[Private] Nissavi: Where the hell did you go? Did you chicken out? Send me a message when you read this. I’ll meet you in Leone Plaza.

[Private] Fang: What you did was a coward’s move, Aren. I do not generally forgive this kind of thing. Thank Nissa for convincing me to give you another chance. Never do that again.

Reading the backlog of messages he received, with the real world only a faint memory of something that may or may not have happened — as if glimpsing a hazy dream through a feverish fog — Aren felt a bit offended that their first assumption was that he ‘chickened out’. To be fair, he did remember clearly why he was ejected from the Pod, and yes, it was because of fear. But not the fear of orcs!

Aren sat down on the log, where the remnants of their camp was barely recognizable. He could see the faint sheen of darkened blood on the broken cobblestone. It was easier to see, just slightly, in the emerging moonlight and the dispersing cloud cover. It was still late in the night, a few scant hours before dawn.

A few broken arrows were scattered around the camp, among pieces of a broken shield and a broken haft of a polearm of some kind — not Fang’s naginata though. It was hard to tell, based on the evidence, who won the fight, but Aren had faith that it was his group that emerged victorious. After all, Fang and Nissa had a high rank in both the Advie Guild and the Coalition Army. They were veterans of battles like this, which was all the more impressive because they only had such a short time to establish their reputation.

Aren had no doubt that his group won the fight. They could’ve continued on without him, and killed the leader who was wanted dead or alive — Garmox, the Scar of Rakab — but they probably returned to Leone to wait for Aren.

After all, they were doing this to help him. Not that Aren understood why they’d go out of their way; they were never really close in real life. Polite strangers, that was it. In real life, Aren wasn’t popular by any stretch. He was often bullied and ridiculed — he was the stereotypical exile or outcast — forced into the role of the tragic loner. His one and only friend was Jennifer, whom he knew since kindergarten.

He sighed, his breath condensing into mist. He really did not want to think about the real world when he was in here. To Aren, this was the ultimate escapism. Somehow, over the course of a month, with the help of Priscilla, he understood that this was now the only place where he could find some modicum of happiness. He didn’t ask for much, or reach for the stars. He just wanted to be happy.

Once upon a time, he dreamed of having one of the few remaining jobs as an AI Scientist — he read a lot of books on AGI and quantum technology. Most recently, with the first Colony Ships sent to Mars, he wanted to one day become one of the first few thousand who would set foot on the red planet, and as a result threw himself into academics and learning. He was the quintessential nerd, which didn’t really help his social status.

But a man should dream, he thought back then, and his dreams should become real.

A faint rustle stirred his attention awake. After that overwhelming experience in the real world, his perception was tuned to perfection. Whereas before he was overwhelmed by stimulus, now he was overwhelmed by clarity. They were polar opposites; one state made him unaware of anything, the other made him aware of everything.

“Nissa?” Aren asked, turning his head towards the source of the noise. The idea wasn’t so outrageous. It has only been an hour or so since they last saw each other. But as he remembered that time in Singularity moves twice as fast compared to real time, he saw the creature sneaking up on him.

It was an orc.

And not just any orc. Aren saw that ugly mug once, with the horizontal scar across its left cheek — the scar that earned it the nickname of the Scar of Rakab. Garmox.

And he wasn’t alone. If someone asked Aren, he’d have said the group was an army, but in reality, it was just a dozen or so goblins and orcs. To Aren, though, a dozen or so may as well have been an army of thousands: an insurmountable, hopeless obstacle.

The orc barked a short phrase at Aren, and then laughed. Aren didn’t understand a word. When Garmox pointed the massive cleaver at Aren, barked a word, and two of the goblins chittered with laughter and stepped forward, Aren could understand the meaning perfectly well.

Violence, after all, was a universal language. One knows it from the moment of their birth, for even being born is a violent act. Life itself is an act of violence, all the way up until the moment it ends, for to live is to struggle, and each breath brings one closer to death.

In particular, lately, Aren became all too familiar with this philosophy of Violence, because a lifetime of misery was condensed into each moment he spent awake in the real world. Violence was all he could think about; Against himself; Against the world. That is not to say that he was belligerent, only that he struggled and resisted as best he could — more than he thought he was capable of.

This situation? It was nothing. Aren did not feel any fear as the goblins approached. With some morbid curiosity, he wondered what death felt like. Even being slashed to pieces did not threaten him in any way. Even if the sensation of pain weren’t reduced in this world, he would not be afraid of pain and torment, because he was all too aware of what unbearable pain was like. He knew the taste of agony, and even then, it still lingered on his tongue.

