Day 33, 3:40 AM

“Let the bodies hit the floor!”

— Drowning Pool

I took my time reaching the mansion, weaving through pitch-black alleys, ones too narrow for the moon to illuminate. Along the way, I picked up five cobblestones, and now they weigh my belt, stashed in a leather sack. I have a literal sack of bricks, and a mighty rod, making me a genuine Wizzard. I smirk at the thought, but the way that cop’s head exploded still haunts my hindbrain, trying to strangle me.

I think I now understand how PTSD works. I shake my head, pushing the macabre sight out of my mind, trying to focus on the task ahead.

The wall is easy enough to climb, and a moment later, I’m sitting atop it, examining the viscount’s mansion.

Several windows blaze with lights, and there’s a buzz of activity. For a moment, I’m afraid the scurrying silhouettes are guards and mercenary bodyguards, but thanks to the lights, I realize they are just slaves rushing about.

I sneak into the compound, and after skulking for couple minutes, an unlucky girl rushes past me. I grab her around the waist, and cover her mouth, yanking her into the gloom. The kidnapping happened so fast, people who don’t know me might think I’m a pro.

“You will not scream, and you will not resist. I could have broken your neck, and your life is in my hands. Nod if you understand me.”

She nods.

“I will release your mouth. If you scream you die. Do you understand me?”

She nods.

I release her mouth.

“You will speak in a whisper, otherwise you die. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

Good girl.

“You deserve a reward. You have five times the common sense of all the coppers I met tonight.”

She stays quiet, still shaking in my grip. Six times.

“Where are you all rushing and why? What’s happening?”

“Lord has guests. Seven guards have come half an hour ago, and we are making and serving food for them.”

She doesn’t answer the ‘why,’ but I guess we both know I’m the ‘why?’

“Is your lord with them?”

“I don’t know. He should be.”

“Where?”

She gives me directions, trying to stay calm, but panic is creeping into her voice. I guess she answered all the questions she could without screaming.

“I can either kill you, or knock you unconscious. I would prefer the option where I release you, and you pretend you’ve never seen me, but I can’t trust you to do that.”

The girl shudders. “Don’t kill me.”

I pinch her neck, and she’s out cold.

Man, this Initial Grappling is great. I summon BSD, and check my level up condition while putting the little lady down.

[To level up, intercept a sword about to strike down your principal]

That ain’t happening tonight, but we could handle it tomorrow if we’re both alive. I dislike the strike down condition, but we’ll manage. I think.

I keep to the shadows, following the path the slave girl described, and reach a large window.

“Worry not, my lord,” a deep, calming voice says, “right now they are fleeing the town like rats. Tomorrow we will conscript twenty men, gather a search party of thirty strong and hunt them down.”

I raise my head slowly, peeking in through the corner of the window. There’s a large dining table inside, eleven men fill less than half of it. The chubby middle-aged blonde sits at the head with two burly mercs behind his back, and another two flanking him. The ones guarding his sides are half a step behind. I stare at them and bite my lip.

I think I have a shot.

My hand slips into the sack and pulls a rock without making a sound.

What happens when I kill him? I consider the bits of information I have. He’s the king’s man and has no heirs. Probably to make replacing him easy when the prince takes the throne. He executed the former viscount to cement his rule. Former viscount’s wife and daughter are supposedly imprisoned, but after ten years in the dungeon, they are almost certainly dead, and he just doesn’t want to stir the public, since he’s already despised.

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In general, the population will be happy to see him gone. What about the men in this room? The slaves don’t give a damn, the bodyguards will act against me, but what about the town guards?

I look at the men sitting in full armor, their helmets hanging from the backrests of their tall chairs. Two give me the distinct feel of criminals. It could be the slouch, the scars, or the sharp glint in their eyes. They could be vets, too. Dangerous men either way, but if a fight breaks out, I think they won’t get involved unless their victory is certain.

Then I turn my eyes towards what I expect will be the biggest problem. The five young guards, aged between eighteen and twenty-five. Their eyes shine with excitement, eager grins on their faces flaunting their groundless confidence. I have a feeling that the greatest act of violence they witnessed was breaking up a drunken brawl.

They will charge first, but they will also rout as soon as two bodies hit the floor. I miss music. Funny thing, how you take things like YouLube and its endless brainwashing ads for granted.

I draw a breath through my clenched teeth, squeezing the rock. I do a rocker step, pivot, leg lift—

“What are you doing there?” A voice in the darkness interrupts my pro pitch.

Shit hits the fan. The men in the room jump, I hurl the stone. The window shatters, but the lord stands up. Instead of hitting him in the head, the rock smashes into his chest. There’s no metallic clang, he’s not wearing armor. Instead, bones crack, there’s a squelch, and the man falls, toppling his chair backwards, and spewing blood.

