The teleportation process was violently disorienting.
Sebastian was ripped through the digital ether and slammed back into physical reality with the grace of a brick thrown through a stained-glass window.
He staggered forward, his boots hitting cold and damp cobblestones, his lungs instantly protesting as he inhaled.
The air didn't taste like the crisp and pine-scented breeze of the tutorial village.
"Christ," he coughed. It tasted like rust, burning coal, and evaporated blood.
He had arrived in Ironhold.
[System: Welcome to Ironhold, the City of Steel.]
Towering above him were massive and Gothic structures of blackened steel and dark stone.
Gigantic smokestacks spewed thick and noxious grey clouds into a sky that was permanently stained the color of an old bruise.
Neon magical signs flickered through the smog, casting harsh and colored shadows over the twisting streets.
The city was a sprawling nightmare of industrial machinery and dark fantasy architecture, built entirely inside a massive cavern deep beneath the earth.
It was a city of mercenaries, smugglers, and cutthroats. It was perfect.
Sebastian stepped off the teleportation dais, pulling his ragged Drifter cloak tighter around his shoulders.
The streets were packed with high-level NPCs and a sparse handful of beta testers who had managed to rush out of the tutorial zones.
Heavily armored Orc enforcers patrolled the corners, while shady Goblin merchants whispered from the dark alleyways, offering illegal buffs and stolen loot.
He didn't stop to admire the oppressive scenery. He had a specific destination in mind.
His five Divine potions were sitting in the auction house, but auctions took time to clear.
He needed immediate and liquid cash to start buying up the real-world properties and bulk supplies that would keep him alive when the Great Merge hit.
He navigated the twisting and smog-choked streets with the practiced ease of a local.
A pair of grimy and low-level NPC thugs tried to corner him near a steaming exhaust vent.
One of them reached out to grab Sebastian's coin purse.
Sebastian didn't even break his stride.
He simply grabbed the thug's wrist, applied a fraction of his newly minted Level 10 strength, and bent the fingers backward until the bone snapped with a wet crunch! CRACK!
"Ahhh! My fucking hand!" The thug collapsed and began screaming in pain, while his partner bolted into the fog in pure fear.
Sebastian kept walking, wiping his hands on his cloak. He was in no mood for street encounters.
He finally reached the Black Market sector.
It was a subterranean layer of the city accessible only through a heavily guarded and rusted iron gate hidden behind a slaughterhouse.
He flashed the twelve silver coins he had looted from Viper to the heavily armed minotaur guarding the door.
The beast grunted, stepping aside to let him pass.
Sebastian descended a long and spiraling stone staircase that smelled strongly of cheap ale and sweat.
The ambient noise grew louder with every step.
It was a deafening roar of shouting voices, clashing steel, and the heavy thud of flesh hitting stone.
He emerged into the Underground Arena.
It was a massive and circular coliseum carved directly into the bedrock.
The stands were packed with degenerate NPCs and a few early-access players, all waving betting slips and screaming themselves hoarse.
In the center of the arena, separated from the crowd by a shimmering magical barrier, two heavily armored gladiators were currently hacking each other to pieces in a shower of sparks and blood.
This was the economic beating heart of Ironhold's underbelly.
Here, players could bet gold on NPC fights, or step into the ring themselves to win massive purses.
It was entirely unregulated, brutally violent, and completely bypassed the game's standard questing economy.
Sebastian ignored the spectacle in the ring and made a beeline for the registration desk.
It was a reinforced iron cage tucked into the corner of the cavern.
Inside sat a fat and scarred half-orc chomping on a foul-smelling cigar, a massive ledger open in front of him.
"I want to bleed," Sebastian said, slapping his hand against the iron bars. CLANG!
The half-orc slowly looked up, exhaling a cloud of thick and acrid smoke directly into Sebastian's face.
He looked at the ragged cloth tunic, the utter lack of armor, and the rusty dagger hanging from Sebastian's belt.
He burst into a raspy and phlegm-filled laugh!
"You want to bleed, twig? You look like a stiff breeze would snap your spine." The half-orc mocked, tapping a massive ringed finger on his ledger.
"This ain't a sparring ring for noobs. This is the meat grinder."
"Death here costs you a full level and drops your inventory. You sure you want to throw your fucking life away, boy?"
"I asked for a fight, not a lecture," Sebastian replied, his voice calm but annoyed. "Just sign me up."
The half-orc shrugged, clearly used to suicidal idiots throwing their lives away for a chance at glory.
"Your funeral. What's the name, and what's the class?"
"The Drifter," Sebastian said.
The half-orc paused, his pen hovering over the parchment.
He looked back up, his single good eye narrowing in confusion.
"Drifter? That's a joke class. You don't have any defensive perks. You're gonna get turned into fucking paste in the lowest bracket."
"Just write the damn name down, man," Sebastian sighed, tired of the runaround.
Grrr... The half-orc bristled at his tone, a low growl rumbling in his chest, but he furiously scribbled the name onto the ledger.
"Fine. You're in the Bronze Bracket. You fight in ten minutes. Waiting room is down the hall to the left. Try not to piss yourself before you get in the ring."
Sebastian didn't bother replying.
He turned and walked down the dimly lit stone corridor toward the gladiator staging area.
He pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the waiting room.
It was a bleak and blood-stained chamber filled with weapon racks and wooden benches.
A dozen heavily muscled and heavily scarred combatants were already inside, sharpening axes, adjusting heavy iron breastplates, and wrapping their knuckles in leather.
They all stopped and turned to look at the newcomer.
Seeing a man in starter clothes, armed with a rusted knife, walking into the arena's waiting room was like watching a lamb stroll into a den of starved wolves.
A collective and cruel smile spread across the room.
They saw fresh meat. They saw an easy win.
Sebastian found an empty spot on a wooden bench in the corner.
He sat down, pulled out his rusty dagger, and began to casually clean his fingernails with the tip of the blade, completely ignoring the murderous glares of the men he was about to surgically dismantle.
Let them laugh, he thought, a dark and genuine smile touching the corner of his lips.
In ten minutes, the real slaughter begins.