27

  LEVEL ONE: THE DRAGON STONES

  REMAINING CONTESTANTS: 9,001,999

  TIME UNTIL CULLING: 48 days

  NAME: JACK REN

  CURRENT RANK: 220,112

  Using my spring boots, I jump on top of the building, wood creaking beneath me. Without thinking, without knowing if it’s going to work, I touch the thunder knuckles to the thatch roof. There’s a hiss, a flash of sparks, and a burst of sudden, concussive force that causes the wood to further creak and groan.

  And the thatch catches fire.

  Tiny, bright flames burst into existence, illuminating the dark. I grin to myself. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as starting a good fire.

  Below me, inside the building, people are shouting. I watch from the roof as chaos erupts all throughout the village. Others are racing outside of the other buildings, drawing weapons, yelling, demanding to know what’s happening. No one seems to have a good answer for them. A few point toward Cole and the other captives, asking questions—perhaps wondering if one of them has escaped.

  “Smoke,” someone says at the base of the building. “I can smell smoke.”

  “Damn right you can,” I whisper.

  And then someone on the other side of the village sees me. They point, shout, draw an arrow from the quicker slung across their back.

  Damn good vision, I think.

  I go back down the way I came up and circle around the building. They have a bead on me now, and they’ll be coming. Three men appear in the darkness in front of me, two with swords, one with a spear.

  “He’s here!” One bellows. “He’s right here!”

  I run at them.

  And as the distance between us closes, I activate acolyte of time. I do it with nothing more than a thought, an instinctive flipping of some internal switch.

  And immediately, time slows down.

  Their eyes widen a fraction at a time. They raise their weapons so glacially that it’s laughable. I race forward, unimpeded by the slowness of the rest of reality, and slam my fist into the jaw of the closest man. There’s a boom, just like thunder, and the man’s head more or less vanishes, rendered into a fine, red mist that appears, to my eyes, frozen in space; crimson droplets expand gradually outward.

  The spearman jabs at me with his spear, but in this state, it’s so easy to simply catch the shaft of the spear and wrench it from his hands that it’s like taking a toy from a baby. I hit him in the belly with a left hook. Another boom. The spearman flies backward through the air, and I can only imagine how much damage I’ve just done to his internal organs.

  This, I think, is intoxicating. It reminds me of those old kung-fu movies where the main character is so skilled, so fast, that everyone else is moving as though they’re stuck in molasses. I’m as powerful as a god. Unbeatable. Like this, I can kill them all.

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  And then time speeds back up, and a great weariness fills my bones and weighs me down.

  The last of the three slams the pommel of his sword into my jaw. There’s a lot more force behind the blow than I’d anticipated, and my vision goes out for a moment. I drop to a knee and wince—my thigh is still badly damaged from the knife. The swordsman swings at my head, an executioner’s strike, clearly intending to finish me off with one fell swoop—but I’m not done, not yet, not even close. I shoot forward with everything I have, pull him to the ground, hit him in the head so hard that the thunder knuckles blast skull fragments into the soft earth.

  I rise, tasting blood, the world faintly spinning.

  Three more down.

  An arrow appears out of nowhere, blurring through the air, shooting, I think, past the building—but then it changes direction in midair, turning the corner, and slams into my shoulder.

  I stagger, grunting, and reach for the shaft. That was a nice trick. I pull the arrow out and scream, because the head of the arrow is barbed, and as I rip it out, it shreds the muscle it’d embedded itself in. The pain almost causes me to black out.

  By now, the building next to me is entirely aflame, casting the village in a hellish, orange glow. The crackling of all that fire is loud, drowning out the shouting. Dark smoke is filling the air, and I’m close enough to it all that it’s choking, making it hard to breathe. But the chaos is useful. The chaos might help to even out the odds—at least a little bit.

  I stagger past the building, toward the center of the town. It’s a dumb thing to do. The smart thing, I think to myself, is to turn back and vanish into the woods, allow my body to heal from the wounds I’ve sustained, and then come back when I’m stronger and make another attempt now that I’ve already taken out seven of them.

  But I’m not going to do that.

  Because the rage is building inside of me, a volcano threatening to erupt.

  I hear myself grunting, panting, heaving, like a maddened dog. Dark figures are running around the village, turned into shadows by the inferno that’s now consumed the building. I can smell burning flesh. Smoke fills my nose. Figures see me, stop, and point—and moments later they’re preparing to rush me all at once. Ten of them advance.

  Ten warriors against just me.

  I stop. They stop as well, more cautious than perhaps they should be. I can only imagine how I must look to them. A single man all on his own, without any backup, covered in the blood of their friends and grinning at them like a maniac. It’s no wonder, I suppose, that they seem reluctant to approach.

  A tall, golden-eyed man steps forward. I immediately know this is Maras, the leader I’ve heard so much about.

  “Who are you?” He growls at me.

  My grin stretches wider. “My name is Jack.”

  “Jack,” he says my name like he’s trying it out for the first time. He grimaces, then, as though deciding that he doesn’t much like the sound of it. “You’re a foolish man, Jack. Should’ve run away when you had the chance.”

  I shake my head and curl my hands into fists. Lightning dances across my knuckles. “No.” I point past Maras, toward Cole and the others, all of whom are no doubt extremely confused by the chaos. I’m actually excited to see the look on Cole’s face when he realizes that I’ve single-handedly saved their asses. “I’m here for them. Obviously, this isn’t personal.” I take a step toward him, trying to control the fury inside me. I don’t want to lose control entirely. Loss of control, I know, is dangerous and can lead to mistakes. In fighting, it’s usually better to detach and remain analytical. Problem is, I have a feeling that’s not going to happen. And a part of me doesn’t want it to happen.

  Maras signals with his hands. His people, all of them golden-eyed, start to slowly fan out, enveloping me.

  And then a woman, probably the one who shot me earlier, fires another arrow straight at my head.

  I see it coming and easily slap it out of the air. It doesn't hurt me.

  But it does trigger the rage.

  And suddenly I’m running at them, bounding like some wild, unchained animal. I roar. Two men rush to meet me. I backhand one hard enough to shatter his face. I hit the other so hard that his head vanishes.

  And then the others are upon me, nine of them, then ten, a storm of sharpened steel seeking to put an end to me.

  And I lose myself entirely to the rage.

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