Henry’s campsite. Dusk.

The sections being eaten by the Grey Wolves had been pinned to the ground with spears. If any of them tried to gnaw off pieces to carry away, the human would have his donkey swallow up the meat whole. Their only option was to tolerate his company.

Nevertheless, they’d learned after so many encounters that he was fangless. Now, even when he moved about, they angled an ear towards him, but nothing more.

Only a single wolf had not given up its wariness. Maintaining vigil near the edge of the clearing was one who’d become emaciated after the days of starvation.

It growled at its gluttonous kin. “Humans cannot be trusted!”

"Maybe," replied one of its sisters, “but I trust my stomach."

Another with red-streaks in its fur attempted to persuade its starving brother. “There will be plenty of time for your principles once you’ve recouped your strength. Eat, Melde. The sun is setting. Soon, Tot will come out from her lair. Confined in the den tonight, it will be you, your hunger, and your regret.”

‘Huh,’ thought Henry. ‘Tot?’

The emaciated wolf bared its teeth. “My fangs are not as loose as yours, Alfgrim. I will not eat another’s kill.”

The next morning.

When the wolves were returning for breakfast, the matriarch leading the pack stopped and sniffed the air.

“What’s the matter, Lori?”

“It reeks of her.”

“Why would we she be awake at these hours? All I smell is cooking meat.”

The matriarch sniffed again. “Approach in formation.”

At her command, the wolves spread out while maintaining enough proximity that each member could be assisted in case of ambush. Moving quickly but quietly through the undergrowth, they avoided any particularly dense trees from which Tot might drop down on them.

When they caught sight of the human’s den, though, they realised their caution was unnecessary.

“No way...”

“The witch is dead! We’re free!”

The human was tossing chunks of fire-grilled meat to his donkey companion. Beside them, lashed to a poll, was the body of a harpy, missing its head and a leg.

The pack dashed into the open. Surrounding the dead monster, they began to bark insults at it.

“Not so stealthy now, huh.”

“Alas poor Tot, I knew her well.”

“Guess you jumped the wrong prey, huh.”

While the other wolves were mocking the monster, the one with red-streaked fur, Alfgrim, wore a pensive expression.

Yesterday, he had noticed a peculiar pattern in the human’s actions.

After the human started taking back the meat if they tried to carry it away, one of them had complained that the pups at the den would starve. Consequently, small portions started popping up in the bushes along their path.

When someone gossiped about old wolf Schade suffering in the den, the human barged into their home and, ignoring their assault, used a poultice to cure the old wolf’s disease.

From this, Alfgrim had deduced a strange, wild, insane theory, one that he’d tested last evening by bringing up the monster that hunted them.

He gave the human a complicated look.

“You understand us.”

The emaciated wolf by the forest edge laughed derisively. “Alfgrim, you dimwit. A human who speaks wolf? Next, you’ll—“

It shut up when a charred thigh landed in front of Alfgrim, rewarding him for his keen insight.

The gala grounds.

The competition continued long into the night, the players leaving being replenished by new ones logging on.

A board on the stage indicated that the recipe’s three missing ingredients had been identified: an immature Sweetvetch leaf, a sprig of Yinta Liverthorn, and the carapace of a Blackstorm Beetle. At this point, the competitors were fine-tuning the methods for processing them.

Moving amongst the competitors, a ginger-haired reporter was conducting interviews for the local news station.

His current interviewee was a Villager with platinum hair and scarlet irises.

“So tell me, DanteslayerXXXX, you’ve been fiddling with alembics and mortars for hours, what is it that’s motivating you to carry on? What’s your fundamental drive?”

The interviewee rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, if we win, we get tons of Slum Points.”

“And what do these ‘Slum Points’ represent to you, a quantification of altruism, promotion opportunities, existential fulfilment, numerical fun?”

“Well, if we get the most Slum Points, we win.”

“So the intrinsic drive of competition, man testing his will against man?”

“If we don’t get the most Slum Points, we lose.”

The reporter gave up. “That’s enough material. Thanks, Dante."

The interviewee grinned, revealing a pair of sharpened fangs. “You’re welcome, Oliver. I’m a big fan of your work. When will I be on the news?”

Learning that this was one of his fans didn't please the reporter at all.

He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Can never know what’ll survive the cutting room floor, mate. Interviewed a veritable village of people today.”

And none of them had been worth a damn.

As the reporter searched through the crowd for someone with more brain cells than fingers, he complained inside at his miserable situation.

Who was he?

