“Are you all right, lad?” the innkeeper asked as the golden machinery that replaced his arm placed at the table another pint of ale.

  “I’m fine. Does this thing move on its own?” Faoros offered a merit in the innkeeper’s palm. The purple light dimmed a bit in the innkeeper’s metallic grip before Faoros gestured him to return it.

  The innkeeper raised an eyebrow but did not rebuke his customer. “Thank you for your order, dear customer. As for my hand, it’s a memento I got from my time with the Guards. You have a keen eye for mutations.” He turned to leave, raising his prosthetic arm. “I recommend ordering something to eat. Too much ale on an empty stomach is never a good idea.”

  When Faoros remained silent, the innkeeper visited another customer. It was his first time drinking ale, and his head was already dizzy. He was not quite certain yet, but he had the impression that he asked the same question to him when he first visited as well. He caught a glimpse of his merit before putting it away. “I hope they do not get advantage of me.” Faoros had chosen The Lost Hope because it was a thriving inn that bordered three different sections. Many visitors occupied its tables and gave a false sense of prosperity to the place.

  He counted at least thirty Alters and twenty Natives among them. Most groups consisted of three or four Etal, and a few had six. It was truly regrettable that Faoros was the only one sitting alone. Although it should not have been surprising, he was reminded again of how ugly things had been in the past. His heart ached as he saw the broken windows and heard the wooden floor squeak with each step. Most of the Natives were old, gray-haired veterans. They discussed Gem’s current situation openly, bragging about their achievements.

  “That raven-haired thief struck again. Near the wall, it brought them down good. It was a warehouse this time. Not even a speck of grain remained behind.”

  “No guard is her match. She uses mysterious devices. She is as free and mysterious as any scavenger. They say she is their true leader.”

  “Free and mysterious… a strange way to dub chaos. If I ever see her, I will take her down with these very hands that have bested hundreds of beasts and even mutants!”

  “Didn’t know we went down joking now!”

  Faoros pushed his empty glass aside and carefully picked up the fresh pint. Gossip was never reliable, whether at Etal Academy or here. The ale didn’t improve his condition. He still had a rough sense of his grip strength, despite the obstructions; he had chosen to wear already the Scavenger’s glove on his right hand. It was thick, and the interior was rough with a sticky surface. He had yet to decipher most of its functions, but he was certain of one thing: he had a clear sense of the merits around him and their remaining value. It was as if he had earned the right to peek into any merit and see the remaining light hidden within the mineral. The raven-haired woman had created a precious gadget.

  Still, this was his first time tasting ale. He cherished the opportunity. At Etal Academy, students were not allowed to consume any alcoholic beverages. At first, the idea of tasting ale in the Game had not crossed his mind, but the desolation of this very world urged him toward such decisions. He greedily sipped his ale and fixed his eyes on a nearby table. It was amazing how dizzy he felt yet how clearly he could think.

  “Belo isn’t with me and I have no way of contacting him…” His hazy mind worked through the possibilities. “What if crosses path with a hostile faction and is forced into combat alone?” Depressive thoughts swarmed his mind. It was the first time he had been separated from his friend like this, without a way to communicate with him and with danger lurking around every corner. The Plunderers were a hated faction in the Game who caused trouble for everyone. He drank again and collapsed onto the table. “While I have no way of even finding a damned vigilante… how am I going to join them? Rich words worth coming only from a Lord…” Subconsciously, he slowly drank most of his second pint. He slammed his glass on the table and drank it in one go, his grip on the glass loose.

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  “Bless us, Lords!” The quite familiar voice made Faoros throw down his cup. Fablo and his company were sitting at a nearby table. “Good afternoon, genius.” Fablo made the first move and joined his table uninvited. “I noticed you were alone. What happened to Belo? Don’t tell me that, after two whole weeks, you still haven’t joined a faction?”

  It hadn’t even been that long since they joined the Game, but Faoros didn’t waste time pointing this out. Each breath counted. “No, not really. We’ve mostly been occupied with checking Sector B. What about you? Did anyone accept you?”

  “Nice one, this is not the way legends are forged!” Fablo burst into laughter and slammed at the table. “But I see your sense of humor prevails even in this dumpsite. Not only did I join one, but I also had the opportunity to get my own gang.” He paused momentarily but, seeing that Faoros had no intention of asking, turned around and waved at his friends. “Boys, do join us! Faoros wants to learn about our faction.”

  Faoros jumped from his seat. “Hey, I never said that!”

  Fablo calmly reached out and stopped him at his tracks. His blonde hair had turned brown from the mud, and his skin had taken on a rough tone. He was a real troublemaker at Etal Academy, and nothing had changed in the Game. “Don’t be like that, genius. It’s not convenient for us to share this secret with you if you make so much noise. We’ll show you the door then.”

  “Who said I was leaving the inn?” Faoros narrowed his eyes and stole glances at Fablo’s companions. They were no different than cronies in here. They had arrived at their table and surrounded him. There were four of them, and he was alone. Who would have guessed that, instead of Belo who travelled alone, he would be the one to find trouble?

  “I never asked you,” Fablo whispered as he leaned over his ear. “You'll regret it if you don’t follow us.”

  A messy-haired crony grabbed Faoros and dragged him outside the inn. He didn’t bother screaming. His disdain was clearly painted on his face. Instead, he was already working on a solution to this predicament. He had the weapons the Scavengers had offered him, but he had never held a blade against an Etal, let alone a gun. Regarding the merit-fueled glove, he had no way if he could even use it for self-defense.

  Fablo’s crony pushed him into an alley, and the rest walked around him. They couldn’t hide their grins or the violent intent in their gazes. They wore long robes that had concealed the weapons they carried until now. A chill ran down his spine. How had they changed so much in just two weeks?

  “Don’t ask any stupid questions, and don’t think about screaming. This is the Game. No one will help you if you can’t help yourself,” the messy-haired crony screeched.

  “You are trying too much,” Faoros mumbled, earning him a slap the moment the words left his mouth. Blood filled his tastebuds, the taste of rust and metal dominating any other.

  “Enough.” Hearing Fablo’s voice, the cronies made way for him to pass through them. He reached Faoros, his gaze landing at his glove. “But there’s no reason to force you to exit the Game. I will take your nice glove and you are free to leave.”

  Before Faoros could respond, Fablo raised his knee and slammed it into Faoros’ stomach. The impact caused Faoros to fall back, coughing violently as he struggled for air.

  “Our boss is no joke. Give us the goods and be on your way. You don’t want to mess with them Plunderers.” The same crony that dragged him outside had joined Fablo and kicked him without mercy.

  Faoros hit the ground with no resistance, his stomach and sides burning in pain. He wanted to retaliate, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t have time to take his weapons out of his backpack. Another kick hit him in the head, and his ears were filled with an exploding buzz.

  “Just surrender and give me the goods. That old Nightmare said the Scavengers have the best weapons. I promise I will stop. Don’t you trust me, genius?” Fablo’s words echoed distantly in Faoros’ mind. He didn’t budge.

  Please, Lords, please. He didn’t want to cause them any pain, but violent emotions flooded him. These emotions were foreign and demanded action, like a bystander that urged a wounded man to retaliate without joining the fray. Lords… Make them stop. But Faoros’ pleas were unanswered by any higher existence out there. Someone... anyone... please help me. But no miracle happened, and his thoughts sank deeper into unconsciousness. The cronies pecked at him while their screeching laughter echoed through the alley.

  ?? From the Desk of Schwarzburg:

  Apart from your friends, dear traveler, you should also be aware of your rivals. You never know when they get back at you.

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