image [https://i.imgur.com/JuhhRrQ.jpg]

Identities are slippery things wrapped in roles and relationships. I called myself Fabulosa and played my hardest to win this contest. The nickname served as a signature in this strange world, but it’s not my true essence. For my inner self, look at my actions, decisions, and convictions. It’s like how the saying goes—actions speak louder than words. If you know my actions, then you know me.

One of my first memories comes from defending my two little brothers from the neighbor’s chickens. That’s right—chickens. Scrawny, corn-fed backyard chickens. They wandered around the backyard as pets. The old couple next door fed them bologna, a treat that got them excited whenever they showed up to feed them. They tore off little pieces, making the chickens crazy.

My twin brothers had grown old enough to wander on their own. They’d been on the patio when the grown-ups went inside to fetch fold-out chairs from the garage. The boys went over to see the clucking birds, possibly to pet them.

Those chickens must have thought it was time for their afternoon snack and pecked at their toes.

Too young to have the common sense to run, my brothers stood and screamed for help.

The hollering brought me running before any of the grown-ups reacted. I didn’t even think about it. I heard my brothers crying, and that’s all it took. As I kicked them away, the chickens pecked at my feet. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to hearing my brothers crying. Anyway, I drove them away until the help arrived.

That’s me. And it should explain more about me than a name.

I turn into a right she-wolf whenever it comes to sticking up for me and mine. But it’s another thing protecting partners in The Book of Dungeons. In this game, the chickens sometimes win.

Through the bubble effect of Bircht’s vacuum, I saw Apache mouth the words, “I am so sorry.” I spun helplessly in the air, and the next thing I knew, his cloak and gear fell into a pile on the ground.

Belden seemed like such a long time ago, though it seemed impossible that I stood as the last of our crew.

When PinkFox spotted Tardee and Jimbozo, we decided to attack. Alright—I decided to attack. But RIP, PinkFox, and ArtGirl didn’t need arm-twisting to go along. At two-to-one odds, we had the jump on them, and their levels weren’t much higher than the monsters we’d been killing. Who could blame us for giving it a go?

We would have won, too, if Falconeer hadn’t turned the battle. When he unstealthed, RIP and the girls went down fast. I couldn’t save any of them.

As I ran to Belden, I realized they’d blown a lot of their cooldowns. But I couldn’t take them on alone. I vowed to avenge my partners.

They followed me to the university. The surest way to rally Apache and Charitybelle into action required a fib. The truth would have paralyzed them with indecision.

Telling them Tardee and his friends ganked us hit the right nerve, kindling a fire inside that I’d never seen before, and they became the fighters they needed to be.

While the trick worked, I felt guilty about it afterward, almost as bad as the shame of losing RIP, ArtGirl, and PinkFox.

When Charitybelle saved me from Winterbyte’s trap, it became too much to bear. It took me down a peg.

We had Winterbyte cornered, and I’d gotten caught up in the chase. Apache didn’t need help, but I egged on his girlfriend to charge up that ramp. She’d grown so domesticated in Hawkhurst, and I thought knocking out another player would have been good for her confidence. I was her partner, and it seemed like the right thing to do. But things spun out of control.

And here I was again, watching another ally fall.

Apache’s equipment dropping to the ground felt like another kick in the stomach. I never imagined that I’d lose so many partners. We’d become so tight it felt like we could take on the world. And I was at my best around friends.

Tossing up my interface and reading the combat log nearly broke my spirit.

/You cast Wall of Thorns.

/Duchess activates Anticipate.

/You cancel Wall of Thorns.

/You hit and dispel Mirror Image.

/Apache misses Duchess.

/You miss Duchess.

/You hit Bircht with arrow for 0 damage (49 absorbed).

/You hit and dispel Mirror Image.

/You miss Duchess.

/Apache dies.

I would not let them see me cry. Dad would say, “Suck it up, buttercup,” whenever I complained, and his words echoed a truth—losing partners was what I signed up for.

I’d grown up fighting more than chickens. I now faced two opponents who’d barely used their mana.

Being outnumbered took another level of grit.

When I stayed with my grandparents one summer, they let me pick strawberries on a local farm. School had ended, but I wasn’t old enough to work, so picking strawberries gave me a chance to earn money. Plus, I could eat them until I got sick and often did.

On the way home, I picked up cigarettes for my grandpa from a gas station. Gramps worked out an agreement with the cashier to put them on his tab without my grandmother knowing about it. He and I built campfires and roasted marshmallows while he enjoyed his secret smokes. He even let me use the free matches that came with the cigarettes to light the fire.

Eating strawberries all morning made me hanker for chocolate, so I picked up a candy bar and a pack of gum for later.

One day, a pair of older girls spotted me at the store. I knew they meant trouble as they whispered and watched me. They didn’t look like they came from good families, and they followed me into the field that stood between us and my grandfather’s house. They stayed fifty yards back until the gas station was out of sight.

I was a fast runner and might have reached my grandpa’s house, but I wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of a chase.

Instead, I stopped and picked up a branch that would make a hefty waking stick.

I waited.

I had no plan whatsoever—I only knew that I looked ready for a fight. Whatever would happen would happen.

