Inigo shot upright in bed.
For a second, he didn't know why. The candle had long since burned out, the room pitch dark except for the faint moonlight leaking in through the torn curtain.
Then he heard it.
Screaming.
Real, bloodcurdling screaming.
Outside.
He lunged for the Glock beside his pillow and reached instinctively for the HUD.
No alerts.
No pings.
No system warning.
But the noise outside the inn was all the confirmation he needed.
People were shouting—men, women, even children. Some were crying. Others were yelling in frantic panic. The unmistakable clang of steel against steel rang out from the distance, followed by something even worse: the guttural, high-pitched shrieks of something not human.
He threw the door open and rushed into the hallway, barely remembering to pocket the wooden key token.
Other guests were spilling out of their rooms. One man in a nightshirt screamed "Raiders!" and ran past him barefoot. A woman clutched a crying toddler and yelled for her husband.
Inigo pushed down the stairs two steps at a time and crashed through the tavern doors into the square.
And then he saw it.
Valebrook was under attack.
The wooden palisade that surrounded the village was ablaze, bright orange flames licking the sky. Smoke poured into the night like ink. Villagers ran in every direction—some with buckets, others with pitchforks, and many with nothing at all. Horses screamed. Chickens flapped wildly. The sheer chaos of it overwhelmed the peaceful town like a wave.
And in the middle of it—
Goblins.
Dozens of them.
But not just goblins.
Small, scaly lizard-like creatures darted among them—kobolds, armed with jagged bone spears and rusted swords. They skittered over fences, knocked over market carts, and chased after anything that moved.
Inigo stared, frozen for half a second as his brain processed what he was seeing.
There were bodies.
Dead villagers.
One man lay slumped near a well, blood pouring from a wound in his chest.
Another—someone Inigo vaguely remembered from the inn—was being dragged by two kobolds into the shadows.
His heart slammed into his ribs. His breath caught.
This wasn't a side quest.
This was a nightmare.
But something inside him clicked.
A sound. A feeling. A flash of muscle memory honed through years of gaming, now repurposed into raw survival instinct.
He ducked behind a wooden crate and drew his Glock.
"System," he hissed. "Any enemy tags?"
[Hostiles Detected – Range: 50m – Quantity: 19]
The HUD marked them with faint red silhouettes.
Goblins on rooftops. Kobolds by the well. Two more climbing over the burning wall.
And right now, he was in the middle of it all with one pistol and seventeen tokens in his pocket.
"Think fast," he muttered, flipping open the [Shop] on the side of his vision.
No time to browse. No time to think.
He slammed into [Explosives].
Flashbang (M84) – 30 Tokens.
Too expensive.
Frag Grenade – 50.
Nope.
Then he spotted it.
C4 Remote Charge – 150.
Hell no.
Then something cheaper.
Firestarter Kit – 2 Tokens.
An idea hit him.
He slammed the buy button, and the kit appeared in his hand with a shimmer.
He grabbed the small magnesium stick and flint and scrambled toward a pile of dry firewood near the blacksmith's stall. A few globs of oil from the forge still stained the ground. He struck the flint hard—once, twice—until sparks ignited the kindling.
In seconds, a blaze lit up beside him.
Then he pulled a sack of dried barley off a cart and tossed it in.
The fire popped. Snapped. Smoke billowed out in a thick, acrid cloud.
A distraction.
Kobolds shrieked nearby and turned toward the smoke, just as Inigo popped up behind a market stall.
Bang! One in the neck.
Bang! Another between the eyes.
Two down.
He ducked again as a goblin hurled a spear his way—it clattered harmlessly against the side of a water trough.
He peeked out and aimed again.
Bang! Bang!
A third goblin toppled from the rooftop.
Then something crashed beside him.
Inigo spun around just in time to see a kobold land ten feet from him, eyes glowing red.
It hissed.
Charged.
He fired once—missed.
Fired again—hit the shoulder.
The kobold slammed into him.
They went down in a heap.
Inigo grunted, elbowed the creature in the jaw, grabbed his combat knife, and drove it into its side with a desperate yell.
Blood sprayed his arm. The kobold thrashed once—then stopped moving.
