His heart slammed in his chest, each beat loud enough to betray him. Liam froze mid-breath, jaw clenched to stop even a swallow from slipping out. A few feet ahead, the creature stirred.
It looked like a rat, but only in the most grotesque sense. Swollen to the size of a large dog, its fur was matted with filth, ribs faintly rising and falling with each slow breath. For now, it slept.
Liam dared not move.
Dire rats were supposed to be weak. Pit fodder. Bottom-feeders. But heâd seen them tear the throats out of grown men back in Horaceâs underground arena, clawing at the bodies even as the crowd screamed for more. Classless men. Just like him.
He inched forward, steps feather-light. The boiler grafted into his right shoulder was cold. He had let the flame die down to muffle the hissing and steam. That left him on a timer. Once the pressure dropped too low, the claws wouldnât fire, and his arm would be little more than dead weight.
The rat stirred again. Its bulk shifted slightly, and Liam hesitated. Was it rolling in its sleep, or had it caught his scent?
He didnât wait to find out.
Liam lunged, boots slapping stone as he closed the gap. The ratâs eyes snapped open just as he threw himself onto its back, one hand grappling for purchase, the other jamming the steamgraftâs wrist against the base of its neck.
With a twitch of thought, the mechanism hissed. There was a metallic snap, and three serrated claws burst from his knuckles.
They punched through fur and meat with sickening ease.
Hot blood sprayed across Liamâs face, searing and wet. The rat shrieked and bucked beneath him, limbs kicking out, but he was already locking its snout under his left arm, choking off the scream. His muscles burned as he held on, teeth gritted against the stench and panic.
The beast thrashed, then stiffened. A final twitch rolled through it before it went limp.
Silence returned.
Liam stayed frozen in place, listening. No skittering claws. No answering shrieks. Just the wet rasp of his breath and the low ticking of the cooling boiler on his shoulder.
He exhaled, slow and shaky, and let the corpse roll off his shoulder. The claws retracted with a click as he tugged on the reloading wire in the crook of his elbow. Then he drew his long knife and crouched low beside the body.
The knife was a gift from Isadora. A real one, not just a favor wrapped in debt. She said it had belonged to her once, back when she still took jobs.
He hadnât asked what kind of jobs.
The blade moved cleanly through sinew and hide. First the eye teeth for the guild, then deeper into the torso, fingers probing until he felt the slick hardness of the core. He pried it loose with a grunt, hands slick with blood.
Small. Barely larger than a pea. He cursed softly under his breath.
While it wasnât worthless, it certainly wasnât enough.
The thing wouldnât even cover room and board for a week back in the city, let alone a real dent in what he owed.
He shoved the corpse aside and stood, wiping the blade clean against the ratâs fur. Then he reached into a pouch and grabbed less than a handful of coal. The hatch on his shoulder boiler hissed open, and he fed the black lumps inside.
The boiler gave a soft chuff as the fuel caught. Pressure would take time to build.
He waited. The red glow of the borrowed goggles cast the cave in fuzzy shades of hellish monochrome. The edges of his vision blurred even deeper into the shadows. The world ended about sixty feet out. Beyond that, he might as well be blind.
Another bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his tunic beneath the stiff boiled leather of his cuirass. The stale air stank of rot and fur and mineral damp.
The goggles wouldnât last forever. Neither would the steam. Or the courage, for that matter.
But standing still wouldnât help.
The boiler pulsed once. That was enough.
Liam crept forward, careful not to drag his feet. This part of the cave ran straight, no offshoots or forks. It made tracking easy, but escape harder. He had no idea how deep it went, only that the pay was higher the farther in you went.
Another shape materialized ahead.
Then a second, tucked behind it.
He stopped dead.
Two dire rats. One nestled close behind the other, their ragged bodies almost overlapping. He nearly missed the second one entirely, a smudge of matte fur blending into the dark behind the first.
He pulled back with slow, measured steps.
Two meant noise. Noise meant risk. A lot more than he wanted to take.
But what choice did he have?
He couldnât go back with just a handful of cores. Not with Horace waiting. Not with his stomach soon to be empty and no place to lay his head. He needed more.
