I finished beating the last sailor to death with the leg of the previous as another useless experience notification appeared.

  [You’ve earned: 50 XP.]

  Well, I guess they weren’t entirely useless. It was handy to know when to stop beating them.

  Seven dead sailors covered the deck, and there were nine more stashed in a corpse pile behind the shipping crates. I didn’t bother checking my Vitality; there were more than enough brains to top me back off.

  I jammed my hand into the first sailor’s trousers, quickly finding out that all these cheap bastards left me was a pittance of gold.

  [You’ve gained: 240 gold. Total gold: 805.]

  “Dick, do NPCs drop anything other than gold?” I’d gotten that freebie potion off the first farmer but hadn’t seen shit since.

  “Just like farmers, jailers and sailors aren’t true level one NPCs. I doubt you’ll see much more than gold from them.”

  I spent the next forty minutes cracking skulls and cleaning them out.

  My Vitality was full after the first sailor. And while brains wouldn’t regenerate any lost limbs, they were enough to patch up my mostly intact body.

  * * *

  I polished off my sixteenth brain. The first healed me up, while the rest went directly into Intellect.

  The final attribute notification said.

  [Your Intellect has increased to level 27.]

  “Gods, Frank, we need to find you something to use all that Mana on.”

  Out of curiosity, I checked my stats.

  Mana: 100% (322/322)

  “Caster classes would kill to have your traits,” Dickhead said.

  None of the sailors wore anything interesting, but I kept my eye out for a nice leather jacket. I’d loot and eat the sailor that I’d tossed headfirst onto the dock on my way out.

  The “Sabotage the docked ship” objective hadn’t completed yet, which meant I still had work to do.

  I crept below deck with my billy club in hand. I would’ve dual-wielded them, but I needed a free hand to grapple with. That way, I could use my full Strength without whiffing.

  The stairs creaked underfoot. I winced, stopped, and listened. Thankfully, no one was alive to hear. I really needed to work on my Stealth skill. Below deck was filled with barrels, crates, and empty prisoner cells. No sailors in sight.

  “Frank, look. There’s a gunpowder keg over to your right.”

  I saw it. But what the hell was I going to do with gunpowder? It wasn’t like I had any matches. Also, it cost me a hundred gold the last time I blew my damn self up.

  “And? What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Just take it for now.”

  I frowned, totally forgetting I had a player inventory. The gunpowder keg joined the severed head as I tossed it into my inventory.

  “How big of an item can I put in my inventory?” I asked, eyeing the inside of the hold.

  “If you can lift it, you can take it.”

  I wondered how much Strength I’d need to take the whole ship as I climbed the stairs back onto the deck.

  Half-eaten bodies littered the top deck, but otherwise it was clear. The same was true of the hold—minus the bodies. Only the captain’s quarters remained. Dickhead stopped me from just barging in.

  “Careful, Frank. There’s probably a boss fight on the other side of that door, likely one of your bounties.”

  “Anything I need to know?”

  “There’s usually a mechanic that’ll make the fight infinitely easier if you can figure it out. But don’t waste a lot of time on the puzzle if it’s not obvious; the boss will have a ton of Vitality and reducing it to zero works just as well. At least for the starter Instances. The Pinnacle Instance usually requires you to figure out the mechanic while you beat the snot out of the boss.”

  “Keep punching until I see the kill notification. Got it.” I gripped the door handle and yanked it open.

  A new notification popped up.

  [You’ve engaged Terrible Timmy, level 1 Instance boss.]

  [Hint: Kick him off the wagon. Good luck.]

  I looked around but didn’t see any damn wagons. This wasn’t even the captain’s quarters. We were in the galley with tables, benches, and a full-service bar.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It looked like Timmy had stepped straight out of the 1700s.

  A black tricorn hat sat atop his head. Its brim stiff and jaunty. His hair spilled down in greasy curls, the kind of wig you’d expect on a powdered noble.

  But it was his jacket that caught my eye. It wasn’t the usual blue wool or red cloth you’d see in paintings. This thing was 100% leather—black, cracked, and shiny—cut in the same long, flared style as a naval officer’s coat. Rows of brass buttons adorned the front, and the cuffs flared wide.

  I didn’t give two shits that it wasn’t historically accurate; we were in a franking World Dungeon for Christ’s sake. But I’d be damned if I wasn’t looting that jacket off his cold, dead ass.

  Beneath the jacket, he wore a ruffled linen shirt with lace spilling out at the throat. His breeches were knee-high, a dull navy blue. White stockings climbed up from buckled shoes so polished they nearly sparkled in the light.

  Terrible Timmy was obviously the captain of the ship. He fingered the golden medallion on his neck like some lucky charm. All I could make out was the number one. I was too far away to read the inscription.

  Timmy started monologuing.

  “A stowaway? On my ship? You’ll walk the—”

  I dashed across the room and slammed my fist into the side of his face. I had to pull the punch, but it was enough to shut him up. My biggest concern was not ruining the coat. I’d focus on his legs and head.

  I heard the hiss of steel on steel as Timmy started drawing his cutlass from the metal loop on his belt. That wouldn’t be good for me, so I shut that shit down.

  Pushing him back, I pinned his sword arm against his body to stop the draw. I easily outmatched him in Strength and used it to my advantage, pushing him backward until we slammed into the first table that got in our way.

