After his discovery, Logan found it difficult to concentrate on the battle. His thoughts raced in all directions. If Ernie were… well, Ernie, rather than a mindless undead octopus, Logan knew he would be flush with rage, swinging his tentacles and ranting at Logan about pummeling their enemies into a plethora of blood and guts.

And after this trial, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

His priorities were clear. He needed to find Lara and the kids and bring them to safety, find Ernie and detox him from the undead infection by killing the serpent queen, and then think about a strategy for his Save Humanity Quest.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t take a detour.

After he took care of his immediate priorities, there was no reason he couldn’t find these Sky People and teach them what happened when they tried to take advantage of humankind. They’d find a bunch of pissed off motherfuckers.

On the first day of Integration, Logan would have thought that challenging the Sky People was folly. Like a worm challenging an elephant. But not after this trial. He’d advanced so much that any other person on Earth with the same attribute values would have to be E Grade.

Plus, Logan never liked to brag; he was a pretty modest guy, but he’d learned that he could come out on top against tremendous odds. Never let it be said that he wasn’t good at strategy. Even better, once he was out of this trial, he would no longer be subject to limitations, and he’d have the advantage of Ernie and Lara’s smart minds.

It made sense to go after the Sky People.

And to be honest, he had another motivation.

Pure rage.

A week ago, an octopus had been an octopus. An odd-looking animal that belonged in the ocean and in documentaries. Not anymore. After bonding with Ernie, now, as far as he was concerned, they were more precious than gold. Ernie was a being with his own beliefs and dreams. A loyal, selfless companion who would sacrifice his own life to save Logan’s. A companion who had suffered in consequence for that altruism, turning into who knew what.

Logan could only speculate what poor Ernie had been through to turn into an undead octopus. He felt pain just like any other person, and with his multiple tentacles and suction cups, he’d feel more than the average person.

And these Sky People and people like the Silverdagger clan were killing them.

To Logan, it was the same thing as stomping babies to death.

Despicable.

Grinding his teeth with hooded eyes, Logan narrowed his attention back on the battlefield. He’d disliked Thorin before but knowing that the man used a skill ring from a harvested animal put the final nail in his coffin.

And if anyone should have been given the name Idiot, it should have been this imbecile. Logan had thought Thorin had been trying to trick him into sabotaging his battlefield strategy by encouraging him to slaughter everyone single-handedly, but he was starting to wonder if the man hadn’t believed it himself.

At first, Logan had assumed the doppelgangers were projections, incorporeal copies that would fool the enemy, but that theory went out the window as they mowed down rock people and cut them to bits like a woodchipper. The Thorin copies spared no thought for their own rock army, rushing past them and giving them no orders. Instead, the doppelgangers ran around like roadrunners as they whacked the nightmare rocks into pieces.

With a boom, the ‘evil’ rock army retaliated by blasting the Thorin clones with their lightning.

“Is that the best you’ve got!” they boomed. Rather than discouraging them, the clones stood up straighter as lightning fizzled over their skin. Stray strands of their long silver hair turned into a frizzy mess, and the fine white hairs on their skin stood on end.

The doppelganger skill was impressive to the extreme. Logan couldn’t tell which one was the real Thorin—everything was identical down to the jagged scar on his nose, to his jangling braid. Even more impressive was that the skill had duplicated his weapon and clothes.

Logan could see everything. It was just a matter of turning his head, and he was there. That meant he could pick up the scents around him. The Thorin clones reeked with a combination of sweat and leather, of exertion. There was no way to fake that.

However, the skill might have a drawback.

As each clone bashed yet another rock person, their swords made a twangy noise, a metal on stone nails on the chalkboard screech, and yet… one sword sang.

It was the Thorin clone in the middle.

That had to be the real Thorin.

Soldier after soldier fell into a pile of rocks on the ground until the gorge was littered with boulders and jagged fragments. It was as if twenty dump trucks had steamed through and unloaded a thousand tons of boulders and rocks.

