Blood leaked over the wet grass, replacing the dew of the earlier rain. Small pockets of sunlight glimmered through the treetops, reflected in the dark pools. The woods stayed silent, as if respecting the somber moment. 

Cleaved through, Boreth lay slumped over, dead and still. His prized cutlass sat next to him, its bloodied blade buried in the dirt. A tranquil smile seemed frozen upon his lifeless face. 

Reeling, he felt his stomach twist. The clarity after bloodlust was shocking. The sheer fury that yearned for nothing but battle, a terrifying thirst for battle. Its absence felt like a void. 

Bile rose in his throat. Gagging, he doubled over on his knees. Each hacking cough unleashed wet chunks that burned his throat. He didn’t want to look back up, so he sat there, staring at the pooling blood and vomit. If he looked up, it all became real. What he’d done became real. His bloody hands refused to stop shaking.

The translucent screen glared back at him. 

—

[ Berserk ]

[ You enter an unfettered battle rage. May all foes beware as you crave combat. ]

[ You resist 50% of physical damage. ]

[ Limitations: No spellcasting. Cannot wear heavy armor. ]

[ Duration: 1 minute or until user stops engaging in combat. ]

[ Uses: 1/2 ]

—

An alert flashed next to it.

[ Boreth ul Osllan defeated. 500 EXP gained.] 

The words taunted him, the notification waiting to be acknowledged. He wanted to be angry at the screen. But, as if trying to draw water from sand, there was nothing to fuel his fury. 

In the moment, all he could muster was a sliver of resentment. His drying throat constricted as he sat there. As the rush of battle faded away, the refreshing cool of the forest air transformed into an uncomfortable chill.

Each quiet moment felt like a minute lingered too long, the urgency of a thousand scenarios pushing him to move. But it felt wrong to leave Boreth like that, nearly hewn halfway and slumped.

He got to his feet slowly, taking the time to find his pack and quarterstaff. Gently leaning Boreth’s back on the ground, he covered the dwarf’s still body with a thin blanket, stacks of small stones to hold its edges. It was a pathetic, clumsy grave. The first he’d ever made. 

If there were words — last rites — that were supposed to be said, they escaped him. So he stood there quiet for however long a minute’s respect felt like. 

It was strange. Boreth had been kind enough during the trip. In truth, he hardly knew the dwarf. Their time together had been short.

None of that stopped him from feeling guilty.

The visceral weight of what he’d done overwhelmed him. He clenched his fists to stop shaking, only to worsen into a violent tremor. 

Before, he’d killed other people in the game, even other players. There were no qualms about it then because they would all eventually return. Sure, there were some time limits before you could respawn, but you’d return. 

However, Joel didn’t need a notification, or the fact that he couldn’t log out, to tell him that wasn’t the case this time. It never felt this real. 

The pain of his injuries. The satisfying feel of his attacks. The eerie lifelessness of Boreth. It felt too real.

Sunlight caught the blade of Boreth’s cutlass; the glint of it caught his eye. The sword stood tall, stabbed into the earth, as if giving a final salute to an old companion. The alabaster hilt was coated in grime. The white was stained like a dirtied wedding dress. 

If not for Boreth’s words, he’d leave the cutlass there to serve as a makeshift gravemaker. The former sailor’s last wish to Joel: to wield it with a semblance of honor. 

He drew the sword with the last bit of strength he had left. In his hand, the cutlass felt natural, properly balanced toward its edge. At the same time, it felt strange to hold the weapon that had been chasing his neck moments ago. 

The weapon he’d used to cleave through Boreth.

He wiped the blade before sheathing it. Placing the cutlass in the bag, its ivory handle jutted out, easy to reach. He heard the clink of the scabbard against glass, the minor healing potion. It was his saving grace and sweet temptation. Truthfully, the dull ache of his cuts were returning. As chipped as his quarterstaff was, he’d been equally sliced up, a testament of his opponent’s skill. The potion’s replenishing 500 hit points would be welcomed.

His HP had dwindled to 17 percent. It was more than he had expected, more than he felt. The [Berserk] ability proved to be highly effective at mitigating damage, perfect for a tank class like the Barbarian. He’d be dead without it. 

At his current Vitality, the healing potion would be more than enough to restore him to full. But he was worried that he might need it later, at an even more crucial moment. After all, the others — and Bhas — were still at camp, another potential set of fights. 

Either way, he had to clean himself up a little. Tearing off pieces of cloth from his extra set of clothes, he wiped what he could while bandaging himself. He winced as he dabbed at the deeper lacerations on his torso. 

In his bloody state, it would be an impossible task to make himself appear unharmed. That meant he needed to obfuscate that his wounds came from sword slashes.

At least until he got close enough to take Curzan’s head off. 

His stomach twisted at his own ruthlessness. There was no other way though. Taking both of them on in a prolonged fight was suicidal. Rather, he’d use surprise to even the odds.

Even assuming that went smoothly, would he be able to overcome the elf and her magic? 

The seed of doubt in the back of his mind sprouted Boreth’s reminder during the duel. After all, he could still run for his life. The thought dwelled longer than he liked until shame shoved it away.

He’d furiously fought against Boreth, driven by righteous indignation mingled with killer instinct. Now that he killed the dwarf, he’d flee? After adding Boreth’s life to the blood spilled?

Joel shook his head, clearing his cluttered thoughts for courage. What he needed was a plan. If anything, he could lie about being ambushed. A spun tale about how last night’s black bear took Boreth and Perri down. It didn’t have to be all that believable. All he needed was to get close enough for a surprise attack, a moment’s pause.