Liam unstrapped the round shield from his back. Leather-bound steel, nothing fancy. It fit snugly over his left forearm. He checked the straps, gave them a tug.
The mace stayed at his hip.
Heâd never liked it. Too slow. Too clumsy. At the Academy, he'd fumbled with it more than once in practice. The claws, though? The claws were simple. Brutal. Reliable. Theyâd saved his life before.
He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a glass vial, its contents thick and dark. The smell hit him even before he pulled the cork.
His stomach turned.
Liam downed it in one gulp, fighting to keep it down. The oil coated his tongue like spoiled lard. A cold shiver rippled through his spine as it settled into his gut.
Then came the numbness. Faint, at first. Then spreading through his limbs like frost.
He nodded once. Good enough.
Letting the boiler cool just a little more to muffle the noise, Liam crept forward again, taking his time. He counted each step, heart steady now, movements deliberate.
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The rats hadnât moved.
He was almost in striking distance now.
Liam moved.
He held his breath and stepped forward, adjusting his angle just slightly. The sleeping ratâs face loomed in his vision, slick and scarred. He clenched his jaw, then drove the steamgraft into its eye.
With a snap, the claws punched forward.
Wet pressure gave way as the eyeball burst like an overripe fruit. Gore sprayed, hot and acrid. The rat gave a single violent twitch, then sagged.
Its mate, awakened by the movement and the noise, surged up with a furious squeal.
Liam yanked at the embedded claws, but they stuck fast in the ruined socket. The second rat lunged, bestial rage fueling its charge.
He barely raised his shield in time. Fangs scraped metal. The impact drove him back a step, his boots sliding across the stone.
With a final wrench, the claws tore free⦠but not before the ratâs teeth sank into his upper arm.
Liam felt the meat tear. Felt the spray of blood. But the plasm dulled the pain, muting it into cold pressure. He didnât even grunt.
Instead, he moved with mechanical focus. The shield raised again, slower this time, but still enough to block the next bite. The rat thrashed against it, heavy body pressing close, sharp teeth searching for more of him to tear.
Liam raised his right arm and began punching.
Once. Twice. Again.
Each strike sent the claws carving into the ratâs side. The beast screeched and pulled back, only for Liam to drive the blades deeper. Over and over, his arm rose and fell, painting the ground with black-red blood.
The rat shuddered. Then collapsed, a twitching mess of fur and meat.
Silence, again.
Liam stood there, breathing hard. The heat of the fight gave way to a cold, rising dread. The numbness might have spared him the pain, but not the fear. He had come too close. Again.
He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and dropped to one knee, swinging his pack around. The healerâs kit came out moments later.
He unscrewed a vial of alcohol and poured it directly into the wound. His jaw clenched as he watched the liquid hiss against raw flesh. With his teeth, he held one end of the bandage steady. The steamgraft moved awkwardly, but tight enough to bind the torn muscle.
Blood bloomed through the gauze almost instantly. He layered it again, tying it off with grim efficiency.
The armor on his torso had held. Barely. The boiled leather showed new gouges, but no punctures.
Still, the damage was done. Once the plasm wore off, heâd be in agony for days. He could already imagine the stiff ache, the deep, throbbing fire of torn muscle under skin.
It would be stupid to stay any longer.
But he still needed the monster parts.
Liam turned back to the corpses, knife in hand. He got to work, slicing through fur and sinew, pulling cores, teeth, and whatever else the Guild might buy.
Thatâs when he heard it.
"Umm, hello? Is anyone there? I heard a scuffle. Itâs not just you rats again, is it?"
He jerked up, knife at the ready.
The voice came from⦠the wall? No, from behind it. A rockfall, maybe. In the grainy red vision of the goggles, he could just make out a partial cave-in, and there⦠a gap. A small hole, maybe half the size of his fist.
"Who is it?" he called, rising to his feet.
"Oh, thank god. Listen, I need help. Please, youâre the only one Iâve heard all day apart from those damn squeaks."
The voice sounded young. Male. And rattled, beneath a veneer of forced calm.
Liam narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. "Whatâs in it for me?"
He scanned the chamber again, claws half-extended. No movement. No sound. He moved toward the rockfall, careful not to come too close.
As he approached, he saw the reflection.
Light.
Bright light.