  It barked each time I slammed him into it, again and again, as it inched its way toward the wall. I tried to break his wrist with my grip, but he was tougher than the other NPCs.

  His forehead came out of nowhere and smashed me in the nose.

  [Your Intellect has dropped to level 26.]

  I didn’t bleed or even feel much pain, but it still staggered me. I blinked and stepped back to shake my head and clear my stupor.

  Timmy kicked up his feet and tucked into a backwards roll, traversing the damn table. His shoes struck the ground as he landed safely on the other side.

  I growled, frustrated that I couldn’t just smash through the stupid thing and grab him, but I knew I didn’t have that kind of Strength just yet.

  Then the twit drew his cutlass, tucking one hand behind his back while pointing the sword at me with his other.

  “En garde,” he said.

  This asshole thought this was some kind of duel.

  I disabused him of his delusion when I let him stab me through the heart. He looked surprised when I didn’t drop.

  “What sort of man are you?” he asked.

  I grinned, watching his mounting panic. His eyes darted from my face to my pierced chest as I slowly leaned forward, impaling myself up to the hilt.

  “Not a man,” I said. “Not anymore.”

  Close enough to read the damn thing, I learned what the inscription on the medallion said: “ONE DAY AT A TIME. 1 YEAR.”

  I recognized that phrase. One of my foster homes had a drawer full of them; most either had “one week” or “thirty days” written on them.

  Terrible Timmy’s medallion was a sobriety chip, and that’s when I got the hint. I snatched the medallion off his neck.

  Timmy staggered back as if I’d decked him in the face, abandoning his blade in my chest. He held out an open hand toward me while covering his naked neck with the other.

  “Give it back!” he demanded.

  I glanced at the chip in my hand. It wasn’t gold; it wasn’t even metal, just a plastic chip. My hand formed a fist, and Timmy’s medallion shattered.

  “No!” he screamed as he watched the bits fall to the ground.

  I noticed the tremor in his hand first. He grabbed his shaking wrist with his free hand, steadying it. But it was too late. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and then licked his lips. I watched his chest heave with quickening breaths.

  His gaze darted to the kegs behind the bar. Like a man possessed and unable to resist a moment longer, a wild thirst appeared in his eyes. Something that neither water nor love would satisfy.

  Timmy’s will broke as he dashed to the bar. Unable to wait the few seconds needed to walk around to the side, he clawed and kicked his way over the counter, dropping into the serving space on the other side with a thump and a whimper.

  He scrambled to his knees, greedily reaching for the tap to suck on it like a child with a teat.

  I watched Timmy drink himself to death.

  The bastard didn’t stop, not even to breathe. He coughed, the first hitch in his pour. Then he gasped, filling his lungs with liquid. Finally, the poor wretch drowned.

  Two notifications popped up.

  [You’ve earned: 400 XP.]

  [Instance update: Sabotage the docked ship complete.]

  [Instance progress: 33.3%]

  I was pretty sure there was a moral lesson somewhere in there, but it was too damn depressing to think about. I’d repressed all that foster shit for a reason, and I wasn’t about to start dealing with it now.

  The System could keep its damn trauma; the jacket was a much better reward. I walked around the bar, like the civilized person I was, and stood over his bloated corpse. Then I rolled him onto his stomach and yanked my new jacket off him.

  I grabbed the cutlass by the handle and slid it out of my chest, placed it on the counter, and checked his pants pocket for loot.

  [You’ve gained: 500 gold and 1 bottle of Macallan 18. Loot boosted by first-time boss kill. Total gold: 1,305.]

  I let out a humorless chuckle as I looted the unopened, top-shelf bottle of booze. It was the perfect punchline to the System’s darkly ironic joke. And I thought I had a franked-up sense of humor.

  “Dick, can I eat his brains and still turn in the head?”

  “That’s…” He paused. “I don’t know. Never had this kind of thing come up before. I suppose we could find out.”

  “Nope. Not risking it.” I took the farmer’s head out of my inventory to snack on instead. I needed to heal up after that fight.

  What is it with me and putting holes in my chest? I wondered, then shrugged. Better than my head, I suppose.

  [Your Intellect has increased to level 27.]

  Done with the farmer, I picked the cutlass back up and turned it in my hands. It was much better than the billy club, but I tucked the nightstick into my inventory since I had the space.

  The wig came free when I tried to hold Timmy’s head up.

  “Gross,” I said, tossing the greasy thing across the room. His own hair wasn’t much better. I grabbed a fistful of it and started hacking at his neck. The spine was still a bitch to cut through, but it was leagues better than doing it with a pitchfork.

  [Terrible Timmy’s Head - Quest complete.]

  [You’ve gained: 1 Common chest.]

  That was a disappointment.

  “All that for just a common treasure chest?”

  “Normally, you’d get a nice chunk of quest experience, too. But your Limit Breaker only accepts combat experience, so You Know Who doesn’t bother reporting it. Also, that’s another ten credits from achievement milestones.”

  “Good point,” I admitted.

  Credits were the whole reason I was even in here. Completing the quest had literally taken Timmy’s head off my hands, which meant I wasn’t lugging around his ugly mug. Honestly, it would’ve sucked if I had three heads taking up slots.

  I froze, hearing a small voice coming from the corner of the galley.

  “Is someone there? Please. Let me out.”