He pushed it off, panting, heart racing.
More enemies. More screams. Someone nearby cried for help.
Then—
[+12 Tokens Acquired – Hostiles Eliminated]
[New Balance: 29 Tokens]
His hand shook as he reloaded his Glock.
"There is still more…" he muttered.
But no time to think.
He ran toward the source of the scream.
A young boy was cornered against a wooden cart by two goblins with crude axes.
Inigo didn't hesitate.
Bang. Bang.
Two flashes. Two bodies dropped.
The boy stared at him, wide-eyed, then ran.
Inigo didn't follow. He turned, scanned the square.
More goblins.
Then he saw Garrick.
The old guard fought like a beast—spear flashing, parrying two kobolds at once. One jumped him from behind.
Inigo raised his Glock.
Bang!
The kobold's skull exploded in mid-air.
Garrick glanced back, grinned, then nodded.
Inigo returned the nod.
[+8 Tokens]
[New Balance: 37 Tokens]
It was chaos—but he was adapting.
For the first time, he felt something familiar.
Not comfort.
Not confidence.
But control.
Like a match point.
A clutch round.
A fight he could win.
He ducked, rolled, aimed, fired. The Glock barked freedom into the night. Villagers screamed. Fires raged. But slowly—inch by inch—the tide began to turn.
By the time the last goblin fell, Inigo was down to two bullets and a bloody knife.
The square was a mess—bodies, flames, splintered wood.
But the village still stood.
Valebrook had survived.
And so had he.
[+2000 Tokens – Heroic Action Bonus]
[+800 Tokens – Civilian Saved]
[New balance: 2837]
Inigo stared at the screen dumbfounded
"Holy… crap," he breathed.
His legs gave out and he sat right there on the blood-slick cobblestones. The Glock dangled in his hand. Somewhere off to the side, a horse neighed wildly. The fire crackled near the edge of the palisade. Villagers were shouting orders, calling names, dragging the wounded.
But he couldn't hear them clearly. It all sounded muffled—like he was underwater.
Eight thousand tokens.
He could buy decent gear with those tokens, and it made sense to him now. So the more heroic you do, the more tokens you'll receive.
He scrolled slowly, eyes wide like a kid at a candy store with too much allowance.
"This is it," Inigo muttered, a grin creeping across his soot-stained face. "This is the Call of Duty dream."
He could afford any of them.
No—he could afford all of them if he wanted. With over 8,000 tokens burning in his virtual wallet, he wasn't just a survivor anymore.
He was about to become a walking armory.
Suddenly—someone called him.
"Inigo!"
Garrick limped toward him, his left leg bloodied and dragging slightly, but his grip on the spear still firm. Smoke clung to his armor. A cut ran across his cheek, oozing crimson, but the old guard's eyes were sharp—more alive now than Inigo had ever seen.
"You alive?" Garrick asked, chest heaving.
Inigo gave a shaky laugh. "Barely. But yeah. Still breathing. You?"
"I've had worse." Garrick planted the spear down, using it to support his weight. He looked down at the pistol still clutched in Inigo's hand. "That toy of yours… it's not a toy."
Inigo hesitated. "No. It's not."
Garrick nodded slowly. "I figured. Whatever that is… it saved lives tonight. You saved lives tonight."
The words hit harder than he expected.
"Thanks," Inigo muttered.
Garrick turned his head, surveying the wreckage. The village was still standing, but just barely. Burnt homes. Blood trails. Bodies. The air was filled with the scent of ash and iron. But it could have been far worse.
Much worse.
And everyone knew who had tipped the scales.
A few villagers started gathering now, hesitantly, eyes drifting toward Inigo. First glances of suspicion. Then curiosity. Then… something different.
Respect.
The woman from the inn stood near the well, cradling a small child in her arms. She gave Inigo a single, silent nod. Another man raised a hand in cautious thanks. A boy with soot on his cheeks peeked out from behind a barrel and whispered something to his father.
"…That's him. The outsider. The one who fought."
Inigo rose to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees.
Garrick watched him quietly, then spoke again. "You should see the elder. She'll want to hear about this."