A guttural cheer ripped through the initiation grounds. Each young Crag-Son, chest puffed, strode towards the collection of weapons. Most seized axe, spear, or blade, their eyes alight with the promise of cleaved flesh and glory. I saw the glint in their eyes, the primal urge. It was a familiar pattern, a classic 'DPS build' mistake.
From Old Earth's game lore, the 'Barbarian' class, or what these Crag-Sons mirrored, was a raw damage dealer. But raw damage without control was just an early grave. I’d seen it countless times in simulation cycles. Reckless charge, glorious but brief. My memory replayed simulations: berserkers dying in a crimson spray, their two-handed weapons often embedded in a monster’s hide, useless for defense.
My research, millennia old, pointed to a different path. A more efficient one. The 'Barbaegis,' a tank build. High vitality, decent strength, capable of wielding the heaviest gear. Not as nimble as a Dwarf with their subterranean boons, but a solid anchor. It went against the romantic ideal of a whirlwind warrior, but romance didn’t pay the survival tax.
Efficiency. Always efficiency. It was a core tenet of my existence, a cold algorithm for success. I’d discarded preferred playstyles for victory countless times. This was no different. This body, this world, demanded a pragmatic solution.
Striding past the rows of gleaming axes and serrated swords, my gaze settled on a stack of shields. Not simple wood and hide. These were 'shard-plates,' salvaged scraps of Old Earth tech, melded into defensive bastions. Angular, heavy, scarred with ancient symbols I almost recognized. Picking one up, the weight was substantial, a familiar heft that promised resistance.
It wasn't a weapon of offense, but of enduring. Of surviving. The Crag-Son next to me, Roric, a hulking brute with a chipped axe, snorted. "Shield-bearer, Zev? For a first hunt? You'll be last to taste the kill." His voice was a low growl.
My new face remained impassive. "Last to taste, perhaps. But last to fall, certainly." I did not need to act. The cold calculation of survival had already settled deep within me. A shield. Its resale value was higher than a bladed weapon. It fit my long-term strategy. And most importantly, I doubted my Glitch-ridden reflexes could wield a sword with tribal ferocity yet. This was the most rational choice.
"Next!" The chieftain’s roar echoed.
Returning to my designated spot among the newly initiated, I felt the eyes of the other Crag-Sons on me. Curiosity, disdain, a hint of confusion. My heart, still struggling to adjust to this primitive biological engine, pulsed with a steady rhythm. No regrets. Not yet.
---
'Tutorial Complete.' The message, burned into my awareness upon awakening, continued to replay. What a cruel joke. No detailed instructions, no character sheet. Just an implicit order: 'You have the data. Survive.' Some 'game master' out there was truly a sadist.
If they wanted me to survive, they could have at least given me my new name, or a hint about my tribal standing. Instead, I’d almost had my head caved in by a ceremonial hammer. The sheer, brutal immediacy of this reality was jarring. It was a world designed for failure.
Breathing out a slow, deliberate breath, I forced my mind to quiet. This Crag-Son body, infused with my Glitch, seemed to amplify primal emotions. A strange, simmering rage I recognized from Old Earth’s genetic memory of early hominids. It had to be suppressed. Panic, anger, these led to mistakes. And mistakes here meant the end.
Past is inert. Future is a calculation. Focus on the now. Survival.
My gaze swept over the procession. The coming-of-age ceremony had concluded with a feast of roasted beast and fermented sap. Now, led by the chieftain, we marched. A column of raw, untested warriors, traversing the rough trails that scarred the land. The younger Crag-Sons chattered, their laughter echoing off the ancient, gnarled trees. A picnic, indeed. They had no concept of the true destination.
"Halt!" The chieftain’s bellow cut through the woods.
Thirty paces ahead, a colossal wall of dark, pockmarked stone rose from the earth. Not a natural formation. This was a scar of Old Earth. An immense gate, crafted from rusted metal and salvaged synth-plate, groaned open. Slowly, begrudgingly. Gears shrieked, protesting their long-dormant state.
The young Crag-Sons gasped, their earlier jovial chatter replaced by awe-struck silence. Their mouths hung open, eyes wide. Through the widening maw of the gate, a city materialized. Not the mud-and-hide settlements of the Crag-Sons. This was something else. Stone structures, their roofs collapsed or twisted, reaching towards the sky. And at its heart, a colossal, broken spire, piercing the low-hanging clouds like a skeletal finger.
Cairnstone. The name surfaced from my memory, a ghost of Old Earth’s cartography. A fortress-city, mentioned in forgotten archives. A loading screen, rendered in harsh reality.
This was beyond simulations. This was a nightmare given form. A sudden, cold dread tightened around my chest. This place, in the old game, was where the real grind began.
"Warriors!" The chieftain turned, his voice booming. "Go forth! Your destiny calls!"
No grand speech. No wisdom. Just an order to plunge headlong into the unknown. The Crag-Sons needed no more. A chorus of savage yells erupted. They surged forward, a wave of raw energy, eager to claim their 'destiny.' I ran with them, mimicking their shouts, a wolf among wolves.
