Kaelen watched the color drain from Baron's face. To the King of All Games, this wasn't a life-or-death drama; it was an introductory cutscene. He narrowed his eyes, letting the silver glow of the mask pulse just once more for effect.
"Get out," Kaelen said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Before I decide to see if your neck snaps as easily as this door did."
Baron didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking his two cronies over as they bolted out of the shack and toward the treeline. Kaelen stood in the doorway, watching them retreat.
"I'm gonna kill him!" Baron's voice carried back as he reached what he thought was a safe distance. "I'll tell my father! He's just a Gray Ink trash! He thinks he's special? My old man will have his head on a pike by sunset!"
Kaelen tilted his head. Target practice, he thought.
Activation: Phantom Grin Mask.
[Ink Pool: 15/20]
The world didn't just speed up; it smoothed out. To Kaelen, it felt like the frame rate of reality had doubled. The jagged lines on his back bled into the air, and a faint, distorted cackle seemed to echo from the wind. He moved.
To the bullies, Kaelen didn't run—he blurred.
One crony didn't even have time to scream. Kaelen appeared beside him, a dark afterimage of a grinning mask trailing in his wake. A simple, precise strike to the back of the neck sent the boy face-first into the dirt. The second crony turned, eyes wide with terror, only to see Kaelen already standing in his path. A quick palm-strike to the solar plexus folded him like a lawn chair.
Baron stopped, his boots skidding in the mud. He was alone now. He pulled a small, rusted knife from his belt, his hands trembling so violently the blade rattled.
"Stay back! My father is a White Ink Tattooed! He's the Village Head! You're just a freak who survived a hanging!" Baron shrieked, swinging the knife wildly. "You're nothing!"
Kaelen stepped inside the arc of the swing with ease. To his enhanced perception, Baron was moving in slow motion—clunky, unoptimized, and full of openings.
"You talk too much for an NPC," Kaelen muttered.
"A what—?"
Kaelen didn't bother explaining. He caught Baron's wrist, twisted it just enough to make him drop the knife, and delivered a short, sharp hook to the jaw. Baron's head snapped back, his eyes rolling into his head as he slumped into a heap.
The silver light of the mask faded as Kaelen deactivated the skill. His heart was hammering, not from the fight, but from the strain on this malnourished body.
Skill Deactivated. Duration: 45 seconds.
Kaelen exhaled, leaning against a nearby tree. The speed was incredible, but the physical toll was real. His vision blurred for a second, and then it happened—a deep, hollow growl erupted from his stomach that felt like a physical punch.
"Right," Kaelen groaned, clutching his midsection. "High-tier stats, zero-tier fuel."
The rush of the "game" was over, replaced by the crushing reality of a sixteen-year-old boy who hadn't eaten in days. He looked down at the unconscious Baron. His gaze fell on a leather pouch tied to the bully's belt. It looked heavy. It looked like a solution.
Kaelen knelt, his fingers deftly unknotting the strings.
Kaelen tucked the leather pouch into his waistband and began the trek toward the heart of Crimson Creek. The outskirts were a bleak collection of mud-caked paths and slanted fences, but as he walked, the scenery began to shift into something more substantial.
The village was modest, tucked into the crook of a mountain range that loomed like a sleeping giant in the distance. The houses were mostly timber and stone, with thatched roofs that looked well-maintained. It wasn't crowded—maybe a few dozen families lived here—but there was a steady rhythm to the place. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the distant sound of a blacksmith's hammer provided a steady beat to the morning air.
Kaelen stepped into a small clearing and opened the stolen pouch. He tipped the contents into his palm. Three dull silver coins and ten copper ones clinked together. He didn't know the exact value of the local currency yet, but the weight of the silver felt substantial enough to buy more than just a crust of bread.
His stomach gave another violent twist, reminding him that he was currently operating on fumes.
He followed the scent of toasted grain down a narrow alleyway. At the corner stood a small, weathered building with a sign featuring a carved sheaf of wheat. It was an old bakery, the wood of its door worn smooth by decades of use. The windows were slightly fogged from the heat of the ovens inside.
Kaelen pushed the door open. A small bell chimed overhead, and the warmth of the shop wrapped around him like a blanket.
Behind the counter stood an old woman with flour-dusted hands and a face lined with deep, kindly wrinkles. She was humming a low tune as she pulled a tray of golden-brown rolls from a brick oven. She looked up, her eyes narrowing as she took in Kaelen's disheveled appearance and the dark welt on his neck.
"Gods above, child," she breathed, wiping her hands on her apron. "You look like you've been dragged through the thorns and back again. Come in, come in. The wind out there is too sharp for someone as thin as you."
Kaelen didn't answer immediately. He was focused on the bread, the sight of it making his mouth water. He moved toward the counter, his hand reaching for the silver coins.
"I need food," he said, his voice still a bit rough. "Whatever is freshest."
The woman paused, her gaze drifting to his shoulder where the jagged ink of the mask sat hidden beneath his tattered shirt. She seemed to sense a change in the boy who used to jump at his own shadow.
"Sit," she commanded gently, pointing to a small wooden stool. "I'll get you something. Keep your silver for a moment. You look like you need a friend more than a merchant."