved, a bunch of them are bound to have come into contact by now, just like Earl and myself. I doubt that all such interactions are going to be friendly ones.

  Nine million, nine hundred and ninety four thousand, nine hundred and fifty six, says Loki.

  I’ve never been particularly good at math, but I quickly run the numbers.

  “Shit,” I say, “over five thousand contestants are already dead.”

  Earl’s expression is grim. “My guess is, the first day is going to have a high casualty rate. The weak are rooted out first. And the unlucky. You and I, I figure, got lucky, running into each other rather than something…less pleasant.”

  I’m about to say something else when Earl comes to a sudden stop, gesturing for silence with a raised hand. I stop moving. We stand there as the wind blows through the canopy, vividly green leaves scraping against each other. Birds sing into the silence. I can hear the pounding of my heart.

  I listen out for whatever has given Earl pause, and a moment later, I hear it: a branch snapping underfoot, accompanied by low, heavy breathing. There’s a guttural voice speaking a language I don’t even recognize.

  And then two small, strange humanoids step out from around a tree.

  They’re maybe four feet tall. Their skin is gray and weathered, a little like leather. They have beady black eyes that shine with cold cunning. Their ears are pointed. They come to a stop, their eyes finding us, and they stare at us while we stare at them.

  I’ve seen a few fantasy movies in my time. I like video games and, although I’d fallen out of the habit of reading, I like books, especially fantastical ones. These two things are most certainly goblins.

  The thought almost causes me to laugh. Goblins. You have to be fucking kidding me.

  The goblins, however, do not seem to find the situation as funny as we do. They, like us, are wearing gray tunics. And like us, they’ve clearly picked a weapon each; the one on the right, with a vicious scar running across its face, is wielding a short, curved sword. The other has a spear.

  “Hello,” I say uncertainly. Then, when they don’t respond, I ask Loki, “Are they contestants, or…?”

  Yes, Loki says simply. They are contestants.

  Scar Face looks at his companion. They exchange a brief burst of words.

  And then they run at us.

  Earl and I react quickly—it’s in our blood, and it’s the one thing that saves us from dying right then and there.

  Earl’s approach is different from mine—he charges right at them, straight ahead, a fearless bull. I, on the other hand, circle to the left with the distance management of a trained cage fighter. Scar Face goes for me. The other addresses Earl.

  I have a spear. Scar Face has a short sword. Even worse for Scar Face, he’s short, and so are his arms. I jab at him with the spear, at first not even trying to hit him. Instead, I just want to keep him away from me—and he does stay away from me, crouched low, growling as he tightens his grip on that vicious blade of his. I cannot let it cut me. Not even a glancing, shallow blow. Because, for all I know, there’s zero chance I’ll be able to have the wound taken care of in even a reasonably sanitary way, and the one thing worse than dying a quick death here and now is instead suffering a slow one as a blood infection ravages me.

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  I have, after all, seen just how brutal blood infections are. It’s how my father died.

  But there’s no time to even think about that now.

  I jab at the goblin again. There’s commotion to my right, where Earl and the other goblin are clashing, but I don’t dare even look. I can’t take my eyes off this thing for even a moment. I have a feeling he’s a quick, sneaky bastard, just judging by the way his shifty, dark eyes keep darting from side to side.

  “I don’t want to do this,” I say through gritted teeth. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”

  The goblin looks at me, but there’s no comprehension in its gleaming eyes.

  For the record, Loki says casually, as though I’m not fighting for my life, all contestants can understand all other contestants, regardless of what languages are being spoken, thanks to the Arcane Linguistic Field encasing the arena—

  I stab at the goblin again, this time aiming for its face. It gets out of the way.

  “Then why—” I say, teeth gritted, lunging forward, “—couldn’t I understand what they were saying just before?”

  They weren’t conversing, Loki says simply. The goblins don’t have language. They merely grunt and—

  But I’m no longer listening to the Whisper’s lecture on goblin communication because Scar Face chooses that moment to run at me.

  He does it smartly, coming at me in a sort of zig-zag way, so that when I try to stab his face with the spear, he’s already darting to the side and swinging at my legs with that nasty sword of his.

  All I can do is throw myself backward. My bare foot strikes a root. I stumble, arms flailing, and it’s only the fact that I trip that saves me from the goblin’s next swing, which is surprisingly fast and cuts through the air where my face had been just a second before.