He’s dead beyond a doubt, doesn’t even gurgle. That’s more or less the last thing that goes according to plan. The guards and bodyguards draw their swords, then the bodyguards turn around and focus on their lord, while the guards run towards the window. All six.

“What’s happening?” the voice in the darkness shouts again, and one of the mercenary bodyguards answers his question as I step away from the window.

“Someone assassinated Viscount Marken!”

“Capture the assassin,” someone else shouts, but I lack the clear view of the room, all I see is the window. One of the younger coppers steps forth. He stands into the light, leaning out the window to see outside. I crouch in the shadows, two steps away, and stab forth with the butt end of my staff. Ironwood strikes his forehead. The bone snaps unbelievably loud, and he jerks out of sight.

Will another one come and see what’s happening? I actually harbor a faint hope, cops aren’t exactly famous for their intelligence.

A second passes and nobody takes the dead man’s place. All I hear is the inquisitive servant or slave running away in panic.

I guess they aren’t complete idiots either.

Instead of charging at the windows, the guards rush away.

Should I face them, or call it a night?

Redo is available, and assuming I succeed, I might start a riot to actually level up Anarchist. It’s worth a shot.

Then another, potentially more rational, part of me thinks something more sane. There’s ten of them. They are armed and have received combat training. I’ll die.

I pull out another cobblestone and head to the door. Given how the guards in the street acted, they will try to surround me, and I dislike my chances already. Four rocks left. Maybe I can dig out another few?

There’s no time, and I know it. The echoes of their shoes slapping against the parquet enter my ear, and I know they will be there in a second.

A young man is first. I wonder whether it’s a coincidence, a forty percent chance, or a one hundred percent veteran experience. I don’t get to contemplate the more senior guards’ wit. My rock whistles through the air. The youth jumps to the side, but he’s too slow. The rock clips him in the shoulder. He screams as metal links embed themselves into his flesh. He tumbles to the ground, tripping the youth racing behind him.

The third runner is a veteran guardsman. I chuck a rock at him, but he jumps sideways even before the stone leaves my hand. The youth behind him stares with wide eyes, paralyzed like I was when meeting truck kun. Time seems to freeze, then the cobblestone strikes him in the chest and he flies back. He crashes into a man I failed to spot, and they go down in a tangle, blocking the passage.

Finally, the guards disperse and hide from me, realizing the hallway is a killing ground. Seven on one.

I look at the prone men, but they are quickly crawling to safety, and I don’t want to waste a rock on a wild pitch. Instead, I look down. A short scan tells me the bastard noble has no loose stones or broken pavement around his front door. Makes sense, he’s rich and can’t leave a bad impression on his guests.

While that idle thought passes through my head, there’s a squeak several yards left of me.

“Shit,” someone curses. Glass shatters, and a dark, man-shaped outline leaps out of the building. I jump towards him, swinging Batsy, naming my staff right here and now.

He has a sword, but the results are almost identical to last time. I slam him into the mansion’s stone wall.

He’s dead, or crippled and out cold, I barely think, when a phantom pain flashes in the back of my neck. I bend forward, twisting my body around with Batsy outstretched. Steel screams above my ear, and, an instant later, Batsy slams into another man-shape’s midsection. She crushes his ribs before slamming him into the wall. I’m not sure about the first one, but this guy is dead beyond a doubt.

I hear more footsteps.

“Get him!”

Why are they all throwing themselves at me? I’m a tough nut, they should run. They don’t, and I’m surrounded.

I can’t flail Batsy around anymore, big movements would open me to easy backstabs. So I grab her with both my hands and stand with my back against the wall.

One on five. No, six; one crawled out of somewhere. My heart clenches at the thought, but then my keen intellect makes me feel better as I reach a sudden realization. One against two, since they can’t attack me simultaneously.

One shadow approaches me, his sword reflecting the faint light as he slashes at me. There’s no phantom pain, his sweep is a distraction, but there’s a biting electric jolt in my flank from where the real attack would come.

I turn towards the fake attacker and jump into his feint, casually slapping the blade away with Batsy. Neither the merc nor I are serious about it, but I use the trap against them. I thrust Batsy back, around chest high. The other attacker, now stabbing my back instead of flank, never expected the blind maneuver.

My strike’s an amateurish thing. I feel the resistance as the guard grunts, but the blow’s too light and he slides away. I didn’t land a debilitating hit, but the future pain in my back disappears, replaced by one in my forehead and another flash below my ribs.

I duck, wanting to dodge both, but the pain in my head remains the same.

It’s a downward slash, I realize too late. Wall is left, bloodthirsty sword is right. I jump into the blade I just dodged. My side and back flash with fire as the phantom pain in my forehead becomes real searing in my shoulder.

[Rage activated.

Duration - two minutes six seconds]

The world dissolves into black around me, and I hope my Rage is good enough to see me through this.

Shit. This is gonna hurt.