He’d been Oliver Spears, lead investigator for Channel 5 News, winner of the 2049 Gaming Journalist of The Year Award, and now...now, he was doing fluff pieces in the slums.

The mistake had happened only last week. During an exclusive live interview with Mayonnaise, The Flaming Sun guild leader, he’d switched the questions half-way and tried to corner the arrogant kid into confessing his true identity as The Tyrant.

The next day, the CEO told him he’d been 'promoted' to lead his own team, and a messenger delivered him a one-way boat ticket...to Suchi.

For flying too close to the sun, his wings had been incinerated to a crisp.

He knew he shouldn’t have pushed so hard, but he couldn’t help it. He always lost himself when it came to The Tyrant’s identity, Saana’s greatest unsolved journalistic mystery.

The reporter jumped in fright when someone screamed in his ear.

“BATTLE ON, GOOD SIRS!”

A Crusader, wearing full plate-armour despite the heat, was waving a two-handed sword like a banner at a group of resting Alchemists.

“THE FIGHT IS NOT YET OVER! BATTLE ON!”

The reporter ran his hand through his ginger hair in frustration.

Should he go independent?

Near a Grey Wolf den.

A litter of four puppies were playfighting. With the healing effect provided by their health, they didn’t have to hold back.

After one particularly violent round, a puppy with white fur around his eyes shaped like spectacles was thrown into a small ravine.

Landing at the bottom, he curled into a ball and howled in pain.

A puppy without a nose, the one who’d tossed him, said sharply, “Get up, you nerd!”

“I can’t! I’m injured!”

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Spectacles was unable to get to his feet, one of his toes being bent at an awkward angle.

Although the wound wasn’t severe, the other pups swore.

A puppy with a tail permanently tucked between his legs began to panic. “Mum told us, 'no more fighting beyond your limits or you’re going to get a nip in your butts'. Guys, we’re doomed. What on earth are we going to do?!”

“What about that human?” suggested a she-pup with frosted tips. “They said he was offering help for following his orders.”

“We can’t! Melde said the human would dissect us and eat our spleens! Either way, our lives are over!”

The noseless puppy snorted. “Mum says Melde’s a pessimist. We can ignore his opinions. Quick. Let’s drag him to the human.”

Henry’s campsite.

It was between feeding sessions. Henry was discussing the cure progress with Dhaka_Sniper_1351 when he heard a high-pitched yipping.

“Human! Hey! Human!”

Peering over the walls of his camp, he spotted a noseless puppy hiding under a fern.

“Hey human, follow me, quick. My bro’s hurt! Use your man magic to heal him!”

Henry followed it into the forest.

It took him to a spot where three more puppies were waiting, one of which was lying on a broad leaf and howling in pain.

“Save me, human! I’m dying! Agh!”

“He’s just being dramatic,” said the noseless puppy. “His toe’s broken.”

Henry gave it a quick inspection.

Since injury had been sustained while the puppy’s health had been depleted, it would be insufficient to feed it or cast a normal healing spell.

He pulled out a tome for Tier-3 Miracleworker spell, .

“Leigh. Heas. Dia. Mairt. Ir...”

As his hand was shrouded in golden energy, he passed it over the length of the injured puppy, causing its toe to snap back in place. While he was at it, he mended a few other nicks and scratches the pup'd accumulated from earlier bouts.

The puppies crowded close, transfixed by the healing process.

When he was finishing up with that one, he grabbed the puppy missing a nose.

“Betrayal! Betrayal! Let me go!"

An hour later.

The wolves around Henry’s campsite were happily stuffing their bellies when the emaciated wolf rushed out of the bushes holding a puppy by the scruff of its neck.

Throwing the puppy down, the wolf roared, “Admire the human’s work!”

A wolf dropped the flank it was chewing. “Wow, lil bro, you got your nose back. Nice!”

The emaciated wolf howled. “Don’t you see, he’s not content to corrupt just us? He's targeting our young as well! All generations will be neutered of our ferocity! He’s turning us into a family of dogs!”

“Looking sharp!”

“What’s it like being able to smell again?”

The puppy dared to only whisper a reply, "It's pretty darn good."

The emaciated wolf, unable to stand the trickery any longer, charged the human subjugating its kin.

Henry swatted it aside.

“Donkey Bro!”

At once, the other wolves began to whine.

“God damn it, Melde.”

The donkey trotted out from its barn and began vacuuming up the cow carcasses one by one.

A wolf pleaded. “Hey, human, it wasn’t our mistake. Can’t you punish him alone?”

