Pete wiped sweat from his brow and tried to settle his breathing. Two throws down and just one more to go with everything on the line.

  "Focus, damn it!" Sam hissed. "Aim for the bullseye and hit it. Simple!"

  "Easy for you to say," Pete whispered, the words slithering, snake-like, from numb lips.

  He blinked, sweat dripping down the sides of his face as he focused on the target dummy floating in the air at the far end of the stall. A clownish face that was only a distant reflection of his own vision featured a bulbous red nose, which functioned as the bullseye for the target.

  "Two down and one to go!" A goblin dressed in a sparkly green suit stood to the side of the target area, grinning broadly. "Everything to win! Everything to lose! Hold your nerve, Vault Breaker!"

  Pete didn't face the goblin. The last time he'd done that, the vendor had seemed as though he was made entirely out of wriggling green worms. The sight had been both horrifying and fascinating, turning Pete's stomach and bringing with it a wave of nausea.

  "Beware though, Vault Breaker," the goblin continued. "For the longer you delay, the worse the hallucinations will get."

  Pete held his nerve, trying to focus past the baffling array of floating, magical sprites, imps, and cartoon characters that filled his vision. The peculiar purple beverage he'd been forced to drink before attempting the throws had worked quickly, fizzing all the way down his throat and inducing bizarre hallucinations that made the process of hitting a simple wooden target with a dart next to impossible.

  "No chance," Ollie laughed, standing on Pete's other side. "You're half dead on your feet as it is."

  "Shut up!" Sam hissed. "Just let him focus."

  "He can barely hold the dart!" Ollie countered. "And he looks like he's gonna pass out."

  "I'm not gonna pass out," was what Pete intended to say. Instead, a string of unintelligible sounds and a gob of drool were all that passed through his lips.

  "Jesus, Pete," Sam said, backing away. "Just throw it already."

  Pete swayed, taking aim with his right hand as the target began to balloon outwards, the bulbous red nose painted on the dummy extending to comical proportions while the painted eyes began to slowly spin. It felt like he was floating, and Pete had become suddenly convinced that the fingers on his left hand had turned into cucumbers. He hid the hand behind his back, keen to keep it hidden from the others.

  "I believe in you, Pete," Craig said, though the words reached Pete's ears as though they'd been spoken underwater.

  Pete reminded himself that none of what he was seeing or experiencing was real, other than the red nose he had to hit. It also became apparent that the longer he waited, the worse the hallucinations would get. That fact was punctuated by the trio of flying imps that were presently bending over and showing their behinds to him as they hovered next to the target.

  “Any time you’re ready, champ,” Ollie said.

  Pete threw, focusing all of his attention on the bullseye as the dart left his hand, veered sharply to the left, and hit the wooden board behind the target.

  “Damn it!” Sam spat. “You just lost me a hundred Belch Bucks!”

  Ollie roared with laughter. “Bro, you just won me five hundred!”

  “A valiant effort!” the goblin proclaimed. “Two out of three won’t win you a prize, but I thank you for your patronage, Vault Breaker. You’re welcome to try again, of course, but that will mean losing your place in the line, which would delay your entrance into the weapon farm.”

  Pete could barely understand the words the little goblin was saying, let alone reply in any meaningful way.

  “He’s not gonna try it again,” Sam said, holding Pete by the arm and steadying him a little.

  “Very well,” the goblin said, handing Sam a small vial with a shimmering blue liquid inside.

  “Have him drink this, and he should return to normal in just a few moments.”

  Sam uncorked the vial and held it to Pete’s lips. It felt like he was standing on a raft in the middle of a stormy sea, and Pete swayed back and forth as Sam wrestled the vial to his lips.

  “Stand still,” she ordered as Ollie reached over and steadied Pete, forcing his mouth open and holding him on the back of the head to stop him from swaying.

  Pete felt cool liquid trickle down his throat, settling his stomach the moment it reached it. The cucumbers on his left hand became fingers once more, and the array of winged creatures hovering in the surrounding air popped out of existence in ones and twos until there was nothing left.

  The target he had been aiming for was now a simple bullseye with two darts sticking out of the center and a third stuck in the black wooden board behind the target. He also saw that they were standing in the middle of a long line of players that stretched for some distance behind them and led to the weapon farm where they would be choosing their soulbound weapons ahead of moving into the arena and continuing the contest.

  There were dozens of stalls like this on either side of the line. Some offered food and drink, while others provided games and other entertainment like the bizarre competition Pete had just participated in.