The girls slowed to a stop and spoke to each other.

I opened up my grandpa’s cigarettes, lit one, and pretended to inhale, but I didn’t look directly at them. I knew the difference between openly challenging someone and showing them I was ready to fight. It’s smart to let people keep their dignity. A stare-down would have only forced them to play out their plan.

I waited.

The two girls, both older and bigger than me, changed course and went their way.

When I got back, I explained to my grandpa why I’d opened his cigarettes. I became his favorite—right there and then.

It was the proudest moment of my life and marked a difference between Apache and me. He didn’t care enough about what people thought of him to hold his ground. There’s no way he would have made the same decision.

Showing those girls I wasn’t afraid was an advantage in its own right. Stalling and planning for tiny advantages showed hesitation to your enemies—but also your allies.

He never lived in the moment—always fixing on the prize money, moral dilemmas, or distant dangers. He lived in the past and future, never the present. And when something shook him out of his wool-gathering, he rarely met it head-on. Sometimes, when we went into combat, I wasn’t sure he wanted to be there.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

I wasn’t right to speak ill of the dead, but I never could figure out his mindset. Apache was a sweet guy, but the boy clung to misery. Whether mindless library work, practicing moves, or juggling governor duties, it seemed like he steered clear of fun. When he had good times, it seemed accidental, a temporary thing that he’d stumbled into.

After Charitybelle, Apache acted like protecting Hawkhurst was the only thing that mattered. At first, I figured it to be part of the grieving process. He invested love for his girlfriend in a place that slowed down his game. It was sweet but sad.

Did I want to help him? Sure. But did I want to stick around and watch him worry himself to death over keeping the settlement going? No, thank you.

And when the place wasn’t in danger, he’d stir up trouble. It’s like he wanted to prove himself to Charitybelle by defending the place. Hawkhurst had become a distraction, an addiction.

And now he was gone.

Watching his celestial blade, Cloak of Rewind, and belongings drop to the ground confirmed my greatest fear—that I’d lost another ally. Losing team members was no respectable path to victory.

And it’s not like Bircht defeated him in a fair fight. Suffocating people wasn’t any way to fight. This contest didn’t reward players for honorable behavior.

The Book of Dungeons lost its luster a long time ago. The game was fun, but it took too long to play.

Before flying to California, I’d been counting the days before my brothers went into the army. After everything I’d seen and done, I can barely remember their faces. I hadn’t bargained for years away from my friends and family. The summer was about to start, and I looked forward to vacations. I’d nearly forgotten what it’s like to sneak into clubs. Even though clubbing with my friends usually ended with everyone complaining about boys, I missed it.

It was a lot more fun than losing partners one by one.

But self-pity was an indulgence I couldn’t afford. My dad taught me that crying was selfish—drawing attention to yourself wasn’t any way for adults to behave. Survival wasn’t about who’s right—it’s about who’s left. Dad was more right than he knew—none of my friends remained in Miros.

Even though I was best with my friends, I now stood alone.

So be it.

Coming home with a quarter-million dollars would make up for this empty feeling. I couldn’t wait to see my family’s faces when I told them I’d won.

But first, I owed these crayon-eaters a category five whooping. But being outnumbered was no joke. I couldn’t let them see me cry. I needed to wipe my eyes and take care of business.

The game roared back to life when I closed the combat interface.

I blinked away tears and gripped my Phantom Blade. The familiar grip and Windshadow’s sing-song voice remained only friends—and I wouldn’t need to worry about losing them.

My cape whispered into the back of my mind. “There’s an invisible human creeping behind you. She just equipped herself with a curved blade—I sense its dark magic.”

I knew she meant Duchess. She’d been Invisible during the whole fight, and I had to hand it to her—it was a clever strategy. That’s why she’d gotten so lucky with the Mirrored Images.

I didn’t know if it had been Duchess’s dumb luck or patience that kept her from picking up a weapon until now. If she had done so earlier, my cape might have told me so. I could have ignored these stupid phantoms. Apache had been so close.

The Invisible Duchess had kicked over the battle standard, not the Mirror Image.

When the Rooted and Grappled conditions disappeared, I tore off after the remaining Mirror Images. They annoyed me, and I wanted my opponents to think that they still had me fooled. The more time they gave me, the more cooldowns would return.

Bircht wasn’t gathering wildflowers. The shrunken head dropped and swung from his waist as he ran toward Apache’s belongings. He wasn’t waiting to divvy up loot afterward. He wanted Apache’s sword.

I didn’t care about Duchess any more. Bircht picking up Apache’s sword meant he could channel without concentrating, and that wasn’t something I could allow. If I hadn’t already used my Compression Sphere on a Mirrored Image, I might have blown Apache’s equipment away from Bircht, who nearly reached it.

I expected my hair to wave the way it usually did with Slipstream, but nothing happened. Aside from minor debuffs from Bircht’s cape, I had no debuffs. But when I cast Slipstream, a new icon appeared next to a Bleed debuff.

Buff

Hexed

Hex triggers when target activates a power. You are Bleeding. Hex cancels next power.

