"So you're just killing wolves."
The voice came with that tone of a son-of-a-bitch teacher who laughs when the student finally learns to hold the knife the right way. Mike remained behind the dark rock formation, one leg bent, the other firmly on the hard ground, the rifle slung over his shoulder, his breathing controlled by the new rhythm the class had instilled in him. The blood of the last monsters still dried in dark stains on the earth and in a thin trickle on the side of the knife that he didn't bother to clean immediately. The wind carried dust, the mineral smell of hot stone, and that rotten undercurrent of ancient flesh that seemed to emanate from the entire planet at once, as if the whole world were breathing through a mouth full of rotten teeth.
"But there's this too," the voice continued. "And I think kobolds and goblins are the worst."
Mike didn't answer immediately. His left eye closed slightly while his right eye darted across the optics. The terrain seemed calmer for a few seconds, but the kind of calm that only exists in the wrong place. Small movements in the grass. An almost imperceptible sway in a bush further away. Black crows, or some bad version of black crow, circling over a spot almost three hundred meters away, probably where someone had learned too late that tutorials still kill.
"Worse how?" Mike murmured.
The voice seemed to smile inside his head. "Like small people with the brains of thieves and the courage of a group. Wolves, at least, come in with brutality. Simple creature, simple hunger, simple attack. Kobolds and goblins think. A little, but they think enough to screw up your life. Traps, ambushes, stones in the eye, knives in the leg, item theft, group attacks, stupid bait to lure you into their den. They are the kind of creature that nature or some sadistic lab engineer created after asking, 'What if I give street smarts to an ugly, cowardly creature?'"
Mike lowered his gaze for a moment and looked at the knife in his right hand. Short. Ugly. Rusty, but still honest in what it did. The dark blood drying on the blade looked like old paint. He ran his thumb along the side of the handle, feeling the rough, makeshift leather.
"And another thing," the voice continued, pouring out information as if it had already understood that this was the only way to keep Mike alive, "if you kill a wild boar or any edible monster, there's a good chance their meat will drop as an item. Done, clean, the system transforms corpses into resources. But you can also choose to skin them, open them up, cut them the old-fashioned way. More laborious, dirtier, but sometimes it yields better results. But you have to be quick. Very quick. See those little monsters you killed? They've disappeared. The system collects them. Not always at the same speed, but it collects them."
Mike looked at the ground where the last creatures had fallen. Only marks remained. Blood. Turned-over earth. A tuft of gray fur stuck to a stone. The bodies were truly gone. As if the planet devoured its own parts after they had served their purpose.
"How long?" he asked.
"Short. Usually from thirty seconds to two minutes. It depends on the creature, the area, the spawn pressure, the managers' wishes, the player density, and the need to keep the program interesting. Many modern games speed up respawn if there are many people in the same area. This is no different. If you kill a wolf and the area is full, another one can appear almost instantly. There are fixed spawn points, there are random zones, there are places that spit out monsters like a broken tap. So get rid of this habit of thinking of corpses as something guaranteed for a long time."
Mike rested the knife on the stone and pulled the rifle back into position. The Assassin's newfound clarity made the world more detailed, but also more unsettling. He saw more. Which meant seeing more risk. More bad angles. More potential mistakes. More ways to die.
"There are also ranks for the monsters," the voice said. "That trash you're killing is a noob monster. The base of the menu. Then comes soldier, elite, lieutenant, general and, of course, the king. That one, my friend, when you see him at your level, run. Run beautifully. Run with dignity. Because in your current state a king is basically the same thing as the dragon. If you insist on fighting out of pride, I'll turn off my own consciousness just so I don't have to watch."
Mike looked at the horizon again. Dragon. King. General. The world had a hierarchy of problems, and he was still in the nursery of hell.
The voice began listing things like someone opening the shelves of an apocalyptic supermarket. "Common creatures from this region or similar regions. Slimes, jellies, whatever, disgusting living mass that seems weak until it dissolves your boot. Mutated or monstrous wild animals, wild boars, wolves, giant rats, bats. Giant insects, spiders, wasps, beetles. Goblins and kobolds, as I already warned you, a social cancer of short stature. Skeletons and zombies, because there's always some idle person who finds that creative. And small beasts. Cats, frogs, monkeys, those awful things that many people ignore and then discover were mascots, environmental sensors, poison vectors, or walking bait."