Thorin’s rock army poured in after him, clambering over the fallen ‘evil’ soldiers and then stomping their feet. Each stomp made the ground vibrate, rock against rock grinding away until they’d pulverized the remains into a pile of debris.

“To paradise! To paradise!” chanted the rock army.

The Thorin clones cackled, their faces beet red, dust clinging to their painted faces and making them look black. They seemed fueled by a berserker rage, as if they’d forgotten everything but slaughtering one rock person after another.

The high of the XP gains must be something else.

Finally, the doppelgangers cleared the battlefield.

The enemy was dead.

Turning around, the clones scanned the gorge, eyes eager and glinting with savage greed. Their faces twitched as they looked in vain, since—

“Commander?” One of Thorin’s rock people nudged him with a jagged rock arm. “Impressive! You’ve won—”

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With a roar, Thorin turned and swung his sword, severing the thing’s neck with one berserker stroke. The soldier’s boulder head went flying and crashed against the cliff wall with a boom.

“Oh no,” whispered Asthea. “The battle lust has overtaken him.”

Arsen sighed in exasperation. “XP overload sickness.”

Logan stared. That was a thing? He’d slaughtered snake after flying snake and he’d never lost the plot.

The other Thorin clones shouted in excitement, swivelling around and sighting onto the rest of their own army.

This was nuts.

The man had gone completely berserk.

Rushing in the other direction, the clones narrowed in on the nearest soldiers and took flying leaps at them with their swords outflung.

“Commander!” screamed a soldier, holding its three rock limbs in front of its face. “The enemy has cast an evil spell on you! We’re your—”

The rock soldier didn’t have a chance to finish. Thorin’s clone chopped off its limbs with vicious cuts of his sword, metal and stone clanging, rock shards flying and falling like a hailstorm.

“I wish I could reach through this room and knock some sense into him,” Errol muttered.

But the Thorin clones wanted more. They searched the battlefield, looking for prey. With self-satisfied smiles, they surged towards their own fleeing army and cut them down, one after another.

Twenty dead.

Thirty.

Forty.

But something was happening to the Thorin in the middle of the fray. Where the other clones were still surging, this one had stuttered to a stop.

Logan wanted a better viewpoint. No sooner did he have the desire than the System accommodated him. With a one-hundred-eighty change in direction, Logan looked directly at Thorin. He was so close Logan might as well be standing in front of him.

Thorin’s expression was shifting. It changed gradually, as if someone had sprinkled him with water rather than splashing him with a bucket, but his awareness was creeping back in second by second.

“Oh the clan,” Thorin moaned as he scanned the battlefield, manic-fueled greed turning to horror. Throwing his sword to the ground as if it were a cobra, he slumped his shoulders, his face turning pale as if he’d walked over his own grave.

Numbly, he looked at his hand and tilted it to study his ring before staring up at the sky. “I’ve failed the trial. I’m sorry, Asthea. I’m sorry, brothers. I should have been stronger. The sickness is real.”

Meanwhile, the other doppelgangers were still at it. Their expressions were full of nothing but savage greed as they slashed the arms of their own soldiers and sent boulder heads flying.

With a shudder of revulsion, Thorin tugged off his ring.

Just like that, the clones disappeared.

The battlefield was nothing but devastation.

***

Normally, after someone screwed up that badly, Logan would have felt sympathetic. After all, he’d messed up enough times in his own life that he knew Thorin must be feeling like shit on the bottom of a shoe. But there was screwing up with finances and forgetting to buy flowers during an anniversary, and there was… this.

Logan had no sympathy for the man.

Say what you will about the wrongness of his actions—Logan could see an argument for his soldiers being System constructs. A manufactured army. But that didn’t matter. If it had been real… if he’d commanded a bunch of Silverdagger warriors, who’s to say that he wouldn’t have done the same?

To top it off, Logan had no sympathy for a man who wore a boiled animal on his finger. Not after what he’d learned.

The others weren’t the same.

As Thorin materialized in the room, his meaty hands clasping an egg that was the size of an ostrich, his face might as well be carved in stone. Emotionless. Dead. The man had been through an ordeal, and he couldn’t look anyone in the eyes.