Duration

9 seconds

Hex had been the spell Bircht mentioned before Apache went down.

The Hexed debuff didn’t appear until I tried to Slipstream.

Without words or sound effects, the only way opponents could know that she’d cast the spell was if they monitored the combat log.

/Duchess loses Invisibility.

/Duchess cast Hex on you for 19 damage (4 resisted).

/You are Hexed.

/You Bleed for 10 damage.

/You activate Odum’s Spectrometer.

/Duchess misses you with Charge.

/You deactivate Odum’s Spectrometer.

/You hit Duchess for 49 damage (9 resisted).

The ruining of Slipstream ended the footrace to Apache’s sword before it started. An enemy wielding his old gear didn’t sit with me, but I couldn’t do anything about it.

Before Bircht touched anything, Apache’s old robe and belongings disappeared, and a figure grew from the size of an action figure to full-height.

Name

Apache

Level

30

Difficulty

Challenging (yellow)

Health

500/500

My partner came back from the dead, but it shouldn’t be possible. That PR woman in the keynote speech said all deaths were final. Had he discovered an exploit? If anyone could, I’d put wager my money on him.

I doubted my eyes until I saw the blade’s glowing point poking through Bircht’s back. His stupefied expression almost made me laugh, though I couldn’t rightly blame him for freezing. Though he’d lost over half his health, Bircht stood stock-still, incredulous that Apache survived.

I checked my combat log to see if Duchess cast an illusion. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one hoping to keep Bircht from taking the overpowered sword with the stupid name.

/Apache critically hits Bircht with a Charge for 180 damage (0 resisted).

/Apache triggers Slipstream.

/Bircht triggers Anticipate.

/Apache misses Bircht.

Duchess stopped attacking, backed away, and dropped her guard. She pointed at my partner, outraged at the apparent cheat. “Wait! I saw you die in the combat log.” She shot an accusatory glance at the fleeing Bircht. “Did you not kill him? I don’t understand.”

Between the three of us, I found my feet first and ran to Bircht. His Anticipate whooshed him closer to the lip of the ravine. He turned and ran down the mountainside, leaving Duchess to fend for herself.

For once, the winds favored me. While Bircht ran with the wind, I flipped up my hood and caught the breeze.

The Airborne buff calmed my pounding heart, reminding me of the time I went skydiving.

The act of plummeting to Earth was more violent than I expected. As my ears roared, the air sapped heat from my body and numbed my fingers. It rippled my lips and skin.

But after the parachute jerked open, a quiet stillness followed. Airborne felt like this—silently drifting with a parachute, where I couldn’t even feel a breeze on my face.

A melody of hummings and chanting accompanied my flight, weaving harmonies that captured the beauty and drama of battle. I hoped Crimson could somehow record it. It would make a wonderful theme song for their reality show.

Seconds after activating my cape, I removed the hood and materialized behind the turn-tail contestant. I landed a backstab for a critical hit that brought him to a sliver of health.

Bircht ran with a trail of golden ribbons in his wake. The streams of Rejuvenate inched his health upward but not fast enough to make a difference.

I stopped him with Tangling Roots.

Bircht cast Vampiric Leech, a damage-over-time spell that reduced my health by 20 points a second while raising his, but his efforts amounted to nothing.

While the Tangling Roots held him, I cast a Lightning Bolt.

Bircht triggered Reverb, sending the electrical bolt back to me.

I Reverbed it back to my original target, knocking Bircht out of the contest. His belongings tumbled to the ground.

Still doubting my eyes, I checked the combat log and contest interface to verify his death. The player count had fallen to seven.

I pulled Bircht’s gear from the disgusting, shrunken head. If the cursed relic prevented him from holding anything else in one hand, picking it up was the last thing I needed.

I replaced my +3 willpower ring with Bircht’s +5 ring of strength, but the rest didn’t upgrade my kit.

After collecting the loot, I ran up the hill. Apache looked to be in trouble again. Up on the plateau, he swung his sword in a purple cloud, but something about him didn’t look right—he appeared unfocused.

After double-checking the combat log to verify that my partner was truly alive and not part of an illusion, I Air Jumped up the hill to help him.

I prepared myself for anything, but a hiding illusionist involved all sorts of troubles.

Apache had a puzzled expression when I returned to his side. “What happened?”

His questions confused me until I checked the combat log. Not only had we left combat, but the last spells Duchess cast were called Forget and Disappear.

While Apache regained his bearings, I recapped the fight—at least, the parts I understood. “I have a couple of questions for you, too, Buster.”

Apache grinned.

It wasn’t easy watching him die. Being caught in Stasis left me feeling helpless, a state I have dreaded ever since Winterbyte put me in a chokehold. And I hadn’t cried like that since Charitybelle got knocked out.

Seeing his grin left me relieved but angry that he hadn’t told me about his resurrection trick. We’d talked all night in the Dark Room, and he hadn’t mentioned a thing.

I planted the battlefield standard to be sure Duchess wasn’t around.

Only Apache and I appeared in the chat channel.

Apache scanned the horizon. “She’s got an impressive disappearing act.”

I crossed my arms. “Hers? What about yours? How did you pull that off?”