  The sound of jingling coins announced the payout as a bunch of holographic Belch Bucks bounced in the air in front of Ollie's face, surrounded by golden sparkles and accompanied by a horn fanfare.

  Ollie beamed. "Winner winner, chicken dinner!"

  "I can't believe you bet against me," Pete complained.

  "Of course I did," Ollie protested. "You're famously shit at holding your drink. One Pint Pete, that's what we used to call you, remember?"

  Pete rolled his eyes. "That's what you used to call me. No one else ever did."

  "Well, it still stands. You're a one-pint screamer; everyone knows it."

  While they were talking, the line moved forward, and the goblin in the silver suit moved on to the next group, grinning broadly as he stretched his arms out wide.

  "Friends, welcome! On your path to the weapon farm, perhaps you would like the chance to divert your attention for a moment and take part in an exciting game of skill and chance? Simply drink a mild concoction and hit this oversized target with three darts, and you will win your wager ten times over. Bet on your companions or wager against them. All have a chance to multiply their winnings and..."

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Pete shuffled forward with Sam and Ollie at his side. Craig and the other goblins walked at the front of the group, but Coop was suspiciously absent. There was, however, a large scarf wrapped around Pete's neck that moved unsteadily as he walked.

  "You're still sweating!" a voice called out from behind Pete's left ear.

  He jumped at the sound before realizing that the scarf wrapped around his neck was actually Coop.

  "Okay," Pete said, blinking away the last remnants of the hallucinations. "No more weird games with strange drinks."

  Ollie chuckled. "Told you. One-pint screamer."

  "That wasn't beer!" Pete insisted.

  "The point still stands," Ollie said, punching Pete gently on the shoulder. "Just own it, dude!"

  Pete wasn't sure, but as they shuffled forward once more, he thought he saw a smirk on Sam's lips.

  As they shuffled forward a little, Pete scanned the crowd up ahead. The other players wore disheveled clothing and stood uncertainly beside one another, silent for the most part. Here and there, he could see small groups that had obviously joined parties, but it seemed as though the majority of the players were solo.

  "Looks like they've all gone through hell," Sam whispered, leaning in close.

  Pete nodded. "Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing."

  [Nero] In actual fact, the vast majority of these players have experienced far less tribulation than you have encountered. You were singled out by the System early on and have thus had to fight through quite a few more intense obstacles and enemies than a typical novice-level player would encounter.

  "They still look like they've had a hard time of it, though," Pete insisted.

  Hollow eyes stared back at him now and then as one of the players turned to look around. Most just stared straight ahead, shuffling forward when the line moved, fear and pain written heavily across their faces. As he was considering this, Pete noticed the sandy blonde hair of a hulking figure he guessed was Ralph, standing next to his shorter, older brother.

  Carl was chatting away with his brother, laughing and joking as the pair followed the line. Not only were they seemingly oblivious to the horror of the Dominion Ultrimax Contest, but they also thoroughly enjoyed it.

  "Hans and Fritz seem like they're having fun," Ollie said with a heavy frown.

  Pete nodded. "They're playing a different game than everyone else. For them, this isn't a struggle to survive. It's a chance for them to live out some sick fantasy."

  Through the dozen or so heads and bodies between them, Pete caught sight of Carl staring back. The other man waved, grinning broadly.

  "Vault Breaker!" he called out, drawing the attention of everyone nearby to Pete. "Best of luck, man! Hopefully, I'll see you in the initiate arena!"

  Pete nodded, raising his hand uncertainly to wave back. Sam slapped the hand down before it got above his waist.

  "Don't wave at him!" she hissed. "The guy's a murderer. Hell, he's probably gonna try to kill you as soon as we hit the next challenge."

  Carl turned around and continued chatting happily with his huge, little brother. Several of those that had turned to look at Pete started whispering to each other. He heard the title Vault Breaker spoken a few times along with Coin Lord Grindle and Overseer Greedwell.

  "Seems like you've got a hell of a reputation already, bud," Ollie said, slinging an arm around the other man's shoulder and grinning. "That's good. We can use that to our advantage."

  Pete grimaced. "Yeah, but it also makes it harder to get around without being noticed. Probably puts even more of a target on our backs too."

  "More notoriety means better sponsors though, right?" Coop asked. "That's what you said, isn't it, Nero?"

  Pete shared a sidelong glance with Sam at the mention of the term 'sponsors'.

  [Nero] That is correct. Greater notoriety, particularly when it comes to the formal category of Prestige, is vitally important when it comes to attracting high-quality sponsors. There are other benefits as well, as we have discussed previously. The more notoriety you have, the more Dominion citizens and private companies will bet on your performance. That means the System will prioritize enemies and obstacles you face to ensure that viewers are shown the most exciting possible scenarios.