  I straighten up, mouth dry, heart pounding, moving back again as the goblin comes forward, and I really don’t want to do it, but I stab again, and this time I really try to hurt the thing—

  And I can see in the way that the goblin’s eyes widen that it hadn’t thought I could move so fast. The spearhead plunges into the goblin’s face. There’s a spray of dark, red blood, and the thing reels back, not dead, but badly hurt. I watch it, shocked. I’ve hurt people before, of course—it’s what I do for a living. But MMA is a sport. We’re not trying to kill each other, nor are we even trying to seriously injure our opponents.

  This is different. I can see the goblin’s torn skin flapping. Its face is already covered in so much blood that it’s hard to make out its pointy features.

  “Kill it!” Earl calls from just behind me.

  And for some reason, the command does something to me. It propels me forward.

  I charge and thrust my spear straight through the goblin.

  The spearhead goes through its chest and sticks there. The goblin’s eyes widen even more, and it makes a strange, hissing sound at the back of its throat. When I pull out the spearhead, there’s a noise like a plug being pulled from a bathtub full of water. Suction. The goblin topples backward.

  Dead.

  I stare at it, heart thundering.

  I’ve just killed another living being.

  And sure, it’s a goblin, not a human—but as far as I know, it was still a conscious, thinking, feeling being.

  But not anymore.

  Earl places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You alright, brother?”

  “I…I think so…” I stare at the spearhead, dripping with blood.

  Earl’s expression is sympathetic. I glance past him at the other goblin. It’s dead on the ground, an arrow stuck straight through its jugular. A pool of blood is growing around it.

  “The first time you take a life,” Earl says gently, “it’s a profound moment, brother. A dark one, too. Listen, my advice…just keep reminding yourself that it was either that thing or you. And you got a reason to keep living, right?” He looks me right in the eye. “If you don’t mind me asking…what did they take from you? These bastards who put us in here?”

  “My girlfriend,” I whisper. “Sarah. The love of my life.”

  Earl lets out a breath. “That’s rough. Real rough. So, what I want you to do, Jack, is just remind yourself that that thing,” and he points at the goblin, “was trying to get between you and your girlfriend. And you’re not going to let that happen, are you?”

  “No,” I murmur. “I’ll do whatever I need to do.”

  He thumps my back. “That’s the attitude. And now—”

  Loki flies in front of me. The Whisper shimmers and then expands and twists so that its glowing body forms words that float in the air before my eyes.

  You have leveled up!

  Name: Jack Ren

  Contestant level: Two

  Current rank: N/A (Ranks not yet allocated)

  Reward: Spring Boots OR Mirror Shield

  “Uh…” I stare at the words, which remain floating in the air. “Loki…what’s going on?”

  You have leveled up, Loki says gravely. Each level of the Reality Games has its own rules and parameters. Some of them, such as the Dragon Stones, involve contestant levels. When you kill other contestants or otherwise perform acts that the audience outside the Games consider entertaining, impressive, or just interesting, you advance toward the next level. Your current level affects your ranking, and leveling up unlocks rewards. You currently have two options to choose from.

  Somehow, the current situation just keeps getting stranger and stranger.

  The bastards who set this whole thing up, I think, are truly sick creatures, with their layers of rules and guidelines. It’s hard to believe that, for them, outside the Games, this is little more than entertainment.

  “Tell me more about the options,” I say, taking slow, deep breaths to keep myself calm and composed.

  I can’t do that, Loki says gravely. You have to choose blindly, based on your intuition. It makes it more fun for the audience.

  “Of course it fucking does,” I hiss out through gritted teeth. “Alright then. I want the Spring Boots.”

  And a moment later, a pair of boots are on the ground in front of me. Seemingly made of leather, they’re a nice, dark brown, and although not particularly modern looking, they strike me as being high quality and comfortable. I slip them on. I can’t help but wonder about the Mirror Shield and feel as though I’ve missed out…but at the same time, I need shoes, especially if we’re going to cover a meaningful amount of ground.

  When I look at Earl, I see that he, too, has just gone through the exact same process, and has also chosen the boots. He has them on already, is grinning at me.

  “Damn comfortable,” he says admiringly.

  Since you’ve made your choice, Loki says, I can now inform you that the Spring Boots will allow you to jump exactly twice as high as you would without them.

  Of course, the second I hear that, I can’t resist immediately jumping.

  And although Loki has just explained what the boots do, I still underestimate how propulsive the effect is going to be. I launch upward and bump the top of my head against an overhanging branch, not hard enough to hurt, but enough that I feel immediately like a fool.

  Earl is grinning at me like a madman.

  “Damn,” he says, face splattered with goblin blood, “this whole thing is kinda fun, ain’t it?”