For the emaciated wolf this was the final straw, being thrown under the bus by what it had thought were its brothers and sisters.

“To hell with you mangy mutts,” it said, picking itself up from the ground. “I was mistaken. You already are dogs. It is unnatural that I, a wolf, remain in your subservient midst. I will seek out a pack of my own.”

Having said its piece, it walked off into the forest, not daring to glance back in case a moment of weakness made it change its mind.

‘A shame,’ thought Henry as it left.

That was the smartest of the pack. It would have been nice to bring it to his side.

The Jungle of The Psychic Shadow Monkeys.

After the previous trainers died or fled, the Slum Empire brought out its own to help the noobs redo the tutorial.

The meatheads completed the final ritual as part of a cohort of thousands. Although the magical energy that shot out from them at the end differed, from snowflakes to embers, the single, blindingly-bright mote of light was the same.

Afterwards, unsigned players were funnelled towards recruiting stations where they were processed into a Village.

The meatheads decided to queue for one together.

“You coming, Dan?”

Handsome Dan was hesitating behind, watching three Dutch girls his friends had abducted plotting their escape. One of them, noticing his glance, cringed in disgust.

He was reminded of something Big Bro had said.

"Now, we must separate. When too many of us chase the same goal, there is a risk of getting in each other's way, and, in the end, we all lose."

That wisdom was evident to Dan now in the failure of his mates to woo these girls.

Big Bro’s words also reminded Dan of his rugby coach’s most recent advice.

Coach Brown had pointed out that his growth on the field had stagnated because he was too much of a team player. While a strong trait at first, it’d become a debilitation because, in truth, the skills of his high school teammates were limited and imitating them was teaching him bad habits. To make the national team, he needed to cultivate his independence, he needed to eat, breathe, and think at a level beyond his peers.

But Dan had never had the strength of heart to break away. In fact, he’d never really done anything on his own. Even when they got together during the holidays and debated spending their pocket money on this game, he'd followed along blindly.

When he met Big Bro, though, he’d immediately recognised that quality he lacked.

While the rest of the trainees sat around waiting for the lessons to begin, Big Bro picked up a bow and devised his own practice drills. Against the boars, Dan followed behind Big Bro, who, finding no challenge in the standard way, went off and attacked fifty monsters at once. When the assault force was charging through the forest into an ambush, Big Bro told everyone that it was suicide and, when his warning failed, he split away to create his own solution.

As far as Dan could tell, Big Bro had slain The Emperor, accomplishing what thousands of higher-level players working together couldn’t do on his own.

In all these actions, there was a rebelliousness, a discontent with the status quo, an arrogance to break from the pack and forge something better.

This was the spirit of independence.

The reason Dan had hovered around Big Bro was in hopes of absorbing some of that trait.

How had Big Bro become that way?

What would he do here?

"Now, we must separate."

Handsome Dan’s handsome heart began to race.

“Bros...”

The other meatheads were drawn by the shakiness in his voice.

Handsome Dan stared at his toes. “You know what Coach Brown said...I’ve gotta become...I think I’m gonna play...just for a while...play on my own. Maybe, it's the wrong—”

The butt of a battleaxe struck him in the face, sending him tumbling through the dirt like a ragdoll.

Clutching his fractured jaw, he looked up to see his team captain staring down at him.

“No matter the path, once a bro chooses to walk it, he should hold his head up high unless he wants to get smacked in the face by a branch." The captain thrust a mighty thumb into the air. "Do whatever you think's best, bro.’

The gala grounds.

To provide relief from the burning noon sun, magical ice sculptures dotted around the grounds were showering the crowd with a cool mist.

Since almost no progress had been made for the past few hours, several Alchemy stations had been deserted, their teams either spreading around to enjoy the festivities or logging off for the night.

In the station of The Balkans, a skeleton crew were fanning themselves under sun umbrellas. Their genius was still hard at work, examining a beaker with vapour colder than ice pouring over the rim.

“How does he keep at it?”

“He must be an NPC.”

“Vassilis,” said the team coordinator, “you’re up.”

A Scholar struggled out of a hammock and went to stand beside the Alchemist, who’d produced a glass ladle.

Dipping it into the beaker, the Alchemist scooped out a handful of bronze-coloured carapaces, each the size of a thumbnail.

The Scholar closed an eye. A picture of the carapaces was saved into a table in his Mental Library, along with notes of the coolant's temperature, the length of exposure, and the various changes the shells had undergone.