  "A double-edged sword," Craig mused. "Both the rewards and the difficulty will be increased."

  [Nero] Precisely. You should note, however, that you are not the only high-profile players entering the novice arena today. The two Reavers you met earlier have gained a fierce reputation already. They are known as the Butcher Bros, and they have established quite a substantial fan base.

  "Butcher Bros?" Ollie scoffed. "Sounds like a meat-themed boy band."

  [Nero] They have proven themselves remarkably adept at the game thus far and have encountered far less trouble than you have, Ollie. By choosing the Reaver class and hunting other players, they have been able to amass quite a few new skills and proficiencies without having to endure the kinds of trials you have faced.

  "I say we steer clear of them," Sam said. "Maybe we wait until we've chosen our weapons. Let them run off and get ahead of us, and then we can head out."

  Pete shook his head. "If they're gunning for us, that's not a good idea. It will just give them time to put together a trap. Or they could just sit somewhere and wait for us to show up. Plus, they're not necessarily going to kill us, right? I mean, just because they introduced themselves and..."

  [Nero] While I cannot speak to what will occur in the future, Pete, I feel it pertinent to warn you that the Butcher Bros have used this technique several times in the contest to hunt prey. Carl introduces himself and fosters some level of friendship with whatever players he and his brother can find. They make up some story or other, then wait until an opportunity presents itself and slaughter those they have targeted. It is quite distasteful, but very effective.

  "So, the fact that he's introduced himself means he's gunning for me?" Pete asked.

  [Nero] It seems likely. Carl, in particular, has made a habit of flagging to his fans which player he intends to kill next. On several occasions, he even opened the choice up to his audience and asked them to pick between potential prey. The audience voted on three targets, which only appeared as red dots on Carl's mini-map. Once the choice was made, he approached the hapless individuals and slaughtered them without mercy.

  "That's fucking sick," Ollie barked.

  [Nero] It is part of the reason why Carl and his brother have gathered an immense amount of support this early in the game. There are certain factions of the wider Dominion citizenry that revel in this kind of bloodshed. The death cults of Necropolis Prime, the Nihilists of the Endless Plain, the Warbling Pufkins of the Interminable White; they worship betrayal, bloodshed, and violence above all. These figures are attracted to Reavers and, when they find an individual or murderous party like the Butcher Bros, they tend to put all of their support behind them.

  "Alright," Pete said, "so we'll need to watch our backs then."

  [Nero] A wise precaution. While I cannot divulge specific details about another player, you would do well to assume that Carl and his brother have marked you as a target.

  The line moved up once again, and everyone shuffled forward. Through the crowd, Pete saw Carl and his hulking brother enter the weapon farm, passing through a black curtain and into the building beyond. The next few minutes passed in much the same manner until Pete and his group were standing directly in front of the weapon farm, their path blocked by a single goblin sitting on a tall chair and staring down at a holographic screen that hovered in front of him.

  "Next!" the goblin said, looking up briefly as a beam of orange light flared out from a device hovering above his chair.

  The light scanned each of the members of Pete's party, and the goblin on the chair nodded in recognition.

  "Ah, yes. The Vault Breaker and his eclectic band." He looked up from his screen, grinning as he pointed a gnarled finger at Pete. "I made quite a bit of cash on your bout against Coin Lord Grindle."

  The goblin shook his head, clicking his tongue as he did so.

  "Getting the Burrowers to build powerful weaponry into the decoy was a stroke of genius." He winked at Pete. "I guessed you had something up your sleeve, but that came as quite the surprise, I must tell you. At thirty to one against you, I earned two years' worth of income in that single wager."

  Pete smiled and nodded, marveling at the fact that this little goblin presumed he'd masterminded the victory over Coin Lord Grindle rather than fumbling his way through the attack.

  "Good to hear," he said, unsure what else to say.

  The goblin looked back at his display, his momentary smile shifting to the frown of concentration he wore previously.

  "Straight on through the curtains. One at a time. You'll be presented with three choices of weapon each, and you only get a single choice. Once you've made your choice, your weapon will be harvested and prepared. It will be ready to pick up once you exit the facility and enter the novice arena. Good luck, Vault Breaker."

  He waved them through, and Pete led the group toward the black curtains covering each entrance. He stood in front of one of the entrances, looking left and right. "See you on the other side."

  Craig stood to his left, with Sam on his right. They both nodded and together walked through the curtains.