The first blast caught the bisons with their metaphorical pants down. They froze up like countless deer caught in a massive headlight and watched as those closest to the carriage were mercilessly cut down by a wall of fire and wooden scraps.
In the wake of the second explosion, a chaotic, single-minded desire to escape spread among the survivors of the buffalo herd like a plague. Disoriented and thrown off course, the once-unstoppable surge of muscle faltered and inevitably fled, their ranks breaking apart as panic consumed them. The ground trembled beneath their hooves as they fled from the carriage's wreckage.
Thunderous roars filled with pain and loss reverberated through the air as the bloodied bison herd retreated from the conflagration and stampeded off in the opposite direction. The beasts, once a united and formidable force of nature, now seemed nothing more than frightened puppies scurrying from the ire of an angry master. They desperately searched for an escape from the horrific nightmare that had descended upon them.
•• •• •• •• •• •• Knees hugged up to his chest, Bill ignored the endless notifications appearing on the inside of his eyelids and condensed himself even tighter. His hip screamed in protest, but the pain was preferable to the panicked sounds of the townsfolk worming their way through his hands-turned-earmuffs. Electric jolts of Experience struck Bill's cowering form over and over, each one adding a new level of intensity to the buzzing sensation spreading unchecked through his organs. The intrusive noises began to fade, drowned out by the experience energy coursing through his body like a wildfire. Despite the undeniable success of 'Operation Bomb the Buffaloes to Bite Sized Bits', Bill was in the midst of a rapidly developing mental crisis. Subjected to alarming amounts of raw energy, his brain was firing on all cylinders. Half of his intense focus was devoted to keeping a wary eye on his notifications for any signs of human casualties, while the rest was busy blocking out the surroundings and combing over every detail of his ill-considered plan. In the moment, it had seemed so perfect. He knew there was personal risk involved, but never once had he believed there was even a slight chance that a single case of dynamite could launch shrapnel high enough that it rained down on the fort over a hundred yards away. How did that even make sense? “You clueless idiot…” Bill whispered. Then again, there was always the chance that the System had something to do with it. Once he accepted that he knew far too little about explosives—or how they paired with ambient Mana—to make an accurate assessment of his mistakes, his brain switched gears and moved on to the next line of paranoia-inducing realizations. As of yet, there were no deaths amongst the townsfolk reflected in his notifications, which was great. But he couldn't keep himself from questioning the entire line of thinking—or lack thereof—that had led up to this mess in the first place. Sure, getting easy levels was probably the best way to ensure his short-term survival, but it felt like his humanity was teetering in the balance. Watching the light go out of Slavin' Dave's eyes was still gnawing away at his conscience, and that guy was a total scumbag. What would he do if his ignorance caused the death of an innocent grandma, or a baby? A line had to be drawn somewhere. Just how far was he willing to go to get those levels? Killing animals and monsters was one thing, but putting total strangers at risk for a quick boost of stats? What if he'd inadvertently murdered the very people he was trying to protect? He groaned into his chest. There was no way he would be able to live with himself. Ain't no point bellyachin' over a bit of spoiled milk. Nobody died right? Whut's done is done. I didn't see any of them useless bumpkins comin' up with a plan. You did the best ya could with what we had. Let em' piss and moan 'bout it. Least you can say ya tried'… Surprised by the uncharacteristically kind words, Bill grunted, beginning to feel like he was reacting like a spoiled brat. So, he'd fucked up. Big deal. It sucked, but it wasn't the end of the world. It wasn't the first time, and likely wouldn't be the last. He knew the best thing could do right this moment would be to get off his ass and try to make amends with his accidental victims, but he didn't know where to start. For starters, why don'cha use some of them stats we got sitting around? Wasn't that the whole point of this catastrophe? Best to use em now. We might hafta fight our way outta town… Unable to come up with a valid argument, Bill stretched out in the rancid mud and concentrated on his System Profile. STATISTICS Name: William 'Two-faced' Wolfe Race: (F) [Human] Level: 5 Class: [Locked] Affinity: ??? Loyalty: [Fort Alamo] Faction: N/A Rank: N/A Fame: N/A Infamy: N/A Sigils: Riftwarden, Dual-souled Titles: First Blood System Credits: 2700 Contribution Points: 0 Racial Statistics Strength: 16 Perception: 12 Vitality: 18 (-10) Endurance: 23 (-10) Agility: 10 Dexterity: 11 Intelligence: 