The Alchemist soon after scattered the carapaces into a cauldron, where they dissolved into a boiling concoction that was already three-quarters of the way complete.

With the Scholar continuing to observe and document, the Alchemist sped through the remaining steps. Since he’d performed them dozens of times during previous attempts, his hands flew between ingredients and equipment with a dexterous elegance.

The last step was to sieve the concoction into five vials.

The completed potion had a fuchsia colour. As it cooled down, particles suspended in the mix turned silver, and it began to emit the calming scent of spring rain.

The Alchemist uncorked one vial and took a sip. A second, he handed to the Scholar for further documentation. A third, he placed into a rack alongside vials from 40 previous failed batches.

The medical area housing the unconscious Earthfriends was barricaded to prevent them being assassinated in their vulnerable state. For the testing procedure, competitors would hand their potions to assistants vetted by The Empire.

There, overseeing the competition was a shirtless figure sipping wine, his chalice swaying along with the swing of the band. His skin was covered from head to stomach with prison tattoos, which made it difficult to notice the five shadowy droplets of blood on his neck.

His secretary coughed beside him. “Duke Edwaldo, uNmistAk3n is back.”

The genius Alchemist was passing a vial to a female assistant.

“Another go?" laughed Duke Edwaldo. "Gotta see this one myself!”

Throwing his chalice aside, he used his freed hand to perform a gesture, before disintegrating into smoke. The assistant walking to an unconscious Earthfriend tensed up as the Duke reappeared behind her.

The Cutthroat skill required a target.

After the assistant regained her composure, she drizzled the contents of the vial onto the patient’s back and began to knead it into the wing-shaped rashes.

The liquid, not being absorbed at all, dribbled down the Earthfriend’s sides, pooling around his stomach.

The Duke sighed. “Another failure.”

Behind the barricade, the genius Alchemist had been scrutinising the assistant's every action.

“Try administering it orally.”

“Oh,” replied the Duke, “you think it’s the application method that’s wrong?”

“Anything's possible.”

“Got another vial?”

The Alchemist produced his spare.

Since the assistant’s ability to activate potions would be on cooldown, Duke Edwardo took this one himself. Despite being a Cutthroat Primary, for flexibility during missions, he’d maxed his Civilian classes as far as he could, including Alchemy.

“Any special instructions?”

“Standard.”

The Duke laughed.

The assistant helped by turning the unconscious Earthfriend over and prying open his mouth.

Then, without any flourish, the Duke poured the contents down the Earthfriend's throat.

Nothing happened.

“Another failure,” said the Duke. “It seems you were mistake—”

The Alchemist was already jogging back to his workbench to begin the next attempt, much to the vexation of his team.

Henry’s campsite.

A pit had been dug out with a wooden box in its centre.

When the wolves arrived, they created an orderly line in front of Henry. Before giving each their portion, he had them perform a few simple tricks.

When it came time for the wolf with red-streaked fur, he gave it a signal to freeze.

From out of his spatial bracelet, he summoned a bag half his height, whose contents were writhing and squeaking.

“Hold, hold, hold...” he repeated calmly.

Before the wolves could grow alarmed and run away, he swivelled around and upended the bag into the pit, filling it with about 180 furry rodents.

Being Tunnel Rats, to escape the vulnerability of the open air, they tried to dig into the ground, but their bites were too weak to penetrate the soil’s magical reinforcement.

Some of the less panicky rats caught the delicious nutty aroma coming from the wooden box. After one attacked, the others soon joined it, covering the box in a coating of fur and pink tails.

Their progress was slow, each empowered bite chipping off a few centimetres at most.

Henry turned back to the red-streaked wolf, who, while most of its brethren had backed away, was maintaining its position despite its nerves.

“.”

The wolf opened its mouth.

Awooooooo!

As its throaty call filled the forest, the box behind Henry caved in.

He summoned the rest of the pack’s meat, plus some extra servings for a reward.

While they set upon the food, Henry waited for the howl buff to fade, before wading into the pit and scooping the rats back into the bag.

A few adequate wolf commanders had been identified. Controlling the rats would require far more work and would have to wait until he acquired the Earthfriend’s transformation ability.

-cathysong31: So will you get here soon? What’s holding you up? Are you alright? You haven’t been attacked, have you? HENRY, has a monster got you? Quick, tells us your coordinates so we can save...

His school friends had logged on early for the gala.

He was going to catch up with them - in part, just to see them; in part, because he needed to investigate the competition.

The cure should have been found hours ago. Something was amiss.

‘I’m on my way,’ he messaged back.