A dim radiance pierced through the goggles. He cursed and shifted the lenses, blinking rapidly as his eyes struggled to adjust.
"Turn that damn thing off," Liam growled.
"Sorry! Sorry! Didnât think that would happen. Reflex, I guess."
The light vanished.
"So, whatâs in it for me? If I do decide to help?" Liam repeated again, still unsure if this was a trap.
"My eternal gratitude?" the voice tried again. "I donât have cash on me, but Iâm sure I can scrape something together if you get me out," it said, the confidence in his voice slipping for just a moment. âSeriously, itâs been a crap day. I just want to go home. Or get a bath. Or both."
Liam frowned. "Are you a wizard, then? Just conjure your way out."
"What? No!" The voice cracked, then hurried to recover. "I⦠I picked a class thatâs supposed to have magic, but nothingâs worked. Not even a single spark."
"Sounds like a you problem. Not my business."
He started to turn away.
"Wait! Please⦠okay, okay, just⦠hear me out. Iâve got something I can give you. I can use this ability, once, to give someone else access to⦠to see things. Stats. Abilities. Your level, traits, all of it. Just⦠just help me out, and itâs yours."
Liam stopped mid-step.
"Not interested," he said over his shoulder. "Everyone knows only the gods let you see your stats. Go try that on someone who hasnât heard every scam in the book."
"Iâm not lying!" There was something ragged in the voice now. Desperation leaking out through the cracks in the calm. "Please. Just let me prove it. Tell me your name. Iâll add you to my party."
Liamâs eyes narrowed.
"This isnât some trick to curse me, is it? Trying to get my true name for a spell or some other cursed nonsense?"
"What? No. Nothing like that. Just⦠please. I swear. Iâm stuck. Iâve been stuck for hours. Maybe longer. I donât know. I havenât eaten. There were rats sniffing at the rocks. I justâ¦" the voice stopped, pulled itself back. Then, calmer: "My nameâs Peter. Okay? Just Peter. Please. Help me."
Liam hesitated. He couldnât hear any deception. Just the same kind of tired he felt every time he woke up and remembered what his life was like.
"â¦Liam," he said at last. "Thatâs my name."
"Okay, good. Now, just give me a sec⦠this is my first time doing this," Peter muttered. A pause. "Okay⦠there. You should see something."
A prompt appeared, floating in the air before him. Words shimmered in soft white light.
He stared at it.
"Hit accept," Peter said.
He did.
Two names blinked into view in the corner of his vision.
At the top was a name that the voice claimed - Peter. The bar was fully green, shining with health.
Liamâs own was beneath it, red and flashing with a dangerous light.
His breath caught.
He stared at the interface, frozen. The light pulsed faintly, though its illumination did not extend to the damp stone around. His thoughts stalled.
This was⦠real?
Liam stood in stunned silence. His voice was trapped in his throat at the strange sight.
Behind the stone, Peterâs voice wavered.
"Uh⦠look, if thatâs not enough, I can⦠I can do more."
Liam said nothing. He was still staring.
"I can give you access to your full character sheet," Peter blurted. "Like, your real stats. Everything. I swear itâll help. I just⦠I thought showing you the party thing would be enough, but youâre obviously still skeptical."
His voice cracked slightly. "You probably think this is a trick. I get it. I wouldnât trust me either."
Liamâs eyes narrowed. He didnât like this. Magic always came with a price. If this even was magic. But then againâ¦
His wounds pulsed beneath the bandage. His muscles ached. And this⦠interface. It felt too real to ignore. Not just real. Familiar, somehow, like something he had always been meant to see.
Still, suspicion gnawed at him.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Weighed the risk.
Peter spoke again, quieter this time. "Please. Just let me show you. You donât even have to do anything. Just say yes."
Liam exhaled slowly.
"...Fine."
A second prompt materialized in the air, cleaner than the first.
Less abstract.
Like it had been waiting all along.
An invitation.
A chance to change the trajectory of his life. A chance to be someone different.
Someone with a class.
Liam hesitated for one final heartbeat.
Then he reached out, and accepted.
The interface changed again.
Lines of neon text began to flicker to life in front of his eyes, filling the darkness with a mysterious light only he could see..