He summoned the screen again, panning over to the [Homebrew] category and the selectable classes to peruse. Like a student trying to study last minute for their final exam, he scrambled through the several possible class features to nab. Some of them were familiar, only requiring a brief glance at their titles, while others took longer to digest. 

It felt like he had countless choices, even when limited to level 1 features.

He paused on the Rogue class, staring at the [Skillful] feature. It offered a boost to the Expertise level on two of his skill abilities, assuming he was already proficient at it. But what skill to apply that to? After all, he wasn’t allowed to apply the Expertise on his weapon proficiencies or martial arts.

Honestly, he’d considered getting the [Stealth] proficiency, simply for the applicable boost. Gaining Expertise on it was immensely useful. He was speaking from experience as he’d used the skill to a great extent, when he’d played around as a Thief. However, in this specific scenario, it wouldn't be as useful as it could be. If the campsite was in a forested area, dense with trees to hide behind, [Stealth] would pay for itself tenfold. But the campsite was sitting in the middle of a grassy plain, perfect to spot an approaching bear. 

No matter what, he’d have to prepare for a fight, especially if he meant to free imprisoned loam elves. And for a fight, it was best to look towards…

“[Fighter].” His eyes followed the list of features that popped up. 

So many possible weapon proficiencies. Too many. It made sense for the Fighter class but it wasn't what he was looking for. 

No, what he wanted was the same feature that Boreth had used in the middle of their duel. A minor restorative ability that the old Warrior class had: [Second Wind].

“Found it,” he said, opening the class feature.

—

[ Second Wind ]

[ You draw upon stored strength from training and experience. ]

[ Restore 10% of your base HP instantly. ]

[ Uses: 1/1 ]

—

10% of your HP didn’t seem like much. However, it was a scaling ability. Since Vitality converted directly into increasing one’s HP maximum, he could gain back a lot of effective hit points. 

Bhas’ unsettling smile flashed in his mind, the blue-white elf’s nonchalance at killing. He’d need as much precious HP as he could scrape together. After all, he was solo with no allies or “party members” to help. The longer he could stay up, the better chance he had in saving those elves.

“[Confirm].” 

He glanced at his available EXP as it dropped to 500. It was a decent amount to still invest, though some of it would have to be portioned off for a Vitality increase.

Just [Second Wind] and some Vitality wasn’t going to cut it. He’d need more to best both Curzan and Bhas, especially if he fought them together. And that was hoping that Flendel had the common sense to stay sick.

It was tempting to try to get healing magic. Plenty of the classes had access to some restorative spells. But the cost of getting the spell charge, the spell itself, and the [Channeling Focus Proficiency], it was an expensive risk. It wasn’t like he had a channeling focus — like an amulet or wand — right now.

His eyes darted around, searching for any suitable alternatives. The healing wasn’t only for the possible upcoming fight. With both enslaved elves in the lockbox wagon injured, it was prudent to have a way to aid them. 

At the least, he wanted to be able to fix the loam elf’s ankles. There was no way to truly predict what would happen. If push came to shove, he wanted them to be able to run away. 

And that was hoping that Bhas’ ‘play’ wasn’t as sadistic as he imagined.

He shook his head, refusing the thoughts. If the loam elves were meant to be sold as slaves, Bhas wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill them. Not after spending so much time smuggling them here. Right?

He scrolled quickly through the classes.

Despite his urgency, he didn’t expect to find much outside of the spells. He was basically asking for a healing spell that wasn’t a spell. Something like that, even minor, was unlikely to be available at level 1. 

Until he saw the Paladin’s [Lay on Hands] class feature. 

It allowed him to heal any creature he touched, through ‘conviction and faith’. In more technical terms, it allowed him to heal an equivalent amount to ten percent of his Resolve. Even better, he could partition the healing as he saw fit, 1 percent being the lowest he could offer. 

It wasn’t a lot of healing but enough to get someone up and out. Versatile and, at 100 EXP, nearly a third of the cost of getting a 1st level healing spell. It was perfect.

He confirmed [Lay on Hands]. That meant there was 400 EXP left to use.

The amount made him pause. It was enough to get another class feature or more proficiencies. Better yet, he’d save it for when he was in a tight spot. After all, it’d been a useful advantage he’d leveraged throughout his fights.

His aching wounds chided him. The pain reminded him of the panic he felt during his duel with Boreth. He’d saved 200 EXP for that fight, only to survive by the skin of his teeth.

But there was no point in saving some now. If he got through Bhas and Curzan in one piece, he’d be able to get the elves out from their cages. That meant leaving no margins for error, investing everything left.

The [Status] screen flickered on. His eyes dropped down towards his Vitality stat.

—

…

VITALITY: 303

…

— 

Since his potion healed for about 500 HP — and Vitality was directly tied to maximum HP — it would be a waste to not increase his Vitality by 200. If he was going to increase any stat right now, it had to be that.

At low levels like his, even a minor healing potion was essentially a full heal. It wouldn’t grow back a lost limb or cure every ailment. But it’d rejuvenate the drinker to keep fighting on. 

“[Ability Score Upgrades], [VITALITY +200].”

The ache of his bandaged wounds softened, pain still there but tamed. His headache passed and he even felt more full, appetite abating. He massaged his fingers as some feeling returned to them. 

It was time. A longer absence would go noticed. He’d use the rest of the experience points on his way back while figuring out the best lie to juggle.

Joel glanced back at Boreth’s grave, letting the memory of their duel harden his heart. He’d need to be ruthless.

No.

He would be ruthless.