He wasn’t soaked in blood but was covered in dust and glinting gold particles. It might as well be the same. That was the remains of the rock people.

“Oh, Thorin,” said Asthea, her voice full of deep disappointment.

“Well, son,” said Arsen. “You know you screwed up. No sense wallowing in it. Deposit the egg and let’s see how you did.”

Thorin held the egg up with a scowl. Unlike Logan’s chicken-egg, it was huge, and its shell was red and thick. Sturdy. That couldn’t be a brood parasite—it was too big. There was only one thing left.

Logan realized that he’d already taken two steps back without being aware of it. It would be just his luck that his [Eager Beaver] title would kick in and the thing would hatch in the middle of the viewing arena.

Thorin’s hands spasmed around the egg as if he wanted to crush it. “I know what score I’ll get. Do I have to deposit the egg to find out?”

“Thorin,” Asthea scolded.

Thorin sighed with his whole body and then walked over to one of the white walls. With a look up at the ceiling, he said, “I’ve captured the egg.”

That’s all she wrote.

It disappeared from his hands as if the System had sucked it through a black hole.

Ding!

[Calculating leaderboard score for user Thorin Silverdagger!]

[Calculating…]

[…]

[..]

[….]

[Score calculated!]

[Leadership: 100/ Tactical Innovation: 0/Strategy: 1000/Victory: 1.]

[Leaderboard updated!]

Trial Leaderboard

1. Thorin Silverdagger: 1101

2. …

3. …

4. …

5. …

Damn. Based on the All-Time Leaderboard, Thorin had just flunked his exam.

At least Logan had learned something. The System ranked everyone on four categories. Victory might be a set category—you either captured or lost the egg, so it would have minor point values. The System had given Thorin a hundred points in leadership which Logan could only equate with what he’d done to motivate his army at the beginning of the battle. It hadn’t gone to shit until Thorin had rushed into the battlefield and left his army behind.

For tactical innovation, Thorin had received zero points. The System was such a vindictive asshole that he was surprised it hadn’t given the man negative points rather than none.

The one thing he was surprised at was strategy. A thousand points? For rushing into the battlefield like a berserker and decimating his enemies? The System had to have given him credit for the skill ring. Replicating yourself and creating copies that were just as good as the original was no mean feat.

Errol jabbed Thorin with his elbow. “Look at it this way, brother. You didn’t do what you set out to, but you’re walking away with seven level increases. That’s worth something, hmm? Cheer up, you big lug!”

Holy shit, that was a hell of a lot of level increases.

Logan scanned Thorin with [Idiot’s Inspect].

[Thorin Silverdagger: Level 99. A Silverthorn male. Highest stat: Strength.]

More than likely, Thorin would be throwing the thirty-five free attributes into his strength stat. Logan wished [Idiot’s Inspect] could show him how high each person’s attributes were and not just the highest stat since right now, he was stuck at conjecture. He knew that Thorin had been through this trial before, but it was a matter of where he’d stopped. For that matter, if this was his second time in the Tactician Trial, well…

The man was all brawn and no brain.

Logan cleared his throat. “Was this what it was like during the last battlefield trial?”

Arsen shot Logan a narrow-eyed look. “No, off-worlder, it wasn’t the same trial. I can already tell what you’re thinking. Thorin had no advanced knowledge. We were as clueless as you. The System changes the battlefield prepping questions each time.”

A growl rumbled in Errol’s throat. “You think you can do better? Judging Thorin from your high standards? A man who’s level 34? I’d like to see what you do after seven level increases in a row.”

Logan held up his hands. “Hey! I wasn’t judging anyone. Just asking questions.”

Asthea’s mouth was in a thin line. “We’re getting along, remember? Errol, if you have time for banter, that means you’re up.”

Errol looked suddenly green. “I might need fortification before going back there. Any nonaonalic juice in that spatial storage of yours, Asthea?”

Arsen whistled. “Just how badly did you screw up, man? What kind of soldiers did you pick?”

Errol winced. “You’ll find out soon enough.”