Mike exhaled slowly, without taking his eyes off the target. The sky had changed slightly. The blue was already beginning to take on a heavier tone near the dark mountains, and the two pale moons were still there, quiet, as if watching as well. The planet was beautiful in the way a sharp knife is beautiful. Everything had a clean line and an intention to hurt.
"Show me the map," he said.
"Now you're treating me right."
A window opened in the corner of his view. Not a complete map, yet. More of a dynamic sketch of the immediate area. Rocks where he stood. A yellow patch indicating an open, dry zone. A semicircle of denser vegetation descending into a depression in the terrain. A few small red dots pulsing and moving, not like imminent threats, but like echoes of a partial reading.
"Tactical proximity map," the voice explained. "It improves with exploration, skill, equipment, future integration, and my good will, which is currently above average. The smaller red dots are likely low-level hostiles. Likely. Don't complain later if a living rock decides to show up uninvited. There's still a lot that even I can't read perfectly because of the layered filtering the program uses."
Mike noticed two red dots approaching from the lower area, where the injured woman had said there were more creatures. Three others blinked near a cluster of dry bushes. One disappeared. Or died. Or moved out of the reading.
"If I leave here," Mike said, "what do I look for first?"
"Better cover, guaranteed water, high ground that won't become a target for invisible archers, a retreat route, food resources, and most importantly, distance from this beginner's camp before it turns into a festival of idiots summoning monsters with screams. Oh, and if you run into a wild boar, think twice before wasting too much luxury ammunition. But if you take it down, collect the meat quickly. System or knife. Take advantage."
Something moved near the indicated bush. Mike let the clip-on thermal eye do its work. It wasn't a wolf. Lower signature, smaller, closer to the ground. Then another. And another. Three shallow, fast masses of heat, changing direction with strange agility.
"Contact," he said quietly.
"I see. Small. They don't look like wolves. Good chance goblin or kobold, maybe a mix, maybe not. And before you ask, yes, they love to approach using the distraction of nearby trash respawn."
Mike adjusted his aim, but didn't fire. He waited. A head emerged for half a second above the drier grass. Grayish-green. Ears too pointed. Round, deep-set eyes, with that irritating glint of someone born doing wrong and proud of it. Goblin.
The creature disappeared again.
"I hate those sons of bitches," the voice said with rare sincerity. "They smile while they steal your shoelaces."
Mike didn't answer. The rifle remained motionless, but his mind was already shifting gears. Goblins meant group. Group meant angle. Angle meant that shooting the first one they saw might be exactly what they wanted.
The woman with the injured arm reappeared between two smaller rocks, now further away, moving sideways to get out of the bad zone. She saw Mike looking at the bushes and understood immediately. She ducked. Good reading. Still alive, then.
"Aren't you going to shoot?" the voice asked.
"Not yet."
"Finally thinking like a real predator."
Another sound came from the left. A short, thin, irritating squeak. Then a stone flew by and hit the rock above Mike's head with a dry crack. Small, but accurate. Goblin confirmed.
Mike moved only his eyes.
"I spoke," said the voice. "A stone in the eye is their mother tongue."
The second rock came better. Higher. Faster. Mike had already lowered his head when it grazed the top edge of the large rock and exploded into splinters. At the same time, two small figures darted down the sector below, taking advantage of the distraction. Thin, long, with slender arms, crooked legs, tattered leather wrapped around their bodies, short blades in their hands. Goblins, plain and simple. And the third, the damn smartest one, appeared from the right, coming low, trying to flank us.
Mike chose the one on the right first. Less cover, better angle. The shot came out muffled and entered the creature's cheek, taking half its face with it. The goblin spun like a doll cut at the joint and fell rolling in the dust. The other two screeched louder. One threw itself to the ground. The other advanced with nervous speed far too much for its size.
"Save money!", the voice growled. "You can kill this with physical dignity."
Mike was already in motion. A quick step. The skill didn't come like a flash of light. It came as a strange ease in short bursts of movement. He moved from his position behind the larger rock, appeared two meters to the left at an angle the goblin hadn't anticipated, and struck the creature's knee with his boot just as it leaped. The bone cracked awkwardly. The beast fell screaming, and Mike plunged his knife into the side of its throat, ripping the blade diagonally to open it all at once.