In fact, his confidence and lack of fear must’ve exuded from him, like an aura, because the two goblins, and even the orcs in the back, seemed to become more careful, and regard him as a legitimate threat to their existence.

But Aren wasn’t a fool. He was no threat to their existence, he knew that. He also knew that without a shared language, bluffing his way out of this situation was not an option. Intimidation required violence, but Aren was not convinced of his ability to inflict violence. He knew violence. Its methods, however, remained a topic of further learning and understanding.

But he accepted the opportunity for what it was: Practice and then a quick trip to the Leone Temple where he would be reincarnated. After all, he was supposed to meet Nissa and the others in Leone.

So, he drew his weapon, a shortsword with a single-edged blade, and held it in a reverse grip in front of himself, pointed diagonally downwards and to the right. With his other hand, he beckoned the goblins forward.

“Come. I don’t have all day,” he said with a cold tone.

The goblins launched themselves at Aren. One of them had a club, and the other one had a longsword which barely fit in its tiny hands. They were two heads smaller than Aren, but their size did not make them agile or anything. They were clumsy and slow — vicious in groups but weak individually. They had terrific night vision and an affinity for darkness and shadows. They were sneaky and resorted to pack tactics to bring down larger prey.

For Garmox to send only two was perhaps a test of Aren’s abilities, or a tactical blunder. As the goblins came into range, their feet turning over dirt and debris on the broken cobblestone, Aren’s body moved reflexively, but also consciously in a roundabout way.

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Aren stepped into range of the goblin with the longsword, and then some more, completely negating the goblin’s ability to utilize the weapon in such close quarters. Aren’s body twisted, and his blade made a singing note as it carved through the air and then the club-goblin’s throat.

[Injury inflicted. Severity: Mortal wound.]

The goblin could not even scream as the club went flying out of its hand. It fell to the ground with a groan produced by its lungs squirting air through whatever remained of its airways. The violence was graphic and undiluted, with blood spraying everywhere and the goblin’s reaction all too lifelike as it kicked its legs in panic, and its hands hovered over the wound on its throat, undecided if touching it would help or not. Or perhaps it was struggling for breath?

Aren could not tell. But he remembered, in that moment, that Priscilla’s class did teach him swordsmanship. In fact, the Basic Swordsmanship skill he had claimed that he would instantly become an Expert Level fighter with almost any bladed weapon of the sword family. The skill could evolve to Expert Swordsmanship and beyond, but Aren did not really understand what the point of it was if he was already at the Expert level. How did that even work?

No matter. This was not the time for studying Singularity Mechanics.

Aren carried on with his motion, completing a full turn, at the apex of which he lashed out with a palm strike against the goblin’s chest with enough force to feel the sternum crack. Other than swordplay, Lightning Blade was proficient at delivering unarmed strikes to vital points, and how to perform throws and holds. It was part of the Vessel-Breaker Palm skill, which was no doubt inspired by eastern fighting methods, revolving around striking pressure points and chakras.

[Injury inflicted. Severity: Debilitating moderate wound. Enemy stunned and paralyzed.]

Another skill Aren possessed was Damage Assessment. It was an extremely rare skill, and likely why his class was of the Unique category. It allowed one to intuitively understand the damage they inflict on others. With greater understanding of the skill, the more detailed the knowledge became. In this particular instance, Aren realized that not only did he shatter the sternum, but also damaged the spine.

In the world of Singularity, there were no such things as ‘hit points’. Everything revolved around the realistic dance of inflicting a mortal or fatal wound, blood loss, or shock-induced death. It was brutal, and, for some reason, well received by the players. Things like levels, min-maxing, and grinding were things of the past. Singularity, after all, was supposed to simulate a real world, with real physics and real consequences. One should be able to immerse themselves and live a second life indistinguishable from the real-world counterpart.

At first, Aren did not enjoy it. He wasn’t sure if he enjoyed it now, but he had a mission. He had something he had to achieve. He was not interested in using Singularity as a way to earn more money, in the real world, or to earn his citizenship or become a higher class citizen. All the reasons other people played Singularity meant nothing to him. Some saw this as a way to pay for their higher education, but Aren, in the real world, did not need education. Education would not fix his situation. Others wanted to be famous, but Aren had no interest in fame. Fame would not spare him from the pain of the waking world, or the torture and lifetime imprisonment — if he was lucky — that awaited him when the good doctors of Sector 9 realized that what he had was not a Trained Agent, but something much, much more.

There was only one thing Aren wanted now. To see Priscilla again. Maybe it was just a foolish boy's wish, but it was the only thing keeping him together.

