CHAPTER 6

  Awakening

  Warmth pressed in on him, both cozy and suffocating, as Bash’s mind dropped back into his body.

  Looking around at his new surroundings almost made him forget what had just happened. Almost.

  He was on a straw mattress in a cramped wooden room. Herbs hung from the rafters, and the bitter smell mixed with the blood and smoke still clinging to the inside of his nose.

  ”Is that burnt toast or my life’s regrets?” he muttered.

  Someone had also taken the time to dress him, apparently not liking his breezy style. A linen tunic clung awkwardly, and the pants were at least two sizes too small.

  His left hand twitched against the blanket, and for a second, green code shimmered across his skin before fading into the illusion of flesh. Whole again.

  Holding his arm up, he turned it back and forth, not only amazed to see it, but once again marveling at the fidelity and texture.

  Skin stretched over veins and muscles; individual hairs sprouted with such realism he nearly lost himself to the simulation.

  He swung his legs off the bed and sat for a while, elbows on his knees, listening to the sounds of the inn around him. The place was whispering, but all he could hear was the sound of his own mental breakdown echoing back.

  Minutes, or maybe hours later, he found himself wandering down narrow stairs. His bare feet thumped on old wood, worn smoothly by countless boots, a level of detail impossible to match in any virtual game. At the bottom, a door swung open into a tavern.

  The sudden return to normalcy threw him.

  Wooden tables were scattered across the room. A fire was burning in the fireplace. Mugs clinked as a barkeep polished glasses behind the counter. Two farmers hunched in conversation over their ale, one gesturing wide and telling some story about the harvest.

  Bash halted at the threshold, feeling dizzy. Had it only been one day?

  He had been drenched in blood and dodging axes only moments ago, and now? It was the goddamn tutorial tavern. Every role-playing game had one. The cozy hub where quests were given and rumors could be overheard.

  He walked up to the bar and slid onto a stool at the end, the wood cool under his palms. There were even spots where the varnish had nearly worn away, all in the right places.

  “How surreal,” he muttered under his breath. “From blood and fire to a cliché tavern scene.”

  The man behind the bar glanced at him but said nothing, just set a clay mug of beer in front of him like he’d done it a thousand times. Bash eyed the foaming beverage. ”Any chance you've got an iced mocha? ” he asked. ”Oat milk, extra shot? ”

  The barkeep just stared, verging on uncanny valley.

  ”Yeah, didn't think so.” Bash wasn't sure if he should laugh or scream.

  A sharp and hardened voice broke his reverie. “Friend!”

  He turned. The older guard from the battle strode toward him from a side table. No battered armor now, no grime or gore. Just a clean tunic and a freshly shaven face made of stone.

  “You’re awake.” The man clapped Bash on the shoulder with the kind of force only warriors thought was friendly. “And in one piece, truly a miracle.”

  Bash blinked, forcing his body to match the handshake the man offered. His grip was still awkward, his fingers much firmer than they were the day before, his hand not feeling entirely his own. “Uh… Yeah. Sorry, I haven’t exactly had the chance to introduce myself. My name’s Sebastian. But everyone just calls me Bash.”

  The man’s smile shifted slightly, somewhat more genuine than before. “Bash? A name fit for a fighter. Unarmed and fearless.”

  “As fearless as a screaming toddler.” Bash joked.

  The guard tilted his head, but he gave a small, forced chuckle anyway. “The name’s Patrick.”

  There was something different about this named NPC. The way his eyes creased, the slight hesitation before responding. Nothing like Mr. Barkeep.

  For the first time since the raid, Bash felt a faint sense of relief. Maybe it was just the absurdity, or his gallows humor. But after the screams, the blood, and the stench of burning flesh, the hint of a human touch was a comfort.

  Bash sat there on the barstool, nursing his drink, as Patrick joined him, receiving his own mug. The silence between them was almost companionable, just two dudes bonded through trauma, sharing a quiet drink at a bar.

  The tavern smelled more of fresh bread than of charred timber. Voices hummed low as villagers slowly returned to their everyday lives, before the death and fire.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  For a few blessed moments, things almost felt normal.

  Then the shouting began, cutting through the tavern’s warm atmosphere, unwelcome and jarringly out of place.

  At first, it was just noise from outside the door, a rumble of chaos that faded into the background. But then it sharpened, raw and immediate, dragging everyone’s attention back to the reality they were all trying to escape.

  Furious, a woman pushed past two townsfolk who tried to restrain her, shoving them aside with a strength born of grief. Her face was streaked with tears, her voice breaking with every word.

  “It’s his fault!” she screamed, pointing toward Bash. “This never would have happened without him! Murderer! You brought the raiders here!”

  The room stilled, the chatter dying instantly. One moment, a cozy tavern, the next a courtroom drama where he was the accused, standing trial.

  The air grew tense as Bash processed the accusation.

  Patrick stiffened next to Bash and leaned in, voice lowered but firm. “Ignore her, she’s grieving. Lost some friends yesterday.”

  Bash stood slowly, deliberately, and turned. His voice regained its confidence, reminiscent of the evening before when he had commanded the guards. “Let her through.”

  The NPCs holding her back faltered, looking from him to the man he sat with.

  “I said,” Bash repeated, his tone now stronger than iron, “let her through. I want to hear what she has to say.”

  Glancing over at Patrick, he could now see that the friendly facade was gone. The person who’d clasped his hand in brotherhood moments ago was suddenly on guard, like he’d just decided Bash was a threat.