14 Wisdom: 14 Luck: 9 This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Unallocated Status Points: 12 Skills (R) [Temporal step] Lvl 1 (U) [Soulsurge] Lvl 1 (C) [Basic Language Comprehension] Lvl 2 While he was eager to do as Wild Bill had suggested and put his 12 free stats to use, Bill was wary of making the wrong choice. As of yet, he hadn't found a spare moment to check his updated class quest, and he worried that whatever choice he settled on might conflict with the updated quest parameters. As if his System Profile could sense his intentions, Bill's status screen disappeared, replaced by a list of his current quests. QUESTS Active Quests: Dynamic Regional Integration Quest: Objective 1/??: Successfully defend the Alamo Fortress from three consecutive beast waves. Difficulty: Moderate Reward: System Contribution Points based on personal contribution. Progress: In progress (0/3) Personalized Quests: * Attain a personalized Class: Objectives: Versatile Apprentice: Master the basics of two entirely different skillsets, showcasing basic proficiency in both. Statistic Prowess: Achieve a balanced foundation by reaching 25 points in all primary stats. Specialized Training: Focus on two specific stats, reaching a combined total of 100 points between them. Balanced Approach: Achieve a harmonious balance between offensive and defensive abilities. Develop your techniques in both domains. Elemental Manipulation: Harness the power of two opposing elements. Attain a basic spell or ability associated with each. Duelist: Defeat a skilled opponent in single combat, showcasing your abilities in both physical and magical combat. Reach Level 25: Reach the designated level to unlock the potential of both souls. Blade and Tome: Walk the paths of life and death by attaining Level 10 in both a healing-oriented Skill and a destructive combat Skill Optional objectives: Beast Taming: Successfully tame and train creatures from two different species, demonstrating your mastery over animal companions. Dual Crafting Specialization: Achieve basic proficiency on two entirely different crafting professions, showcasing your creativity and skill. Elemental Fusion: Create a new spell by merging two different elements, displaying your understanding of the manipulation of Mana. Difficulty: Variable. Reward: Access to specialized Class selection. Applicable Class choices will be determined by your personal fighting styles and willingness to stand firm in the face of adversity. Powerful subconscious desires may influence finalized class choices. Progress: In progress (0/8) (0/3) * Riftwarden's duty: Objective: Safeguard the Mirror of Khronos. Difficulty: Variable depending upon Dynamic Regional Integration Quest completion rate. Rewards: System Contribution Points, 100,000 System Credits. In addition, you shall be granted unobstructed access to both Earth and New Earth, wielding the full authority to traverse between these distant realms without hindrance. Progress: In progress. Completed Quests: Failed Quests: There was a lot to take in, and basically none of it was good news. Where his class quest had once been as simple as reaching level 10, there were now so many wildly different requirements involved that just thinking about everything he would have to learn was making his head spin. Grumbling under his breath, Bill decided to get started on the Statistic Prowess objective and allocated 7 points to Vitality, and 2 to endurance, pushing them both to the required 25. He allocated them one by one in hopes of getting a feel for the changes, but with experience energy rampaging through his cellular structure it was difficult to determine the difference between the uncomfortable sensations doing battle within him. With three points remaining, he weighed his options, and after a bit of back and forth with Wild Bill, they both decided that they could definitely use as much Luck as they could get. Just as Bill allocated his final stat points, pushing Luck to 12, he felt a hand grip his shoulder firmly, nudging him repeatedly in an impatient attempt to gain his attention. Shaken out of his information-driven stupor, he dismissed his quest screen and opened his eyes, looking up at Nero, doing his best to ignore the wall of yellow notifications that were still hampering his vision like small panes of smoke-stained glass. He could see through them, but they stained the world in a sickly hue that made it seem like he was looking at the world through a bunch of sandwich baggies filled with piss. Nero's face spasmed erratically, the effects of experience energy making him look deranged as he pulled Bill to his feet. The strength in his wiry arms was surprising to behold. He dragged Bill back towards the gate, where they stood in silence, looking out over the devastation that the dynamite explosion had wrought upon the buffalo herd. It was a disturbing sight to behold. A smoky pall clung to the ground, obscuring everything behind a ghostly veil that shifted with the whims of the wind. Ever so slowly, a nightmarish scene was revealed. Shredded carcasses littered the field, many of them still burning. Bits of buffalo flesh and gore were splattered across everything, including the walls, painting the quiet scenery a vibrant crimson that glittered in the moonlight. Random bits of fiery debris continued to float down upon the ravaged landscape. Shards of wood and fragments of metal were scattered across the grassy plains for what had to be hundreds of yards in all directions. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of boiling blood. In the center of it all was a charred and blackened crater the size of a swimming pool. Bill gasped, his jaw dropping as he stared at a hellish tapestry of devastation. "Damn," he muttered, a mixture of awe and regret coloring his voice. "I really hope I don't have to clean up this mess." He sighed, realizing the consequences of his actions stretched far beyond the scope of his original estimations. •• •• •• •• At long last, the piled-up notifications collapsed into one another, becoming a familiar blue box that listed all of his most recent kills. The faint glow it released hindered his view of the ruination around him. For once, he wasn't annoyed. He had seen enough as it was. Unfortunately, Bill barely had time to glance at the notice before the fort's dozen or so residents took to the streets, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear. Faint murmurs turned into a cacophony of terrified bumpkins trying to be heard over the growing crowd. The squelching of incoming footsteps alerted Bill that he had a visitor. “Hey you!“ Bill sighed and turned to face the music. “Oh my god!“ he damn near fainted. Standing nearly chest-to-chest with him was a grizzled old man in overalls. His majestic silver beard was like something out of a fairytale. Had this person said he said he was a hillbilly wizard, Bill wouldn't have batted an eye. “Ain't you that feller who killed the sheriff?" he slurred out, his voice half rumble, half wheeze. “Big strong man… Hah!" His wrinkled face was so close that Bill could see the individual veins crisscrossing his bulbous red nose. He took a step back, desperate to escape the fog of stale beer and assholes wafting out of his mouth. The scowl on his face said he meant business. The glazed eyes were all Bill needed to know that this country fried shaman was elbows deep in his cups. With a nervous grin spreading across his face, Bill sent out a silent plea for assistance. Come on man! Can I get a little help here? Who exactly am I dealing with? Whoever it was, he was wearing no shoes, seemingly unconcerned with the mud and sewage caking his legs up to the shins. At least his overalls are rolled up… I told you 'bout him already. That there's old man Schaffner. Owns the general store. Watch out for him. Snatch the coins right off a dead man's eyes that'n will. In a display of drunken grace, old man Schaffner stumbled over his own two feet and fell forward, slapping Bill's offered arm away with a snarl. “Don't need help from some no good gunner do I? Why don'cha put them pistols down, boy. I'll box your ears somethin' fierce…” He staggered again, this time falling flat on his face when Bill resisted the urge to catch him. After pushing himself up to his hands and knees, old man Schaffner spit out a mouthful of slop and tried to stand. He only made it halfway before falling back on his ass, landing with a wet splat. “What gives you the right to go drawin' the ire of the law down on this little town of mine?" he grumbled, growing more irate by the second. Unsure what to do, Bill looked at Nero and shrugged. “Should we… I don't know, help him home or something?" “He don't mean you no offense, Mr. Bill. He's just drunk." Nero shook his head and grabbed one of old man Schaffner's arms and gestured for Bill to get the other. “Here, help me get him up off the street." Old man Schaffner was heavier than he looked. Those overalls must've been hiding quite the girthy frame. It took way more effort than Bill thought the old man was worth, but they finally got him up on his feet. With sludge obscuring his features, he took one look at Nero and lost all semblance of self-control. “You'll get yer gahdamn hands offa me If'n you know whut's good fer you, ya filthy mutt." In a fit of alcohol-infused rage, he pulled his arms free and shoved Nero in the chest. Nero didn't budge. “Where's yer master at boy? Huh? This here town's fer decent white folk. Ain't not'a one of you chicken fuckin' Noirs welcome here." Bill had heard more than enough. He cocked back his fist. “Hey old man!" Spittle flying from his lips, old man Schaffner turned to see who had the balls to address him in such a manner. “Who the hell do you thin…” his tirade ended in a fleshy thud as Bill's fist collided with his teeth. Old man Schaffner dropped like a bag full of rocks. Damn Bill! You knocked him flat! Bill growled, resisting the urge to strike his downed opponent a few more times for good measure. He shook his hand out, not even upset when he noticed several teeth sticking out of his knuckles. “Find your own way home dickhead!"