Clang! The heavy gate slammed shut behind us, shaking the ground. The sound was deafening, a final, ironclad pronouncement. None of the frothing Crag-Sons even glanced back. They were too lost in the thrill of the chase, too eager to experience the 'city.'
Minutes later, their initial frenzy began to wane. The shouts softened, the pace slowed. My own simulated exhilaration faded, replaced by the grim clarity of my situation. Fear, yes. It was a cold knot in my gut. But also a strange, unsettling anticipation. I was inside the game now. The most brutal game. A twisted irony.
I wasn't normal. This body wasn't normal. The world wasn't normal. But these Crag-Sons, with their unthinking joy and sudden shifts, they were on another level entirely.
"Stop!" A young Crag-Son, Roric, who had sprinted ahead, skidded to a halt. He turned, chest heaving, a bewildered look on his face. "I… I seem to have lost the trail!"
A collective groan went up from the group. "Roric, son of Grok! He leads us astray!"
"He has no right to lead!"
"Take responsibility, whelp!"
Unbelievable. These primitives, who followed with such blind fervor, now turned on their temporary leader with vicious abandon. A glimpse into the pure, unadulterated cynicism of tribal society. It was repulsive.
"I... I admit my fault." Roric bowed his head, crestfallen, and melted back into the group. Next, a young female Crag-Son, Anya, stepped forward. Her braided hair, adorned with scavenged metal scraps, swayed as she raised her chin.
"Anya, daughter of Kael! She will guide us!"
"Wise Anya! She sees the true path!"
The praise was as effusive as the condemnation had been. Anya, beaming, led the pack forward. It took less time for her to make the same pronouncement.
"I… I seem to have lost the trail!" The words were identical. It was almost comedic.
"This cannot be! We must reach the Iron Maw by dusk!"
"Anya is unworthy!"
"Aye!"
Disgusted, the Crag-Sons began to bicker. They were truly brainless. Could they not see the pattern? It didn't matter who led. They were lost because they lacked basic observational skills.
My turn would come eventually. I quietly fell back, approaching Anya. She stood apart, her imposing frame slumped in disappointment. "Zev, son of Bjorn? Have you come to heap blame on me too?"
I shook my head. Blame was a wasted emotion. "No. I’ve come to show you the way."
Her head tilted, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes. "Truly? How?"
I pointed down the dimly lit thoroughfare. "Follow them."
She squinted. "Follow… who?"
"See the lights? The city is dark, yes. But observe. Those moving shapes. Armored figures. They all move in one direction. Not like us. They know where they are going."
Cairnstone at night. Most hovels were dark, scavenged power conduits long dead. But figures, clad in patched metal, moved with purpose. Not in everyday garb. These were hunters, scavengers, fighters. They moved with a shared, unspoken destination.
Anya's eyes widened. A slow dawning comprehension. "By the Ancestors... You speak truth! I see it now!"
She turned, her spirits renewed, and rejoined the group. "I have found the way!" A roar of approval followed. The debate ceased. They cheered her, forgetting their earlier condemnation. Such fickle creatures.
We moved again, following the spectral procession of armored figures. With each step, their numbers grew. Soon, a distant glow pulsed on the horizon, radiating from multiple sources. A nexus of activity. My memory confirmed the location.
"The Iron Maw!" someone shrieked.
"The Shard-Warrens!" another cried.
The Labyrinth. My thoughts, interrupted by the Crag-Sons' idiocy, resumed. The central dilemma. Was entering the Iron Maw truly the correct decision? The excitement of the Crag-Sons pulsed around me, a thick, intoxicating current. I could slip away. They wouldn't notice. Escape the immediate blood-lust, the gnashing teeth of the beasts.
But running was not an option. Not in this world. Old Earth’s games had a 'tax system.' In Aethelgard, it was simpler: no work, no food. Every denizen of Cairnstone was expected to contribute. Failure meant starvation, exile, or worse. The Weavers maintained a cruel efficiency.
I needed currency, 'scraps' as they called them. And fighting within the Iron Maw wasn’t the only way. I could try to find work. Scavenging. Manning a stall. Even assisting at a 'Brew-Den.'
Unless you were a Crag-Son.
My body, this vessel, was not designed for delicate tasks. The strength that allowed me to wield the shard-plate also meant I would shatter pottery, collapse flimsy structures, or simply intimidate potential employers. 'Barbarian? Sorry, no openings. You’ll just break something.' The game mechanics, translated into reality. My only path to survival, to acquiring scraps, was the Maw.
I wasn't sure how that would translate to reality. Perhaps I could find a less destructive profession. But hope was a luxury. To break from the group, without a concrete alternative, was suicide. The Iron Maw opened only once every lunar cycle. If I missed this window, I'd be stranded in Cairnstone for weeks. Without resources. Without a purpose.
My chief's meagre provisions wouldn’t last. I’d be scrounging for scraps in the refuse piles, a pariah. Hunger. Cold. Filth. I knew the devastating toll it took on a human body. My current vitality, my peak physical condition, would erode. Slowly, painfully. To enter the Iron Maw, to face its horrors, it was better to do it now. While I still had strength. While my mind was sharp. While I was whole.