The third goblin tried to flee the instant he realized the prey was biting back.
Classic mistake.
Mike didn't run straight after it. He raised his rifle, anticipated the creature's short trajectory through the bushes, and fired where it would be half a second later. The small body stumbled over its own chest when hit. It fell face down on the ground and dragged itself for another meter, leaving a dark trail, until it stopped.
Confirmed kills x3.
Ambush bonus applied.
Vital and efficient reading.
LOOT:
CORE x3
Dry bread x10
SHORT STRING x10
GOBLIN DAGGER x10
.300 WIN MAG Ammunition x10
Wild boar meat x20? Not available. Target is not edible.
The voice let out a crooked laugh. "See how helpful I am? I'll even remind you that goblins aren't bacon."
Mike ignored the joke and swept the area again. The sound of the gunshot, even muffled, had been enough to shake the surrounding field. More people moving in the distance. A guy running alone in the wrong direction. Two new red dots appearing on the map. Quick respawn. The program wouldn't let the area stay empty for long.
He crouched over the first dead goblin and, on a practical impulse, tried to inspect the body before the system pulled. Small leather pouches. Teeth too rotten. A short, bent blade, almost useless. The creature smelled of mud, tallow, old blood, and sewage left in the sun. There was nothing noble about that kind of enemy. It was filth with intent.
"Do these ones disappear the same way?" he asked.
"The same or worse. Depending on the area, some don't even last a minute. Do you want to skin, cut, rip off material? You have to decide quickly. And not every creature is worth the time. Goblins might have teeth, bones, bad hides, alchemical junk, trap trinkets. But at your level, and in this zone, I'd say: only take what has immediate value. Survival first, crafts later."
Mike collected the goblin dagger and rope for his inventory. The creature's body was already beginning to lose volume at the edges, like solid smoke dissipating. The suit-clad planet was cleaning up the mess.
The woman with the wounded arm reappeared, closer now, but still out of easy knife reach. She looked at the three goblins on the ground and then at Mike. The expression on her face wasn't gratitude. It was recalibration. A good sign.
"Those guys are using traps," she said.
"I know."
She nodded once. "I saw two low ropes further ahead. I almost grabbed one."
"Why are you warning me?"
She hesitated for a second. "Because if I die alone, it doesn't matter. If I die near you, maybe you'll take one with me."
The voice inside Mike's head chuckled. "I like that one. Realistic. Ugly at heart, just as the situation demands."
Mike looked at the woman as if he were weighing a backpack. "Name."
She seemed surprised to receive a question instead of rejection. "Nina."
"Are you doing well?"
"Enough."
"So stay away from me and don't step on any ropes."
She almost smiled. Almost. Then she nodded and walked along the side of the rocks, seeking more open ground. It wasn't an alliance. It was operational respect between two survivors who didn't yet have the advantage of killing each other. For now.
The wind has changed again.
This time it brought something different. A heavy animal smell. Dug-up earth. A deep grunt. Mike sensed it before he saw it. On the map, two larger red dots appeared to the southwest, coming from a fold in the terrain where the vegetation was lower and there were patches of dried mud.
"Wild boar," the voice said. "Or some friendly version of a wild boar that would stomp on your chest and start chewing on your leg while you try to remember a childhood prayer."
Mike repositioned the rifle on the rock. The first creature appeared seconds later. And it was indeed a wild boar. As if wild boars had been created by some drunken butcher angry at the world. Large. High shoulders. Thick, dark hide, with bony plates under the skin on its back. Curved tusks protruding from its mouth like yellowish knives. Small, red eyes, full of that homicidal stubbornness typical of an animal born believing that everything in front of it is either an obstacle or food. Behind it came another, slightly smaller, but faster.
"Edible targets," the voice commented. "High chance of meat dropping if you kill. Or you can skin them. But I know you. You don't want to be kneeling on the ground with a knife and your belly ripped open while a goblin watches you from the bushes."
"What is the weak point?"
"The eye, the base of the ear, the lower part of the neck if you get the angle right. The shoulder can take more than many idiots imagine. And if one of these touches you, it's not trying to bite you first. It's trying to turn you into a doormat."