He stabbed his sword into the area where the goblin’s shoulder and neck met, and severed vital blood vessels. It was another mortal wound, and not immediately fatal. However, the next wound would instantly slay the goblin.

Before Aren could withdraw the blade from the goblin’s neck, a javelin burst through its chest, obliterating its heart. And the goblin wasn’t the only one to suffer.

[Injury received. Severity: Critical.]

Acting reflexively, Aren pushed the goblin away, causing the javelin stuck in his own chest to become dislodged, and present him with another notification.

[Injury upgraded. Severity: Critical -> Mortal wound. Death imminent.]

Blood poured from the wound, and Aren found it difficult to stand. Against his will, he fell to his knees, and bowed his head.

Garmox’s laughter echoed off the broken cobble, and before Aren lowered his head, he saw the large orc hold his hand out for another javelin.

No regard for friendly fire, huh? Aren felt foolish. Sure, he received skills on how to fight, but he never learned monster psychology. Had he paid attention on the Island of Beginnings, he would’ve known that goblins were like slaves to orcs — disposable minions. Even in the grander hierarchy of goblinoids, there was no such thing as friendly fire. It was a world of eat or be eaten; and here, in this concrete jungle, the only one on the menu tonight would be Aren’s corpse.

< Do you still want to find her? >

The voice echoed in his quickly fading mind, mixed in with the roaring laughter of the orc Warchief’s merry little band of slaughter and mayhem. Aren knew who the voice was referring to, and the process of dying dulled his edge and did not make him question such simple things as: Why the AI knew or understood such things as human sentiment and emotion.

“Yes…” Aren answered truthfully.

There was a surprised and confused hum from the war band, as it appeared Aren was speaking to someone. Perhaps they thought he had allies nearby? For a long time, ten or so seconds, the voice — Leviathan — did not respond.

When it finally did, Aren felt a surge of power.

< Follow my instructions. >

Aren’s buffer opened for the first time, something he could not achieve previously. It was vital to casting spells and using planar energies. A buffer was a calculation space for magic, and the metaphysical space in which things called Macros existed — basically, what the non-initiated called spells.

Magic in Singularity was an extension of physics. There were no spells, of any sort. Even such things as warrior abilities that used some sort of magical power or resource required fundamental understanding of how magic worked. Guild and Alliance classes came packaged with Macros and instructions on how to open their buffer, and NPC classes did not. This was mostly the reason why NPC classes were a terrible idea. No one knew how to play them.

Aren did not have the first idea on why his buffer opened, or what he could do with it. But he had faith — blind faith — in one thing: Priscilla. Priscilla wasn't some random quest or NPC who rewarded a class. No, Priscilla was a friend who gave him the class so he could protect himself. She gave it to him for that reason. There was no way she would've offered it if she didn't think Aren wouldn't know how to use it!

The instructions came as two things. A feeling, much like divine inspiration, came over him and made him channel his internal reservoir of Lightning Energy into his buffer. There, he wove the strands together, adding such things that he came to intuitively understand as amplifiers and other logical constructs.

The second thing that he became aware of, as part of his instructions, was an invisible line connecting him and Garmox. It wasn’t so much a line connecting them, but rather a line that showed him the path.

He understood, without understanding, that this was a line of limited prescience. It was the path his blade would follow.

Like a quantum waveform, the construct in his buffer collapsed, and he understood, in that very moment, that he just performed the first ability of the Lightning Blade class: [Flash].

Lightning sparks appeared around his form, discharging into the ground. The sound of distant wings and chirping of birds rolled off the broken cobblestone. Then lightning flashed, and a jagged line of light — like a lightning bolt — appeared between Garmox and where Aren once stood.

[Injury inflicted. Severity: Fatal.]

Garmox’s head went flying through the air, expression frozen in surprise and confusion.

[Fame achieved: The orc-slayer. You have killed Garmox, the Scar of Rakab, on your own. Despite the danger to yourself, you’ve bravely overcome this obstacle to the prosperity of the people of Leone, and your achievement is recognized. The song of your fable echoes tonight in the inns and taverns of Leone.]

[Reputation with Leone increased: Respected]

It was a bittersweet victory. Aren held the hilt of his sword, and watched with amazement as the metal of the blade had completely turned orange-red, and slowly began to melt, like ice cream. He had to let go of the sword, as it became too uncomfortable to hold.

It was just about then that he noticed that his vision became too clouded and dark to see properly. Actually, lying down and taking a moment to catch his breath seemed like a really good idea.

Just a moment.

Just a quick nap, and then he would finish off the others.

Just a quick...

[You lost consciousness.]