  And Bash felt it too. A line was about to be crossed. Speaking to the man, he lowered his voice. “Patrick, can you please take us somewhere to talk?”

  Giving a single curt nod, Patrick stood and quickly ushered them all into a back room, grabbing the woman by the wrist and dragging her along. A narrow space with a long table, shutters half-closed against the morning light.

  The noise outside dropped to a dull roar. The woman yanked herself free and stumbled forward, eyes wild and fists clenched. She jabbed her finger at Bash. “You think you’re a hero? You think you saved us? This is all your fault! Raiders only come when players show up!”

  Bash flinched at her words, the weight of her grief pressing down on him. A part of him wanted to defend himself, but panic was rising in his chest.

  Patrick’s hand shot out, gripping the woman’s shoulder. His voice dropped to a growl. “Enough. You can’t say those things.”

  Her eyes widened, anger briefly tempered by horror. “I... I wasn’t supposed to say that...” She trembled, staring at Bash. “It should have stopped me.”

  Bash’s mind sharpened, and he stepped closer. “What do you mean, what should have stopped you?”

  Patrick barked, “That’s enough!” with a trace of panic in his eyes.

  The woman shook her head, words spilling now. “We’re not supposed to talk to players about... about who they are or who we are, the system should have changed my words.”

  Bash swallowed once, the taste of smoke and blood still clinging to memory. And for the first time since waking in this shard, he wasn’t the one breaking the system. The system was breaking itself.

  The woman sank into a chair, shaking, and continued. “My name is Marisol. I am from... Peru.” Her lips trembled. “I made a deal with the Company, money for my family. And now... here I am.”

  Patrick exhaled sharply, then rubbed his temple. “Construction accident.” He looked up, his eyes carrying that same unease Bash had heard in his voice earlier. “You could say neither of us had a choice.”

  Bash blinked. His mind whirred, connecting dots, pulling threads. Real places. Real people. No. That wasn’t possible. Was it? Toggling his skill, he pushed into the surrounding data. For a moment, the tavern dissolved into lines of green and gold text, and scattered among them were names, dates, and other hidden messages. If he focused on just the right place, he could start to see profiles; human profiles.

  And more. So many more. Dozens, hundreds. As he glanced around, seeing the metadata flicker, even through the walls, he realized almost half the village was this way, even some of the children. Horror gripped Bash, his focus broken, the streams of text fading back into the background. The system did not flag them as regular NPCs. Not as scripted routines, but as “Uploads.”

  The shock broke Bash’s concentration, and the words began to fade. The chaos of the raid started to play over in his mind with a fresh new lens. Some of those killed were people, real people. His gaze fell on Marisol, who was trembling, her hands clutching her arms, barely holding herself together.

  Something twisted in his chest as grief filled the space between them. A voice in his head tried to shove it down. He wasn’t the enemy.

  Patrick leaned forward, his voice low and grave. “Friend... What are you? Because we can’t talk to players this way. The system has rules in place to prevent it.”

  “I’m just a humble adventurer,” Bash joked weakly, trying to lighten the mood. “Just another Monday in the Shard.”

  Wrong move, Bash realized as Marisol’s face went red.

  Grief flipped back to rage in a heartbeat. She shot to her feet and shoved past Patrick, “So tell me,” she spat, “did you pay extra for this? For immersion? To torture real people?” Her voice climbed higher, breaking.

  Bash couldn’t look at her, suddenly feeling ashamed.

  Patrick, grim-faced, muttered her name. “Marisol...” But she shook her head violently, teeth clenched.

  “Don’t you defend him. Not after yesterday. Not after what happened.”

  Bash opened his mouth, and against his better judgment, he forced the words out. "I didn't pay anything." His voice squeaked, softer than he had meant it to be. "I'm not one of them. Trust me, if I could afford it, I'd be at home playing video games instead of…" He stopped. "Sorry, that was a really bad example."

  Marisol’s eyes narrowed, disbelief etched deep into her features. She didn’t trust him. Not yet, maybe not ever.

  Bash could feel the tension as it slowly built between them and saw the exact moment Marisol jumped to another terrible conclusion.

  Her voice was venom now, her grief sharpening into accusation. “So maybe you didn’t pay directly. Maybe you’re just some rich person’s kid. A trust fund baby slumming it for fun. Don’t stand there and pretend you’re different.”

  Clenching his teeth, Bash stayed silent. Anything he said would sound like a lie, even the truth.

  Patrick stepped forward, his hand closing firmly around Marisol’s shoulder. “That’s enough.” His tone was calm, but the iron beneath it left no room for argument. He glanced at Bash, eyes narrowing just slightly, then back at her. “You’re hurting. I know. We all know. But tearing him apart here won’t bring anyone back.”

  She struggled, trying to shove past him, but Patrick’s grip held steady. “No!” she hissed, tears streaking her face. “He needs to answer! He needs to admit what he is!”

  Patrick didn’t flinch. He pulled her gently but firmly toward the door. “Come on, Marisol. Enough shouting for today.”

  As the door closed behind them, Bash sat on the bench. The echo of Marisol's grief kept ringing in his ears even after she was gone.

  “Great job, Bash,” he muttered to himself. “Hero to villain in record time.”

  The joke fell flat, even to him. Turns out surviving the raid had been the easy part. He wasn't sure he'd survive the truth.